Chapter 1 – spring (87 PAGES)
chapter 2 – summer (48 pages – in progress)
01/87 Chapter 1 – spring
"As to no surprise at this point, the weather remains unchanged. Expect rainfall to reach around 40 millimeters throughout the day, with temperatures of 15 degrees Celsius during the day and 10 degrees at night. There's no indication of this pattern shifting anytime soon, but a team of meteorologists and scientists is working to understand this strange phenomenon and, hopefully, put an end to the endless rain. That's all for now, wishing you a pleasant day, Nicol…”
The voice cut off, replaced by the low, steady hum of the old television. The government channel aired nothing else now, no advertisements, no entertainment, nothing outside the boundaries of state mandated information. The shift had begun when the ruling party changed, bringing with it a near superstitious aversion to modern technology. A wave of regulations followed, dictating not only what could be shown, but when. The government network had been the first to be stripped down, reduced to function alone, and now quiet murmurs told of similar restrictions spreading toward private broadcasters.
Naturally, the network owners were furious. With the constant downpour trapping people indoors, television had become one of the few most profitable industries. There was little else to do but endure the long hours between work, studies, and the silent, mounting awareness that the rain had no intention of stopping anytime soon.
For some, these were not merely distractions, they were escapes. Fleeting, perhaps, but vital. People clung to them with muffled desperation, unwilling to surrender the last barrier between themselves and the dim reality pressing in from all sides.
Finding work had become a matter of rare luck. The relentless rainfall had crippled entire sectors, forcing mass layoffs, with the worst losses suffered by those whose trades required open skies and passable roads.
Farmers. Construction workers. Delivery drivers. Street vendors. Anyone whose survival depended on being outdoors now found themselves at the mercy of the storm.
And it was not merely livelihoods that were washed away. Whole towns vanished beneath the floods. Villages swallowed in a single night, homes torn loose and swept into nameless rivers, ever shifting. Survivors fled toward the cities. Vast, engineered strongholds built to withstand what the countryside could not.
Governments funnelled resources into flood control, directing research and innovation toward the management of water, the preservation of what remained. Scientists became something closer to specialists in survival, tasked with safeguarding what remained.
02/87 Chapter 1 – spring
But survival, as always, came at a cost. With work scarce and competition ruthless, the city’s structure began to shift, slowly at first, then all at once, until what emerged was not an official decree but a truth so universally understood that no words were needed to sustain it. A new caste system, silent and rigid, crept quietly into place. The poorest were pressed downward, forced to inhabit the ground levels where the streets, once navigable, had decayed into a maze of filth and rot. In those lower corridors, light was a rarity, especially with the sun forever gone and hidden behind rain clouds, and the air hung heavy with damp, metallic smoke of the factories.
Far above, behind sheets of reinforced glass and gilded steel, the wealthy endured none of it. Their lives unfolded in sealed, shining towers, insulated from both storm and struggle, their windows overlooking a city they no longer needed to acknowledge. They moved between these heights on enclosed walkways, the bridges of glass and light that arced across the skyline like arteries of another world entirely.
In the upper districts, these corridors were more than shelter; they had become destinations unto themselves. Commercial promenades bloomed within them, clean and gleaming, offering everything from essentials to excess: groceries imported from exotic private owned vertical farms, designer clothing cut by hand in studios, custom furniture, and advanced electronics. Even the nights pulsed with vitality. Bars, theatres, and private clubs all alive all hours of the day, filled with people indifferent to the outside.
Claire had always wanted to be like them, the ones who lived in the heights, with an aching, restless admiration. They were dry, safe and seemingly untouchable. Her own life, confined to the third level, was a constant negotiation with failure: a daily test of endurance where a single misstep could mean a fall, not metaphorical, but literal, and the path upward, though visible, seemed impossibly steep, each rung of the ladder requiring a near miracle to grasp. And only a few ever climbed it.
There were three ways up. The first was brilliance. Rare, blinding talent that could earn one of the limited passes into the colleges above, where minds were shaped for leadership, research, and policy. Each year, a handful of students from lower-levels were selected, praised as examples, held aloft as proof that the system was fair, though everyone understood how thin that thread really was.
The second path was discovery. To find something essential, something that mattered to the city’s survival, something that could not be ignored. Invention, innovation, revelation. But this, too, was a lottery disguised as merit.
03/87 Chapter 1 – spring
The third way was older, quieter, and most common for women at least. To be chosen. To catch the eye of someone from the upper levels. To be seen, admired, and offered the golden ascent: marriage, legitimacy, protection. In return, to become what the city valued most from them, a wife, a mother, a bearer of the next generation. A role as old as the structures themselves.
It was not a future she longed for, not truly, but in a world so tightly wound with necessity, desire had become something dangerous, almost indulgent. Choices were few, and Claire had learned early not to dream beyond her station. To wish too widely was to invite disappointment, and disappointment, in the lower levels, could hollow a person out.
Still, she had not given up entirely. If she could not dream freely, she would at least aim deliberately. She would carve her own way forward, not through beauty or chance, but through intellect, through merit, through the kind of excellence that could not be denied. She would succeed in her studies, and she would prove herself.
Her ambition had shape, even if the path toward it was narrow: she would become a scientist, a woman of consequence, someone whose name was spoken with respect. In her most private thoughts, she even dared to imagine the impossible, that she might one day uncover the key to ending the rain, to lifting the veil of grey that hung over the city like a curse, and in doing so, restore something that had long been lost, breaking the city free from its cold, suffocating grasp.
Archaeology was her only foothold. One of the few fields open to those from her level, and the only one that might serve as a bridge to further study if, and only if, she outperformed every other candidate on the entrance exams. It was a long shot, but it was worth the risk to her.
And more than a career or credential, it was her only possible escape. Archaeology required fieldwork. It meant stepping beyond the city walls, however briefly, into the forgotten places beyond the flood barriers, to walk beneath open skies, to touch the old world with her own hands. To find the truth beneath the water and silence.
But for now, those plans would have to wait. Survival came first, and today that meant simply making it to class and work.
Claire pushed herself up from the couch, stretching the stiffness from her limbs. The television still buzzed faintly in the background, but she no longer had time to linger. The morning broadcast was nearly over. She had already heard enough.
04/87 Chapter 1 – spring
The archaeology course was a preparatory program meant to guide students toward the competitive entrance exams, and even among the limited offerings for those on her level, it remained one of the least pursued. Whether that was due to its difficulty, its danger, or its obscurity, Claire wasn’t sure. Her class had only four students in total, a number so small it sometimes felt accidental. She had wondered, more than once, whether she had gotten in by chance. But even if she had, she refused to waste the opportunity.
She dressed quickly, slipping into clothes laid out the night before, and gathered her study materials from the small, cluttered coffee table. Its surface was a silent portrait of her struggle: scattered notes, worn textbooks, crumpled pages torn from notebooks, pens drained of ink, abandoned drafts and discarded thoughts. Each one a reminder of how hard she had pushed, how far she still had to go.
With her bag packed, Claire turned her attention to another necessity: breakfast. It would have to be quick, something to keep her upright until evening, when she would finally return home, worn thin by the weight of the day. Skipping meals only made everything harder, and there was no room left in her schedule, or her body, for added difficulty.
Her job, by all measures, was a rarity. Something close to a miracle in a time where steady work was almost myth. Fewer still managed to keep such positions for long, but Claire held on with quiet determination, always careful and diligent. She gave more than was asked of her, more than was fair, because she knew just how quickly the floor could fall away. There were others, dozens, hundreds, who would seize her role without hesitation if given the chance. Losing it was not an option.
But it wasn’t fear and obligation alone that drove her. She liked her job. She worked in an old library that doubled as a bookstore, an anachronism in a world that had long since outgrown patience for such things. The shelves were heavy with age, sagging beneath the weight of forgotten volumes and long outdated knowledge. Fragile pages whispered softly in the quiet, stories and histories murmuring to any who still cared to listen. And among them, most valuable of all, were textbooks.
Her employers, didn’t mind her studying during the long, idle hours between customers. She made full use of it. If she was to rise, if she was to prove herself, then every moment mattered, every page might be the one that changed her future.
It was the perfect place to study as well. There, among the books, it was easy to lose herself completely, to fall into the rhythm of focused thought. The air smelled of yellowing old paper and ink long dried, and dust floated like slow moving snowflakes in the beams of yellow light of oil lamps. Pages turned like whispers. Sometimes, it felt almost sacred, like she was standing in the lungs of a sleeping god of knowledge. She wished, often, that she could bring that stillness home with her.
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But home was different. Her flat was small, perpetually cluttered, its walls hidden behind stacked books and the odd trinkets she had gathered over the years. She had long since surrendered the idea of minimalism. Every surface had become territory in a war against chaos, shelves filled to capacity, floor space pressed into reluctant service, books and papers creeping outward like ivy seeking sun.
Upon entering, one stepped directly into the cramped heart of the apartment, where the kitchen occupied the left-hand wall and an old, orange and brown striped couch anchored the rest. It was faded and worn, but reliable, its cushions stubbornly holding their shape. Before it stood a coffee table, its wood scarred and uneven from years of use, and beneath it all, a green rug with frilled edges, balding in spots and curling at the corners like something trying to flee.
The apartment was dim. Towering shelves and storage units pressed against the windows, not that it mattered. both windows faced the same looking brick wall. Natural light was a rare commodity, a kind of dream, and though she had installed lamps in an effort to mimic daylight, electricity was costly, and she used them sparingly, rationing it and often giving up for the sake of candles and oil lamps.
The other window belonged to the bedroom, a room off the left side of the living space, scarcely large enough to accommodate a bed that felt more like an afterthought than a proper piece of furniture, barely wide and long enough to stretch out the legs or lay flat. Still, she liked the room. It was hers, however small, and she had made it soft and warm in her own way, crowding it with blankets, mismatched pillows, and the stubborn little plants she managed to keep alive, taking residence on the makeshift shelves. One of them, she suspected, might have been a discarded potato, left too long in some forgotten corner before sprouting defiantly. Yet it grew, each day pushing upward, pale leaves unfurling from its bruised beginnings. She admired it for that, its perseverance, its refusal to surrender to the world around it. In a way, it gave her hope. Perhaps she could do the same. Grow, even here against all odds.
There was no private bathroom in the apartment, no comfort of solitude in daily rituals. The building had long since surrendered to efficiency, and the tenants shared communal toilets and laundry spaces, which turned the mornings into small wars. She had learned to wake early, slipping out before the worst of it, but the strategy didn’t always hold. The other residents, mostly older women with sharp eyes and sharper tongues, had transformed those narrow hallways into a theatre of petty grievances, their days sustained by gossip and quiet battles for dominance over the territory. Claire kept her distance where she could, speaking little, drawing no attention.
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In truth, she barely knew the others. She rarely saw anyone. She left early. She returned late. Whatever lives the others led, they remained behind closed doors.
Time was slipping. Breakfast was finished in a handful of bites, something quick, something warm, and she slipped on her coat. The garment was beige, long, cinched at the waist with a belt that had grown soft with years of wear. She took care of it with reverence. It had belonged to her mother and, in many ways, was one of the most precious thing she owned, not for its price, which was negligible, but for what it represented. Memory. Continuity. Love, preserved in fabric. She made her way outside.
The third level sat just above the industrial one. It was common to feel the pulse of machinery beneath one’s feet. The industrial sector spread like a metal infection, factories stitched together by endless piping and tangled narrow walkways, steam hissing from unseen valves, the air rich with the tang of oil and iron. Pipes ran in every direction, coming out of the ground and now visible to the inhabitants of third level and above, suspended high above or coiling along the walls like the sinews of some enormous, unseen beast. Some were no wider than her arm. Others loomed like tunnels, vast enough to walk through, if one dared. She had often stared at those, wondering what they held. Were they hollow? Were they secret paths? Did they reach beyond the city's edges?
She had never found the end of one. They simply vanished into walls and towers, swallowed without explanation.
Perhaps they were meant to carry water from the city, to stave off the flooding, but if that were the case, they weren't doing a very good job some of the days. Her level was frequently submerged to the knees, the walkways transformed into shallow canals. What should have been a simple commute became a daily test of endurance.
She had heard that in the lower industrial levels roads were much wider, and boats were used frequently during flooding. In the city’s better days, enormous vehicles with wheels taller than a man had once thundered through those corridors, hauling loads too massive to imagine. Claire had seen them only in textbooks, depicted beside humans like relics of an age when the world still believed in progress. Even in photographs, their scale seemed impossible. She often wondered how small she would feel, standing beside one.
The road to the study class was short, though winding and treacherous for those unacquainted with its strange geometry. Life here was a balancing act played over rusted beams and flooded streets. Each day was counted in coins and concessions, each step calculated, weighed.
07/87 Chapter 1 – spring
Today, the rain was merciful. The alleys, though slick, remained passable, their stonework glistening beneath a thin veil of moisture. Claire moved carefully, tracing the path she knew by memory, until the narrow lane gave way to an incline, first gentle, then sharp, resolving at last into a staircase carved steeply into the side of the structure.
She paused at the landing halfway up, steadying her breath. This was the place she always lingered, when time allowed.
On clear days, one could glimpse, through a jagged gap in the buildings above, the spire of the government tower, distant, immense, unreachable. It had become a kind of symbol for her, not of power exactly, but of possibility. A shape against the sky that reminded her there was still something above.
Today offered no such view. The sky was sealed in gray, a solid, indifferent ceiling. Still, she let herself drift. It wasn’t the highest point she longed for, not really. Even halfway there would be enough.
She exhaled and continued upward, the final stretch of stairs, until she reached the walkway above. This portion of the third level had once been designated for commerce and recreation, though little joy remained here. Her study class was nearby. Her job, too.
From the top of the stairs, she turned right. Spotting ahead the familiar doors of her destination.
The walkway here was wider than most, its center marked by an old set of rails, long abandoned, rusted through and warped by the relentless march of time. Above her, another set of rails loomed, stretching like a skeletal bridge between the buildings, supported by the occasional industrial pillar, their once pristine surface now a patchwork of grime and neglect. Unlike the one beneath her feet, this upper path still served a purpose, carrying goods from the depths below to destinations around the city.
Living beneath it was a difficult experience, a loud, restless cacophony. The rumbling of machinery, the clatter of moving cargo, the tremors that seemed to pulse through the very bones of the city. Yet, complaints were a futile endeavor, for at the end of the day, having a roof, however precarious, was more than some could claim.
The metal supports of the upper railway were often put to more practical uses, convenient spots for hanging lamps. Yet, the city itself had long since abandoned the notion of illumination. The residents were left to fend for themselves, supplying their own light in whatever form they could afford. Most chose oil or naphtha lamps, small, flickering things meant for personal use, not for the common good. To expect such a thing here would have been to ask for a kindness that had long since vanished.
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A closer look revealed the desperation in these humble lights. Many lamps were chained to the very beams that held them, locked in place as though their owners feared more than just the dark. For some, these small, fragile lights were not mere sources of illumination but emblems of status, the only luxury they had left to display. To possess a lamp, to keep it safe, was to hold onto something precious, however fleeting.
Claire found the spectacle almost amusing. Here they were, clinging to whatever little they had left, each person playing a game of hushed pretense. Who could appear wealthier, more secure, more comfortable than the next? It was a contest of petty gestures, of small luxuries made large in the eyes of those who had so little. The whole thing felt pointless.
At this level, the facades of the buildings were old, worn, and pockmarked by years of neglect. Brick was the dominant material, bare, weather-beaten, and eroded by the constant battering of rain. What once might have been a protective coating had long since crumbled away, and no one had the inclination, or the means, to replace it. The bricks themselves were smooth to the touch, worn down by the slow assault of time, and near the ground, some had eroded so deeply that water now carved new paths through them, like veins through stone.
To fend off the slow decay, the residents did what they could with what little they had. The fortunate among them found whatever rare bricks they could scavenge, attempting, often clumsily, to patch the holes, to make the old match the new. Yet, these efforts were mostly in vain. Few had the money to waste on such vanity, and most opted for a more immediate fix. Crude mixtures of cement and whatever debris could be packed into the gaps were the most common solutions. Cement itself, after all, was a luxury few could afford.
There was no point in asking the city for help. Maintenance was reserved for the essentials, the structures that upheld the upper levels, those parts of the city that were deemed worthy of preservation. The lower levels, though crucial to the city's very foundation, were left to sink further into neglect. Their appearance, their dignity, was of no concern.
At last, Claire reached her destination. The door before her had always given her an odd sense of comfort. It was like opening a gateway to her future, and yet everything about it belonged to the past. Its wooden frame barely held together, the once bright red paint now peeling in long, uneven strips, revealing beneath it the greenish, cracked wood that time had rendered brittle.
09/87 Chapter 1 – spring
But it was the carving that always held her attention. A bird, etched in delicate, sweeping detail, its long tail curling down to the base of the doorframe in elegant arcs, as though it were forever in the act of flight, forever trying to escape the box into which it had been sealed. Around it, floral engravings unfurled with intricacy, interrupted only by rusted metal bolts and the faded decals of long forgotten protections, remnants of a time when craftsmanship still bore meaning, when even the most utilitarian things were made with care.
How long had they endured? Who had carved the bird? And why such devotion, such precision, on something as mundane as a door? These were not questions most people would dwell on. There were more pressing concerns in a place like this, needs more immediate than beauty. But Claire always paused. Always wondered.
She stepped inside. A dim corridor received her, its floor and walls lined in worn, uneven tiles. The same deep red wood, faded now to a darker hue, lined the support beams that arched overhead, striving for a sense of warmth that the space, in its near-total darkness, failed to deliver. What should have been inviting felt strangely unnerving.
Passing sets of doors on either side, she made her way to the stairwell, her hand trailing lightly along the cool wall as she moved. The staircase was a narrow spiral, its railing an ornate tangle of wrought iron, curling and intricate, as if someone had once tried to capture the rhythm of vines in metal. Thin stems twisted through the bars, looping and coiling with impossible delicacy. Jagged-edged leaves emerged at intervals, some curled in upon themselves as though dried and withered by age. And between them, delicate spirals mimicked the reaching tendrils of a climbing plant, each one stretching outward as if still trying to grasp something lost.
She had seen something like it before. In a book, perhaps, an old one, its pages yellowed and brittle at the edges. It had described a plant that clung to walls and fences, stretching ever upward, its fruit heavy in clusters and its stems insistent. She could almost see the page now, the etched precision of it, each leaf and vine caught in motion. But memory was fickle, the name of the plant had slipped from her.
She ignored the craftsmanship. While she could acknowledge its beauty, she could never understand the impulse behind it. The decision to waste precious time on ornamentation when there were more urgent needs pressing in from every side. What use was decoration in a world that offered no guarantees of survival?
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Reaching the first level, she paused. To her right stood the room she had come for. She knocked twice, waited a moment, then stepped inside.
The room, in stark contrast to the dim and brooding hallways, was bathed in warm light. The instant she crossed the threshold, a wave of comfort enveloped her, wrapping around her like a thick blanket. Mr. Bauer’s class was always like this, a pocket of gentleness carved into the cold machinery of the city. It was what set him apart. He had little to give, yet gave it all, again and again, as if determined to prove that generosity still had a place in the world.
In truth, this was no classroom at all but his living room, modest and reconfigured for learning. A well-worn blackboard leaned against the far wall, and at the center of the room, a small wooden table bore a neat stack of carefully chosen books. The real collection lined the walls, bookshelves packed and slightly uneven, sagging under the weight of knowledge. A pair of mismatched couches surrounded the table, their cushions softened and slumped with age, and opposite them sat a cracked brown leather armchair, dulled by years of use. It was Mr. Bauer’s usual seat, though he gave it up easily, always willing to stand, to move, to gesture with animated hands as he spoke.
The walls bore traces of a life shaped by tenderness. A series of painted landscapes hung in deliberate arrangement, meadows painted in soft strokes, mountains fading into mist, rivers rendered in glistening sweeps of blue and gray. They were the work of his late wife, and he displayed them with pride. Near the far wall, a closed door led to what Claire assumed was a small hallway connecting his bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom, his entire world condensed into this one space.
To the left of the entrance, a narrow row of windows overlooked the walkway she had just crossed, though their purpose was mostly symbolic. The buildings pressed too closely together to allow much of a view, and the clouds above, ever present, permitted no light.
Mr. Bauer stood near the couches, speaking to two students who had arrived before her, his voice lively, his arms in motion, his eyes alight with the spark of belief. His energy never seemed to fade, though Claire could see the toll it took. He was a small, thin man, and while his smile rarely faltered, the lines around his eyes betrayed him. He bore his weariness well, but it was there, in the slight sag of his shoulders, in the brief pauses between sentences, in the way he sometimes looked out the window as if searching for something he had lost. He, too, felt the weight of the rain. He, too, carried the ache of a city that took more than it gave.
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“Ah! Good morning, Miss Ashford!” Mr. Bauer exclaimed, his voice as warm and familiar as ever. “It seems we’re only missing one person now. Still, with a bit of time to spare, I suppose we don’t mind waiting a little longer.”
“Mr. Bauer, I hope you’re faring well” Claire replied, offering him a polite nod as she stepped forward, setting her bag down in the designated space and hanging her coat on the rack to the left of the door.
Just then, the door burst open with sudden force, making her flinch. A young man stumbled inside, visibly out of breath.
“I’m sorry for being late, Mr. Bauer, I… ”
“No harm done” Mr. Bauer interrupted with a gentle, dismissive wave. “You’re hardly late anyway. Please, take your seats. We have important matters to discuss today.”
With that, he turned and picked up one of the books from the central pile, signaling the beginning of the lesson. The room fell into silence, the atmosphere shifting to one of focus. These meetings were never long, two or three hours, typically, but when discussion grew spirited, they could stretch to four, even five. Time slipped past unnoticed as they debated, speculated, and immersed themselves in the fragmented echoes of a world that might have been, or perhaps once was.
Today, however, was not one of those days. After some time, Mr. Bauer set the book down with a soft, deliberate thud.
“That will be all for today. I ask that you review what we’ve covered from the assigned sources. It is crucial. This material will most certainly appear in some form on the exam.”
The students began to gather their belongings. Claire moved to do the same, but paused when she noticed Mr. Bauer had not yet finished.
“It seems” he continued, his tone altering slightly, acquiring a distinct edge of distaste “we are approaching the first ball of the year.”
He drew in a slow breath, as if weighing his words, reluctant to speak them.
“As your designated instructor, it falls to me to relay all necessary information to you and the other young people in our sector.”
Another pause. Then, more briskly:
“This is not your first time attending, so I trust you’re all familiar with the process and have what you need. If not, come to me, and I will assist. As always, take one of the forms from my desk and fill it out truthfully. Keep it safe. It serves as both your introduction and your ticket. It had better be spotless when presented at the ball.”
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Claire knew all too well what that meant, and excitement was the last thing she felt. If anything, it was closer to dread. She would have much preferred to spend the evening working, studying, doing something that mattered, something real, not the whole fake charade. But regardless of her disdain, she could not deny the significance of the event, nor the rare opportunity it brought with it.
Attendance was mandatory for all citizens aged sixteen to twenty-five, held four times a year at carefully spaced intervals. For most, it was considered an opportunity, a rare and fleeting one, to ascend to the higher levels of the city, even if only for a single evening. It was one of the few sanctioned occasions during which the lower sectors were granted access to the government building and its coveted elevators. The chance to glimpse a world so many longed for, yet could never truly reach.
Typically, it was the men of the upper levels who selected women from the lower districts, drawn by the persistent, perhaps unfortunate, perhaps fortunate, stereotypes that painted them as ideal mothers and obedient wives. And who among the poor would dare sabotage such a chance? It was difficult to deny that, when offered even the thinnest sliver of escape, most would grasp at it with both hands.
Because that was all the event truly amounted to: a final chance before time ran out. The city’s survival depended upon its people, and for that, new generations were needed. Thus, the burden fell heaviest upon women. Men, unshackled by time, were permitted to wait. Women, however, were not granted such indulgence. The warnings began at twenty, the expectations at twenty-three, and by twenty-five, the city had rendered its judgment. Beyond that, there were consequences.
If, by then, a woman had not established herself, had not secured a role of prominence in governance, industry, or some other field deemed valuable, she would be summoned to counselling. Officially, these sessions were meant to “assist” in resolving her solitude. In truth, they were little more than a thin veil for what followed. These meetings served only to prepare her for an arranged union, a last attempt at placing her where she was deemed most useful. If no suitor found her suitable, if no arrangement could be made, then she would be discarded, or, as it was more commonly phrased, she would undergo the perfectly ordinary process of “Reassignment.”
The term itself was polished, bureaucratic, sterile. But everyone knew its meaning. She would be sent where hands were always needed, into the depths of the industrial sector, into factories, assembly lines, or other fields of ceaseless labor. For the fortunate few, there existed the possibility of clerical work, some dimly lit office corner, stamping the papers of those who shared her fate. But even that required luck, and the city was seldom generous.
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Men, though freer, were not entirely immune. Those found loitering too often, those discovered to be without work or purpose, faced a similar fate. No counselling was extended to them, no gentle nudges toward matrimony. Their judgment was swifter, their path direct. A wasted opportunity, nothing more. They, too, would vanish into the depths of the workforce, folded neatly into the machinery of the city.
Thus, these gatherings were met with grave determination, particularly in the lower districts, where failure meant a fate most sought to escape. They would don their finest garments, invest what little they possessed, and step forward, hoping, desperately, that this time, fortune would not turn away.
Claire had little fondness for socializing, yet she knew her time was running out. She would turn twenty-four in autumn, and with that, her place in the selection pool would only sink further. Younger, more desirable candidates would take precedence. Twenty was considered a woman’s prime in this city, and past that, the choices grew narrower. If she were to be chosen, she would have to try. Otherwise, she would be left to the whims of the desperate or the strange, and the thought of either unsettled her.
It was a reality she had long been painfully aware of. She had never concerned herself much with appearances, nor had she ever made an effort to be an engaging conversationalist. Small talk exhausted her; the predictable rhythm of most interactions left her disinterested. But she could no longer afford to be indifferent. She would have to learn, and quickly.
By the time Claire surfaced from her thoughts, the other students were already leaving, their footsteps fading into the hall. Mr. Bauer remained, leaned against his armchair, watching her with quiet interest. There was no concealing the fact that she was less than enthused by the announcement, though she had known the next ball was inevitable. It had simply come too soon for her liking.
Flustered, she gathered her things and made for the door, but the old man caught her gently by the arm.
“Miss Ashford, if there is anything you wish to talk about, please know that I am here.” His concern was unmistakable, his voice kind. He had seen many young minds buckle beneath the weight of this city’s expectations.
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“Thank you, Mr. Bauer” she said, hesitating. “I just… I only wish there were more options. But I suppose we cannot afford to be ungrateful for what the government provides.” A pause. Then, cautiously
“They have been more than generous, all things considered. Given the rain, and everything...
Mr. Bauer studied her for a moment, then asked
“Is that truly how you feel?”
The question caught Claire off guard. The thought, the mere shadow of doubt, had never occurred to her. The city provided. It ensured no one was left without work, without a home, without a future. Even marriage, a duty many resented, was simply another form of care. It was far better than what could have been. The government cared. She was certain of it.
“Yes, of course” she said firmly. “And I would be a fool to think otherwise.”
Mr. Bauer exhaled, long and weary, but he did not press further.
“Remember to fill out your form” he said at last, offering her the paper. “And, Miss Ashford, should anything trouble you, my door is always open.”
She took the sheet, nodding stiffly. Her farewell was barely above a murmur as she pulled on her coat and shouldered her bag. The door closed behind her with an unsteady hand, as though all the strength had drained from her limbs.
Why had he planted that seed of doubt? What purpose could it have served? The thought unsettled her, not for its content, but for the way it lingered, refusing to dissolve as it should have. Still, she willed it away. There was no room for such things now.
It was time for her favorite hour of the day, work, and study. The path to her destination, simple and the same, as it always had. One stepped through the red door, turned right, and walked straight ahead, and further still. The city revealed itself in linear segments, unbending and narrow, offering little room for deviation or surprise.
By design, its layout was simple except for some of the alleys between the residential buildings. Though the city’s foundations lay buried beneath centuries of ruin and repair, the modern shell had been shaped to serve the new demands of a society stripped of ornament. Roads, rails, and corridors were carved straight through what remained of older districts, cutting across stone and memory. It was a triumph of efficiency, of logic imposed upon history. But it had cost the city its soul.
Where once had stood crooked intricate alleys and winding passageways, there now rose walls of glass and concrete, smooth and sterile, devoid of texture or memory. Predictable. Functional. Entirely forgettable.
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Now and then, remnants of the past revealed themselves. A collapsed facade, its brickwork bowed and blackened by time. A sculpted column, half-swallowed by the foundation of a newer structure. A sunken arch that led nowhere, its meaning long since eroded. Claire often slowed her pace at such fragments. They spoke of a world she could not quite imagine, but longed to understand.
She had read of the old cities, the chronicles, the maps, the myths, but no text could summon the image of golden light of the sun falling across a slanted roof, or footsteps echoing on cobbled stone worn smooth by generations. Still, she dreamed.
She dreamed of one day reaching the ancient cities by the coast, now likely drowned, their towers softened by salt and swallowed by the sea, and of seeing with her own eyes the monuments that had endured the weight of time. If they still stood, and the rain ever stopped, perhaps she might still have the chance.
There was talk of one such structure hidden deep within her own city. Maintained by the government, it was said to rest near the lowest inhabited levels, on what was once the true ground of the city. A temple, perhaps, once devoted to the Sun God, its stained-glass windows faded into unknowable hues, its columns carved with figures no one remembered the names of anymore. Claire imagined it often, not as a place of prayer, but of stillness and wonder. One more reason to dream of rising above her station; to be granted access to history itself.
And so she walked, until the familiar pair of narrow doors emerged from the monotony of the street, nearly missed, so tangled in thought. A small silver plaque, dulled by time and weather, was the only indication of the treasure hidden behind them; the city's oldest library. To the left, behind glass, a shallow display case held a couple of volumes and nothing more. Unimpressive to the eye, but it let in a sliver of natural light to the inside, however scarce.
She stepped through the doors and was consumed by another world she loved so dearly. The scent of aging paper rose to meet her, dry, faintly sweet, delicate, mingled with newer ink and the distinct sharpness of oil lamps, thick and comforting. Dust drifted through the air, past the light, in thin spirals. Darting about with purpose, or taking its time, only to vanish into the shadows again. like little spirits on errands of their own. Such an odd society it was, Claire thought. Always running, even in stillness.
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The library held a silence unlike any other, the sounds of the city disappearing immediately with the closing of doors. Claire drew in a breath and allowed the hush to settle over her.
Immediately to the left stood a cozy, welcoming wooden counter, its nearest edge gently rounded, curving in the direction of the parallel wall. The surface was worn and scratched by time and countless hands, but it was clearly well cared for; polished, loved. The front of it was adorned with carved wooden decals, curling like vines or waves, meant to be admired by the visitors it welcomed.
Behind it stood an L-shaped bookshelf, crafted to fit snugly against the wall and align perfectly with the counter's dimensions. Its upper tiers held the most sought-after volumes: the popular titles, the frequently requested, the freshly returned, the newly arrived. The lower portion of the shelf was fitted with a wooden cabinet with small doors, behind which lay the tools of the trade: a box of spare pens, sheaves of blank paper, date stamps, a scattering of bookmarks, even a candle or two, kept in case of a blackout.
Claire favored this space above all others. Though technically part of the entrance hall, the counter was set just off to the side, separated from the main body of the library by a wall and a hallway, that stretched directly forward from the front door and lead deeper into the library's heart. The counter sat just beside it, tucked into the alcove formed by the pushed back left-hand wall, fitting snugly in the ninety-degree angle between the front wall and the hallway's side.
It created a cozy space perfect for study. Despite being a naturally busy area with people always coming and going, there was something about it, something in the way it was tucked in, that made them disappear from your thoughts after a while, like background noise fading into silence.
The small window display offered an unobstructed sliver of the street beyond. It didn't show much, but it was just enough to entertain. When pondering something she'd just read in her textbooks, Claire liked to watch people rush by, each wrapped up in their own lives. She made up stories for them in her mind. Why was that man in such a hurry? Did he forget something? Was he maybe a secret agent? But the more she watched, the more the reality of life in the lower city sank in. It was no easy feat, just surviving and trying to make ends meet.
Claire wiped her shoes carefully on the doormat before stepping in any further. She was strict about it, always reminding customers how hard it was to clean the floor and how dangerous a puddle of dirty water on the floor could become. But deep down, she also just liked to keep her study space clean, free from distraction. Order helped her focus.
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She looked up and immediately locked eyes with someone else.
“Hi Claire! I’m so so glad you’re early! I hope you don’t mind, but I need to run an errand. It’s not a problem though, right? You’re the best!”
All of it came out in a single breath, with no pause, no inhale. Before Claire could even form a thought, she was pulled into a tight, fleeting hug.
- I'll see you tomorrow!
Before Claire could even nod, the girl was already gone, the offender vanished as quickly as she'd attacked.
Claire shook her head, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, soft and without commitment. She liked Abigail, truly she did, But it was hard not to accuse Abigail of having too much energy. Always in motion, always chasing some new pursuit. Something Claire could neither fathom nor match. And yet, there was something admirable in it, something enviable, how someone could remain so light, so buoyant, in a place that weighed so heavily on everyone else.
Each week brought with it a new fascination, some novel hobby or recently uncovered fragment of the city, plucked from obscurity like a gem pulled from the mud. It was as though she wandered through life with no fixed path, chasing glimmers and curiosities wherever they might lead.
She lived precisely the way she carried herself, unruly, unfiltered, spontaneous. Her hair, almost always in a state of rebellion, was gathered into lopsided buns or hastily twisted knots that barely held. Her clothes, perpetually wrinkled, bore the look of someone who had no time to spare for neatness. Claire could not imagine such a way of being, so loose, so uncontained, but even so, she had to admit: there was a kind of charm to it.
She slipped off her coat and hung it carefully on the slender iron rack by the door, brushing away a faint dusting of lint with an absent motion. With her scarf folded neatly on the hook, she stepped into the warm hush of the library proper, the faint scent of old paper and dust greeting her like an old friend.
From behind the counter, she retrieved the ledger, a thick, worn volume whose spine had long since cracked and exposed the brown cardboard base at the edges, its corners blunted out by the daily heavy use. It served as the library’s collective memory, meant to hold and help keep up the daily rhythm of it: notes about visitors, small updates, maintenance reminders. Its pages were a mosaic of careful handwriting and hasty scribbles, of neatly folded lists and torn bits of scrap paper jammed between entries. Each showing the different personalities of employees.
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Scattered among them were brighter things, sticky notes in pinks and yellows and blues, each one bearing Abigail's chaotic, loving energy.
Today's page was no different. A childishly drawn sun, grinning from ear to ear and colored in with vibrant orange marker, beamed from the corner. Above it, in looping letters: Don't forget to smile today! Claire’s lips twitched. An involuntary amusement more than a real smile, but she did pause for a second longer to look at it.
She uncapped her pen, wrote the date in her usual measured script, and signed her name in careful, deliberate strokes. Off to the side, she marked the time of her arrival.
Then, with the practised eye of someone accustomed to scanning for meaning in clutter, she surveyed the rest of the page. Abigail’s scattered notes, updates from the earlier shift, or last minute requests. It appeared, for once, that the day would be quiet. The only task recorded was a minor one: reorganize the study section, recently left in disarray by a frantic group of students who had, in their rush and likely desperation, shown no mercy to the shelving system. Alphabetical order had been all but forgotten, and entire categories had been displaced in the name of last-minute review. It was not unusual. This was, after all, exam season of high schools.
Still, Claire found comfort in tasks like these. They were slow, methodical, undemanding in ways that allowed her mind to wander. She could take her time, and perhaps stumble upon something misplaced that might yet prove useful for her own research. The school study section did not often yield treasures rich in historical value she needed, but sometimes those books found their way there by mistake. If she worked quickly and thoroughly, she might have the rest of the day to herself. And she could use that time. She always could.
She tucked her bag into one of the compartments beneath the counter, locking it with the small, practiced twist of a key worn smooth from repetition. She placed a wooden-framed sign on the countertop, gently slanted, the ink a little faded. It reminded patrons to ring the bell should the desk be unattended, or to seek assistance among the shelves if help was needed. After straightening it out so it didn’t sit askew, she turned on her heel and headed off to her tasks destination.
The main portion of the library lay just beyond the narrow hallway that stretched directly ahead from the entrance. It wasn’t long, but the transition it offered was always disarming. The hallway itself was unremarkable, its ceiling low, its walls bearing in the same uniform beige that defined so many of the institutional structures on this level of the city. But the final archway served as a threshold, a portal opening into a space that felt as though it belonged to a different world entirely.
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The main reading room was tall. Not wide, not grand, but tall, rising two stories up. Windows lined the upper part of the walls, their views limited to the narrow alleyways and stained stone backs of neighboring buildings. It wasn't much to look at, but it was still a faint light, and that alone was rare enough to treasure.
Claire often found the room a little overwhelming. In a city so tightly bound, where space came at a cost measured not just in coin but in privilege, such height felt indulgent. The floor was lined with long tables, some bare, others in use, strewn with books and notebooks. Bookshelves stretched high along every wall, filled to the edge, their narrow frames packed tight with volumes both old and new. Their only interruptions came in the form of other mildly useless windows or ladders, and every few shelves had a delicate brass rail, part of the ancient rolling system that no one dared replace.
To the left of the entry, a flight of wooden stairs climbed to a slender balcony that circled the entire room in a ring. This upper walkway clung to the perimeter like a second spine, and standing upon it gave one the curious sensation of floating, tucked just beneath the ceiling, with the higher rows of shelves stretched out at eye level, like a canopy of thought.
The room's height was deceptive. For all its vertical space, it was still narrow, hemmed in on all sides by the buildings that had already claimed this part of the city long before the rains had ever begun. The library, in fact, had been standing here before even the worst of the floods. And while its width had always been limited, it made up for it in height and depth. The entire building spanned three stories, all owned and used by the library in full, a rare luxury in this tightly packed district.
Above the reading room, accessible only by a discreet stairwell near the back, was the library’s third and final floor. That level had a more conventional ceiling, its lights dimmer, its aisles narrower. It was used almost exclusively for storage, archived documents, outdated inventory, and new arrivals still awaiting cataloging. Amidst it all were shipments, dozens at any given time, sometimes hundreds. Books requested from across the city, bound for schools, research institutions, private collections. From the lowest tiers to the highest, there were many who depended on the library’s holdings.
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Of course, it was rare for someone from the higher levels to appear here in person. More often than not, they used designated couriers, professionals employed by upper-tier families or institutions, trained to navigate the complex bureaucracy and physical traversal required to cross the city's different levels. Travel between tiers wasn't as simple as walking up a set of stairs. Each passage required a purpose to be declared and approved in advance. A card had to be issued, with a time slot noted, and any deviation could result in denial or detainment.
But couriers were different. They carried clearance cards. Embossed, official, and highly respected. Their position was considered enviable: a role that required training, discipline, and the kind of trust only extended by those in power. The freedom they possessed, the ability to move between levels without obstruction, was a privilege most citizens could not even begin to imagine.
It was the sort of job one earned through relentless effort… or through knowing the right person. And in this city, both methods were equally rare.
The section Claire had been assigned for the day was tucked into the right-hand corner of the main floor, partially concealed behind a row of towering shelves. Easy to overlook unless you were searching for it. It sat slightly apart from the other study areas, quiet even by the library standards.
When she reached it, the stacks of bookss were already waiting, piled with little ceremony on the floor beside the shelving unit, like a lazy cairn of discarded knowledge. Abigail must have gathered them earlier, likely in a rush, a small kindness she often offered when she opened before Claire. But judging by the disorder, she hadn't had time to sort them by category. There was no clear structure, just a hopeful pile.
Claire didn’t mind. It was simple work, and by now, she knew the classification system like the back of her hand, its quirks and inconsistencies included. She crouched beside the pile, brushing the dust off her sleeves and rolling them up, and began the repetitive task of sorting.
She scanned each spine for the identification code, her eyes parsing letters and numbers. Gradually, new piles began to form around her, smaller and more precise, sorted by category, arranged in alphabetical order. They circled her like obedient little soldiers awaiting deployment.
There was a certain peace in restoring order to something left undone, in imposing clarity where once there had been a tangle. The world outside rarely allowed such things.
Unfortunately, the pile yielded no surprises. Nothing unexpected, nothing rare. Just a standard collection of general education texts, high school level overviews of chemistry, civic design, basic mathematics.
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Claire already knew most of them by heart, their diagrams and summaries etched into her memory by long hours of study. No advanced archaeological materials, no histories beyond the officially sanctioned curriculum.
She carried each sorted stack to its proper place at the base of the shelf, double-checking the spine labels before shelving. Her movements became automatic, eyes sweeping, hands adjusting, spine to shelf, spine to shelf. Now and then she paused to extract a book clearly out of place, a psychology text shelved under political theory, a sanitation manual nestled beside a volume on botany. Little rebellions in the system.
She pulled the impostors out and placed them on the table behind her to be re-shelved properly later. Everything in its time. Everything in its place.
The corner was quiet. Too quiet. The usual sounds of the main floor hardly reached her here. Only the occasional groan of the wooden walkway above reminded her that she was not entirely alone in the building.
Book sorting required little concentration, and as her hands continued their work, her mind wandered. Mostly, she thought about the time she might earn for herself once the task was finished. What book she might choose, how many pages she could read, how many margin notes she could fit before the day ended. Her thoughts never strayed far from her studies. It was a familiar path, well-worn and always returning to the same obsession.
One thing was certain: Claire was diligent. Focused. Committed to the goal, even if no one else seemed to be. She could never quite understand Abigail’s view of things. The girl showed up, more or less on time, completed her tasks with minimal complaint, and then floated through the rest of the day without care or consequence. There was no strategy. No ambition. No hunger for more. She didn’t seem to be working toward anything, wasn’t straining against the confines of her station or laying the groundwork for escape. She simply existed, light-footed, unburdened, moving through her hours as though the city’s immense and crushing weight had chosen, inexplicably, to ignore her shoulders altogether.
Watching her made Claire restless. To be fair, Abigail was younger, by about two years. Perhaps she still had time to begin thinking seriously. To realize what it took. But what she did have, right now, in abundance, was a quality Claire found both infuriating and impossible to mimic: everyone adored her.
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It wasn’t beauty, though she was certainly pretty in a soft, unthreatening way, with open features that made people feel comfortable. No, it was her manner. Her joy, loud, immediate, unfiltered. The sort of joy that, at first, came off as irritating or naive, even foolish. But it lingered. It settled into a room, softened its edges, and, before long, she’d collected a small crowd of admirers and opportunities she didn’t even recognize as rare.
Claire had tried once to imitate that kind of charm. Just to see. Just to test if it might make things simpler. If it might sand down the sharpness of how others perceived her. She didn’t last a day. The effort felt like wearing someone else’s skin, tight, false and uncomfortable. And afterward, she told herself what she always did: the only real path to success was through discipline. Through knowledge. Through work.
The city did not need bright, cheerful and loud distractions. It had no use for dreamers, charmers, or girls who could bat their lashes and be excused from consequence. What it needed, what it demanded, was competence. Precision. The ability to keep the gears turning, how to preserve the brittle structure holding everything together. Being cheerful and frivolous, like Abigail, wasn’t part of that.
The final book slid into place, fitting neatly between its neighbors. Claire straightened up, stretched her back, and gathered the few misplaced volumes she had set aside. She made her way through the library again, returning them one by one to their proper shelves, navigating the aisles with ease of familiarity.
An hour and a half passed. The task was complete. All that remained was to go over the ledger one last time, in case she’d missed anything. Then, at last, she would be free to settle at the front counter and give herself over to her notes.
Turning back, she passed the narrow staircase nestled between two shelves. It led downward, and always held a peculiar darkness, deeper than the rest of the library, as though the air itself thickened there. The gloom clung to the edges of the stairwell in a way that made her skin prickle.
Below lay the bottom floor, the oldest and most carefully guarded level of the library. It housed delicate documents, forgotten volumes, strange old books bordering on myth, and fantasy texts that tiptoed the line of legality. Some of the material was strictly regulated, considered dangerous in the wrong hands. To access that section, patrons had to request permission at the front desk and be accompanied at all times by a staff member. No exceptions. The books there were too rare, too fragile, too sensitive.
Claire liked the contents, admittedly. There were hidden treasures down there, things not found in any other part of the city. But liking the contents and liking the place were two very different things.
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She never felt at ease below. Even when the room was brightly lit, even when she was accompanied, there was a stillness to the air that made the hairs on her neck stand on end. The shadows clung stubbornly to the corners, immune to the light. They seemed to flicker and shift when her back was turned, always just at the edge of vision, always just enough to feel as though she were being watched. It was irrational. She knew that. A grown woman, uneasy in a perfectly ordinary room. But the feeling never left her, no matter how often she went down.
She hated the early shifts most of all, when she had to descend before anyone else arrived, unlock the heavy doors, and walk the length of the room lighting each individual lamp by hand. The silence down there was different. It wasn’t quiet, it was a void. The kind of silence that pressed against the ears like weight. Thankfully, those mornings were rare now. Her schedule had shifted mostly to afternoons and evenings, an accommodation granted by her supervisor to help balance her coursework. Not everyone had a manager so willing to adjust, and Claire knew it. In that small way, she was fortunate.
She made her way back to the front of the library and settled into the old armchair beside the main display case. The chair groaned softly as she lowered herself into it, its cushions worn into a permanent impression by years of readers and weary staff alike. It was her preferred spot at the front, tucked into the corner, half-wrapped in shadow from the counter’s overhang.
Beside it stood a round wooden table, its surface scarred by thin scratches, and faint rings from countless cups of tea and coffee. One side wobbled just slightly. One side of the table wobbled slightly, but she always positioned her notebooks to balance it out. There was comfort in its flaws. The kind that came from knowing every quirk of a place so intimately that it began to feel like an extension of one’s self.
The moment she sat, her body began to relax. A fleeting sense of comfort washed over her. It was the kind of small peace she had learned to savor. She allowed herself a minute of stillness before rising again, compelled by the familiar rhythm of routine. Time to make exactly that: retrieve her study notebooks, and prepare a cup of hot, black coffee.
A simple luxury. One she didn't take for granted. Real coffee. Not the synthetic powder substitute most people had grown used to, but genuine beans. Bitter, rich, and grounding. It had become an expensive indulgence. The beans required specific conditions to grow, space that the city didn't have to spare. Farming them was done in special facilities outside the city's core, and unlike staple crops, coffee wasn't subsidized by the government. It was a plant considered non-essential, a minor comfort in a world that no longer had much patience for such things.
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Most food came from towering, multilevel farms stationed outside the city, supported by immense metal beams driven deep into the earth. These structures were engineering marvels, but running them demanded constant attention, and, more importantly, electricity. Energy that the city barely had enough of as it was. The idea of anyone maintaining a private farm was laughable. Everything came from the same place now.
Meat was even worse. It consumed more space, more time, more effort. The only viable option left was chicken. Small, fast-growing, easily stacked in narrow cages. Scientists had fine-tuned the process to its limits. Plants could be manipulated to grow faster with less, but animals were trickier, and their suffering... well, that was the part everyone tried not to think about.
Claire certainly did. She had never seen the farms herself, and truth be told, she wasn't curious. Especially not about the meat production. She knew enough. The so-called "efficiency enhancements" done to the animals left a sour feeling in her gut. Muted or not, the knowledge of it was always there, lingering at the edges of her mind.
Trying to shake the thought, she reached into one of the cabinets and pulled out the coffee packet. Electricity was strictly rationed in the lower levels. Every household and public building was allotted a fixed amount, calculated down to the decimal. It was reserved for things that were truly necessary, like computers, water systems, refrigeration, medical appliances. Anything beyond that was a luxury, and luxuries were often forbidden.
Electric kettles, for example, had long since disappeared. Claire had a faint memory of one. Her mother using it in their home when she was a child, but those days were gone. The devices had been deemed unnecessary and banned not long after, part of the slow march of regulation that came with every new phase of expansion. The more people who lived in the city, the more rules followed. That was the way of things.
But Claire had options. Two, to be exact. And one of them was thanks to her supervisor, the very one that supplied them with coffee. He wasn't around much, barely interested in the day-to-day of the library, but he had a generous streak when it came to his staff. On his occasional visits, he often brought small gifts. One of those gifts now sat tucked neatly in the break corner: a small portable gas kettle. It was elegantly made, beautiful in its craftsmanship and clearly expensive. It functioned much like a gas stove, but was designed specifically for heating water. Just enough for one or two cups at a time.
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Sadly, the gas had run out recently, and no new cartridges had arrived yet. They were small canisters, no bigger than a drinking glass, inserted into the side of the kettle like an old-fashioned soda machine. One cartridge could last a couple weeks, if used sparingly. But once it was empty, that was that. And there would be no replacements anytime soon. It had been a gift, after all. Gracious, unexpected, and certainly not an entitlement. No one would dare request more. To ask would risk sounding entitled or ungrateful, and Claire had no intention of being either.
She didn't mind waiting. A little patience was worth the quiet dignity of gratitude. That left her with only one remaining option. The government provided certain workplaces with heated water packs, containers filled with water and a sealed chemical packet inside. When cracked open, the packet would release a reaction that heated the water to boiling. No electricity, no gas, just a controlled burst of borrowed heat. The supply was regulated, of course. Every employee had a fixed number allotted per month, tallied and tracked.
Claire had long since used up hers. She simply couldn't give up the comfort of coffee, not when it made the long days bearable, not when it was the one indulgence she clung to. Thankfully, Abigail had been kind enough to donate her unused share. She wasn't much for coffee, tea on rare occasions, but usually just plain water. That bumped Claire's total up from seven to fourteen. It had felt like a blessing at the time, but now, even that cache was nearly gone.
She sighed, picked up one of the last remaining packets, and cracked it open. A soft hiss followed as the chemical pouch ruptured and the water began to heat, steam slowly curling up from the container's spout.
As it brewed, she turned away from the counter and began rummaging through her bag, searching for her notebooks, pens, and the dog-eared pages she'd marked the night before.
Then, the bell above the door jingled, sharp and clear.
“I’ll be with you in just a second!” She called out, already rising with a practiced smile “I just need to...”
She turned toward the entryway. The room was empty. Her smile faltered slightly.
“Hello..?” She called, a bit softer now. The word echoed faintly between the tall shelves and empty chairs. At this hour, they rarely had visitors. But it wasn't unheard of. People worked odd shifts; some wandered in out of habit, or simply in search of warmth and quiet.
But no one answered. She waited a beat longer, listening. There were no footsteps. No movement. Not even the soft rustle of a coat or the creak of the door closing. Perhaps it had just been the bell itself.
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Sometimes, if it got caught at a strange angle or snagged on the frame, it would jingle loose and ring as if someone had entered.
She stared at the doorway a moment longer, then shrugged off the unease. Nothing to worry about.
Returning to the counter, she retrieved her books and brought them over to the low table beside the armchair. The hot water had done its job. She poured it carefully over the grounds, inhaling the rich scent as it bloomed in the mug.
With her coffee finally ready, she sank into the chair again and let herself fall into that soft, dreamy state, half-present, half-lost, where study and comfort blended. Where the outside world, with all its rules and shortages and strange silences, faded into the background.
A couple of hours later, and at most five customers helped, it was time to close up the library and head home. Preparations for the next day were still waiting, of course. Though Claire already knew she'd end up reading and studying again that evening, just like always. It was a never-ending cycle, this silent rhythm of working hard, keeping busy, staying ahead.
She stretched lazily, inhaling deep. The armchair beneath her groaned softly, cradling her like it had grown fond of her presence. Its cushions still held the warmth of her body, and it seemed to grip her with a gentle, sleepy reluctance. It was hard to motivate herself to rise, especially after such still comfort. The chair practically begged her to stay a little longer, to rest just a few more minutes.
But she managed to win the small battle. With a sigh, she rose and made her way to the counter. Her movements were slow, mechanical, but familiar. She packed her things back into her bag, noted the necessary documentation in the ledger, wrapped her scarf around her neck, and shrugged on her coat. One last round of checking the library, and then she'd be free.
She always did her sweep the same way, top to bottom, like a routine drilled into her bones. First the documentation section, which was quick: the lights there weren't on unless someone had used the space. She peered in briefly to confirm it was empty and untouched.
Next came the main room. She moved through it in long strides, extinguishing the warm pools of light one by one. The library dimmed behind her, falling into shadow. She always left the basement for last. She hated the basement.
She descended the narrow staircase quickly, not letting her mind linger on anything. With a portable lamp in hand, she moved to the far end of the room and began the process: one lamp after another, snuffing them out as swiftly as she could. Each step seemed to amplify the silence around her, thick and absolute.
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The last light flickered out. She bolted. She sprinted up the stairs like a child running from imagined monsters, skipping two steps at a time, her breath short and quick in her throat. Her heart pounded not from exertion, but from the sheer, irrational instinct to flee. The basement never did anything, but it felt wrong. Like something ancient and asleep was watching.
Rounding the final step, she didn't pause. She dashed to the counter, snatched her bag, snuffed out the lamp in her hand, and pushed through the door in one smooth motion, slamming it behind her with a loud bang.
She stood on the other side, heart still racing. Hands trembling slightly, she turned the key in the lock and checked the handle twice to be sure. Only then did she allow herself to exhale. A long, slow breath of relief.
Outside, the city air was damp and heavy, as always. The pavement glistened faintly under the rare dim streetlights. Claire pulled her scarf higher over her mouth, the fabric catching a trace of her breath as she walked.
The streets were quiet at this hour. Just the occasional flicker of movement behind shuttered windows, or the low hum of a maintenance drone gliding past on its tracks. Familiar sounds. Familiar shadows.
Her walk home wasn't long, but it gave her time to unwind. Time to let the stillness settle in her bones, to stretch out the tension in her shoulders. She passed the same closed shops, the same flickering signs of the clinic on the corner, the cracked tile mural half-swallowed by decay.
When she reached her building, she entered the code, pushed the creaky door open, and climbed the narrow stairwell up to her floor. The hum of the hallway light buzzed like an old insect trapped behind glass. She unlocked her apartment door, stepped inside, and was greeted by the gentle stillness of her tiny home.
Everything was exactly where she'd left it. The faint scent of books and still air lingering. Her study materials still open on the coffee table by the window.
She set her bag down, hung up her coat, and without even removing her shoes yet, lit the little heater in the corner. The warmth would take time to build. She put the keys of the library and her apartment on a small shelf next to the door. She had a designated, small bowl for all types of important things, which in this case were the keys.
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As per usual, she prepared a quick meal with the limited cooking abilities she had and ate it hastily, more out of routine than hunger. Afterward, she slipped into an oversized, worn-out t-shirt that had long since become her makeshift pajamas, soft from years of wear.
With a few of her study books clutched under one arm, she made her way to the small bedroom. The bed creaked as she dropped onto it, the books coming to rest atop her chest. Her eyes wandered upward, unfocused, settling somewhere on the ceiling.
Tomorrow would be the same. Just as the day before had been. And the day after would be, too. There was little to no excitement, but she liked it that way. Or, at least, she told herself she did. She preferred predictability over surprise, routine over chaos. She liked knowing how her days would start, and how they would end. Always steady. Always familiar.
She liked it. Or… she very strongly believed so. With that thought lingering at the back of her mind, she cracked open her textbook and tried to resume her evening lecture. But her focus slipped through the cracks. The words blurred. The pages felt heavy. Her mind wouldn't settle, shifting restlessly from one thought to the next, like leaves in a slow current.
Eventually, she gave up. She closed the book, extinguished the light, and let the silence wrap around her like a blanket. And so she waited, half asleep, half awake, for the next day to begin, eventually letting her mind fall quiet.
***
The sound of the television bounced lazily around the flat while Claire prepared herself some breakfast. The news broadcast offered nothing new, only the same old political feuds that had dragged on for months. She tuned it out.
Her breakfast was nothing elaborate: a single slice of toast, an egg, and a strip of what was technically called bacon, though it resembled cardboard more than any kind of meat. It was a plant-based imitation, barely edible, but fortified with enough vitamins to keep her from falling apart. Good enough. This type of breakfast was what she usually defaulted too. It was easy and quick enough to make, and she was aware she’d never make a professional cook, and would rather not try and risk burning her kitchen down.
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Per routine, she packed her bag, gathered her notebooks, and dressed. Only one thing remained; the library keys. She reached into the small ceramic bowl near the door to grab both sets: her own apartment keys and the library’s.
But only one set waited for her. Her apartment keys sat loyally where she had left them. The library keys, however, were gone. A small ripple of unease tightened in her chest.
Losing them wasn’t just inconvenient, it was serious. She had been trusted with them. Misplacing a set could easily be taken as carelessness. The morning shift had their own, but that wasn’t the point. It was about responsibility. Trust. And the idea of betraying it, however unintentionally, left her cold.
She dropped her bag to the floor and began searching. Her coat pockets, empty. Yesterday’s clothes, nothing. She checked beneath the bed, between the couch cushions, even behind the kitchen counter. Nowhere. Her apartment wasn’t exactly large; there weren’t many places for something to go missing. And yet, the keys seemed to have vanished.
She stood still for a moment, brow furrowed, trying to retrace her steps. She was sure she’d brought them home. She always did. But no matter how she turned it over in her mind, nothing came. Just that uncomfortable blank where certainty should have been.
Then, as she stepped away from the counter, there was a faint sound, a quiet metallic clink against tile. She paused, pulse catching.
There, just beside the shelf where they were supposed to be sitting, lay the missing keys.
Claire stared. For a moment, she simply stood there, waiting for some half-remembered explanation to surface. Had she knocked them loose somehow without noticing? Dropped them last night, and overlooked them in the morning rush?
She crouched to retrieve them, holding them in her palm, their familiar weight offering no answers. They were the keys she’d been looking for, no doubt about it. Same worn edges, the same fraying tag tied to the ring. Nothing strange. Nothing out of place. Completely unchanged. And yet, somehow, it felt wrong.
Her mind was still racing, though her heartbeat had begun to settle, no longer pressing so insistently against her ribs. Maybe they’d caught on the scarf she wore yesterday, she reasoned. Lodged there and only now slipped loose after all that frantic moving about. That had to be it.
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With a long breath and a steady exhale, she tucked the keys into her bag, checked, then checked again, and reached for the door. As she did, her eyes flicked upward to the small clock hanging beside the frame.
A chill prickled down her spine. The hair on her arms stood up. She was going to be late. Without thinking, she bolted into the hallway, footsteps already echoing behind her, only to freeze, halfway down.
The door.
She turned on her heel, rushed back, and slammed it shut, fumbling with the lock in haste. But as she turned again to leave, another realization hit her like a slap across the face.
The television.
Groaning, she swung the door open once more, dashed inside, and silenced the broadcast mid-sentence. Only now, finally, could she go. She pulled the door shut, locked it again, checked the handle, and ran. This time for good.
Her usual walk to class had become a battlefield: a desperate sprint against time, against shame, against the creeping panic that always came with the threat of being late. To Claire, punctuality wasn’t just habit, it was her identity. And the idea of arriving even slightly behind schedule? It was unbearable.
She pushed herself up the concrete stairs where, most mornings, she would pause, just for a moment, to take in the city. But not today. The stillness she usually sought was forgotten. There was no time. The familiar view passed in a blur.
By the time she reached the top, her legs ached and her lungs burned. She stopped just long enough to catch her breath, tugged her scarf loose, and inhaled sharply through her teeth before forcing herself forward again. Mr. Bauer’s class was just ahead.
It wasn’t the kind of start she’d planned for the day, but she promised herself, silently, that she’d make up for it. Somehow. And perhaps, if she was lucky, Mr. Bauer would forgive her this slip up.
But Mr. Bauer seemed indifferent. If anything, there was a subtle curiosity in the way he looked up at her. He knew her well enough to understand this wasn’t like her. But he said nothing. When she knocked gently and eased the door open, his attention didn’t falter. Not pausing his speech, He offered her only a brief glance and gestured toward the vacant seat on the couch, the kind of silent invitation that made it clear he wasn’t angry.
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There might have been a faint smile on his face. Or perhaps it was only the trick of the light, cast by the lamps in such a way that it left her unsure, but no sign of disappointment.
Claire had braced herself for something far harsher, a reprimand perhaps, or worse, a public reminder of how one lapse in discipline could taint an otherwise spotless record. Yet nothing of the sort occurred. A small relief, though it left her feeling oddly out of step with the world. She resolved not to dwell on it; overthinking would only rob her of the focus she needed for the lecture.
Still, at the back of her mind, she replayed the morning’s errors. She should have been more organized. Perhaps she needed a new system in her flat, something to prevent things from disappearing or being misplaced by her own carelessness. She needed to push these thoughts aside, to bury them beneath the lecture's rhythm, to anchor herself to the present. Adjusting her glasses, she forced herself to concentrate. It wasn't long before the passage of time blurred before her.
Today’s lecture had been on an ancient civilization, one that had built vast, angular monuments from heavy stone blocks. Claire had always been fascinated by such feats of endurance, so it was no wonder that the time in class had slipped away quickly. In truth, the few hours spent in Mr. Bauer’s warm, inviting classroom had allowed her a brief respite. For a moment, she felt as though she had regained the strength and stability needed to face the day, a renewed confidence, free of past mistakes.
It hardly felt as though more than mere minutes had passed before she was on her way to the library, stepping back out into the damp air and the mechanical rhythm of the city. Rain fell in a steady drizzle, the kind that never quite turned to storm but never ceased either, soaking collars and pooling in the uneven pavement cracks. The scent of smoke, burnt chemicals and old oil lingered like a second skin, clinging to the walls, the coat fibers, and the breath of passing strangers. Claire hardly registered it anymore. The senses dulled quickly when overstimulated day after day, until even disgust faded into familiarity. After all, this was the only reality there was. Life outside the city had long since been reduced to myth, and people had stopped believing in myths a long time ago.
When Claire arrived at the library, the heavy door groaned open on hinges that needed oiling. Another task, no doubt, written in the communal ledger but never crossed out. Abigail was already there, halfway through shedding her rain-spotted coat. Her curls were pinned haphazardly with two mismatched clips, and her scarf, bright pink today, had been tied in a complicated knot that was now unraveling down one shoulder.
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This time, they shared the same shift. Claire didn’t mind, not exactly, but she couldn’t call it ideal either. Abigail, for all her bright energy and helpfulness, was a walking distraction. A storm in human shape. Whenever Claire needed to study, to dive deep into the brittle pages of some half-forgotten volume, it was Abigail’s chatter that pulled her back up for air. She meant no harm by it, on the contrary, she was sweet, endearing even, but sweet things weren’t always easy to stomach in excess.
They exchanged the usual greetings, and before long Abigail was deep into a recounting of yesterday’s escapades, something about a missing umbrella, a mechanical pigeon, and a street vendor who claimed to be a time traveler. Claire only half-listened, nodding at the appropriate moments, her thoughts already drifting to the day’s responsibilities. Work waited, and there was no shortage of it.
Two new shipments had arrived: one of freshly printed editions still smelling faintly of glue and ink, the other of older donations, some wrapped in stained paper, others bare, their cracked spines like the weary backs of men who had carried too much for too long. Books that had known other shelves, other hands, other lives. Some bore names written in careful cursive on the inside covers, others had dog-eared pages or small drawings in the margins. Even inanimate, books carried memory in their mute way.
Claire glanced at the stacks waiting by the front counter and exhaled slowly through her nose. It was going to be a long day. It also meant that two tasks were at hand: first, logging the new arrivals into the system; second, tending to the elder tomes with their yellowed pages and weary bindings. The former was a matter of procedure, labels, catalogues, numerical codes. The latter, however, was something else entirely. Restoration was a careful art, one that demanded as much reverence as skill. Each book had to be checked for damage: brittle corners, torn spines, water stains, or the faint scrawls left by previous owners; notes, signatures, doodles, the occasional desperate message squeezed into a margin.
Erasing those marks was delicate work. The simpler stains, pencil, some inks, the stray charcoal smudge, could be handled with basic methods. But the more stubborn volumes required more stubborn and exacting care. Special solvents had been developed to combat the once-irrevocable damage of fountain pen ink. They worked swiftly, and sometimes too well. A careless swipe could lift more than just graffiti. Entire lines, entire paragraphs - gone in a blink. The ink dissolved easily, but so did the text. And once it vanished, there was no recovering it. Only guesswork, or silence.
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It was not a task given to just anyone. Only a handful of workers were trained and trusted enough to undertake that kind of restoration, and Claire was among them. She had a steady hand, a disciplined eye, and, perhaps most importantly, a quiet respect for the material. She knew when to stop, when to pause, when to step back and consult the archive or seek a second opinion before committing. On the rare occasions when removal wasn’t enough, she was permitted to replicate missing lines by hand-matching the style, the flow, the spirit of the original as best as possible. It was not always perfect. But it was honest work, and when done well, the page could be made whole again.
Tedious, yes. But it provided a kind of shelter. In the hours ahead, when Abigail’s endless energy began to ricochet off the walls and press against Claire’s thinning patience, the delicate ritual of restoration would be a welcome reprieve.
"Alright" Claire said, exhaling as she spoke, already trying to mentally organize the tasks ahead. "I’ll take care of fixing the older books. Can you scan the new ones?"
"Sure! Do you want me to scan the older ones as well?" Abigail was already halfway to the scanner, her movements light and quick, as though the task were more of a game than a job.
"No, we’ll do that after I check them over. It’s easier to add a book than to delete it from the registry, and we might come across a few that aren’t salvageable."
"Good thinking!" Abigail chirped, grabbing one of the boxes and setting it down with an enthusiastic thud on the wobbly coffee table near the display. In doing so, she managed to knock over a book and a cup that had already been precariously claiming space there.
Claire shook her head, but a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She often wondered what it would be like to move through life without that constant, gnawing pressure for perfection. To let little errors remain just that, small, harmless, and fleeting. To Abigail, it was nothing more than a moment. She didn’t even flinch. But for Claire, a stumble like that might have cast a shadow over the entire day, spiraling into shame and self-reproach, revisited in thought long after it had ceased to matter to anyone else.
Thankfully, nothing had broken. The cup, empty at the time, had landed on its side, unharmed, and now sat near the edge of the counter, teetering like it had a mind of its own. Claire leaned over and nudged it inward, away from the drop, as if taming a restless child. Abigail, fully immersed in her task by now, hadn’t even noticed.
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Alas, Claire decided she should do so too. She noted all the necessary information into the ledger, her hand moving with the practiced precision of routine. Out of habit, she looked it over again. Once, then twice, her eyes scanning the pages with a meticulousness she'd long since stopped thinking about. The entries from previous shifts were accounted for, tasks crossed off in various hands. But something gave her pause.
On the pages related to deliveries and intakes, a few boxes were left blank. She frowned. Upon closer inspection, she saw that the intake fields had been entirely ignored. It could have meant one of two things. Either someone had failed to do their part in keeping the ledger orderly, or worse, the task had been abandoned completely. Books left to sit in some forgotten corner, unprocessed and untouched, gathering dust for yet another week.
A quiet fury began to bloom in her chest. If it turned out to be the latter, she’d have even more work to deal with. But what unsettled her more wasn’t the extra task itself; it was the thought of someone treating their responsibilities with such carelessness. It felt like a kind of disrespect, not only toward the work, but toward the privilege of doing it at all.
She murmured a brief excuse as she passed Abigail, then climbed the staircase to the top floor in brisk, purposeful strides. Her footfalls echoed slightly against the worn stone, each step feeding her frustration. She practically stormed into the document room, eyes already sweeping the space for any sign of misfiled or abandoned boxes.
She didn’t need to look far. Just beyond the first row of shelves, tucked hastily near the entrance, sat four cardboard boxes, three of them opened and half-empty, one still sealed. Left for later, no doubt. The kind of later that meant never.
Claire crouched beside them, lifting the lids with care. All four bore the same stamp: Used Book Intake. Her stomach sank. It confirmed her suspicion. Someone had decided to push the task aside, and it could only have been someone like her, someone trained and trusted to handle delicate restorations. That narrowed the list of possible culprits considerably.
But that would have to wait. She made a mental note to bring it up later, perhaps even report it if she couldn’t resolve it discreetly. For now, her priority was her own list, what she’d committed to do. The rest, however frustrating, would come in time.
Descending the stairs again, her steps slower now, she approached the table where Abigail was hunched over a small stack of books, humming something under her breath.
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Claire leaned gently on the counter, trying to keep her voice level.
“Are you aware of the boxes in the documents section?” she asked, her eyes watching Abigail carefully.
“You mean the deliveries?” Abigail asked, glancing up. “Yes, we have some packed and ready to be picked up today or tomorrow, but I don’t know when the courier will be here.”
She paused mid-motion, a book halfway to the scanner, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied Claire.
“No, I mean the ones in the open boxes. The ones that weren’t even added to the registry.”
“There… shouldn’t be any.”
Her posture straightened. Alert now. A flicker of panic crossed her face, fleeting, but unmistakable, as if trying to gauge just how serious this inquiry really was.
“I’m not accusing you, of course.” Claire felt compelled to add, and the moment she did, she saw Abigail’s shoulders drop, a breath subtly released. Like a shadow of something dreadful had passed without touching her.
“But someone didn’t finish what they started,” Claire went on, voice lower now, more grounded. “And there’s no mention of it in the ledger. Not for the past few weeks. It’s unacceptable. What if someone’s been waiting for a book that’s now just sitting in a box, forgotten?”
“Make a note of it in the ledger,” Abigail said softly, her tone more gentle now, as if trying to comfort rather than dismiss. “Besides you, Otto, Paige, and Felix are the only ones who handle those intakes. I’m working a morning shift with Otto tomorrow. I can ask him.”
Claire gave a slow nod and sighed. If anyone could extract the truth from someone, intentionally or not, it was Abigail. She had that disarming quality, the way people tended to speak freely around her before they even realized they were doing it. So for now, Claire resolved not to dwell. Not too much. But she knew herself well enough to know the problem would linger in her mind until it found its resolution. Like a smudge on a page she couldn’t ignore. Still, there was work to be done. And for the moment, at least, she could return to it.
From the lower cabinet behind the counter, she pulled out a medium-sized wooden box, its surface stained with old inks and the faint traces of dried glue. The edges had softened from use, its hinges dulled to a patina. Simple in design, but sturdy and well-loved, in its way. She set it on the counter, and with a practiced flick of her fingers, unlatched the front clasp. The lid creaked open slowly, revealing its contents like a chest of forgotten treasures.
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The box opened to three sides. The left and right compartments unfolded neatly to reveal rows of tools and supplies, while a hidden panel at the back lifted to form a modest stand, just large enough to hold a single page flat against the board, pressed and secure. The rest of the book would rest gently to the side, cushioned and supported, so as not to stress the spine. Age had made these books delicate. Fragile. Reverent hands were a requirement, not a preference.
Claire always began the same way. She didn’t even think of it as preparation anymore; it was a ritual. A grounding moment before the real work began. She arranged the tools with care, not out of compulsion, but with the satisfaction of someone who took pride in the simple beauty of order.
The bottles and small vials of liquid went on the left, neatly aligned by purpose and intensity. Some mild, safe even on the oldest ink; others so potent she had to wear double gloves. The right side was reserved for the inks and patching supplies: tiny sealed jars, narrow brushes, slivers of binding thread, and pale parchment scraps cut to varying sizes. And in the center, nestled in a shallow groove, lay the more peculiar tools, bone folders, lifting knives, tiny spatulas, and one delicate brass hook whose use was rare and specific, but vital when needed.
Only once everything was in its place, accessible, visible, in harmony, did she feel ready to choose her patient.
She lowered herself to the boxes near the counter, stacked just beneath sightline, deliberately tucked out of view from any wandering visitor. She sifted through them quietly, her fingers grazing each label until she found the one with the proper intake sticker, slightly askew, faded on one edge, but marked clearly in the hand of the courier who had dropped it off.
One of the boxes she had been searching for was conveniently placed at the top. Claire cut the tape and pulled the first book from its protective wrapping. It was bundled in a simple layer of brown paper; cheap, utilitarian, but it did its job well enough. As she peeled it away, her fingers brushed the surface of a worn, old leather cover. In its prime, the book must have been a deep, vibrant orange, bordering on red, but now, it had faded, dull and tired under years of neglect.
The embossed letters on the cover were a mere shadow of their former selves, barely discernible beneath the wear of time. Still, after a careful inspection, Claire could make out the title. It seemed to be a guide of some sort, perhaps related to mechanics, something technical, grounded in a world that no longer quite existed. Principles of Hydraulic Systems was her best guess. The kind of book you might expect to find in the dusty corner of an old study, tucked away for curiosity more than use.
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With a slow exhale, she opened the cover, letting it fall gently, page by page. The book’s condition overall was better than most, well-preserved despite its age, likely due to the very fact that it had been a collector's item, rarely read, and even less often handled. The yellowing of the pages hinted at a time when the knowledge inside had been considered cutting-edge, but now? Now, it was little more than a relic of the past. It was almost amusing how its pages, once full of certainty and discovery, were now proof of how time had rendered its contents obsolete.
She paused, her fingers hovering over a particularly delicate page, assessing its tear. The book had survived all these years for a reason. But should it continue? The thought flickered in her mind: Would anyone even bother with this now? Would it have a place in the world anymore?
For a moment, Claire considered the alternative, maybe it would be better to discard it, to free up space for something more relevant. After all, what use could a book like this possibly serve? A part of her wondered if it wasn’t better left forgotten. But no, today wasn’t the day for such judgments. She sighed softly, dismissing the impulse. There was always time for reflection later, but this wasn’t that moment.
The book just needed a small repair, a tear that could be easily mended. It didn’t take long. With a gentle motion, Claire placed the book to the side of the counter, closer to Abigail’s workspace, where it could wait until she finished her tasks. Now restored, it will find its way into the catalog, likely destined for a collection rather than practical use. For now, though, it had one last chapter of care and attention, even if its value was mostly symbolic.
The air in the library had grown still, almost too still, as if it had fallen into a kind of sleep. The faint scratch of Abigail's scanner, the occasional creak of the old wooden beams, none of it was enough to keep Claire from drifting. Her focus thinned. Lines on the page blurred, and her hand, though steady, began to feel distant from her body. Just a little more, she thought. Then a meal, and maybe something sweet to drive the heaviness from her limbs.
Sweat formed at her temple, slow and persistent. She was finishing the curve of a letter, trying to match it exactly to what had once been there, before time or carelessness had worn it away. It was meticulous work, and she was nearly done.
Then, without warning, a voice cracked through the quiet.
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“Hello?”
It wasn't loud in volume, but in contrast to the hush of the place, it felt almost violent. The kind of sound that echoed without asking permission. Abigail let out a small, startled squeal somewhere behind her. Claire didn't move. She wasn't sure how she managed that, but perhaps the terror of slipping mid-stroke outweighed the instinct to react.
Only when the pen had safely left the paper did she dare to lift her head. There was a face, suddenly, far too close to her own.
A pair of pale eyes met hers across the counter, nearly white, like frost caught in a sliver of light. The kind of eyes that didn't blink when they should. Claire froze, caught somewhere between irritation and confusion. Her breath paused, clenched halfway through a breath. Not quite fear. But not comfort, either.
The stranger said nothing else. Just stared, as if she had walked in halfway through a conversation no one else was having. Something about her presence, her posture, or lack thereof, felt out of place. Like a painting hung slightly crooked. Everything around her felt the same as before, and yet slightly off, just enough to register in the back of the skull.
Claire blinked, unsure whether to speak first or wait it out. The woman didn't seem in any hurry. If anything, she looked almost pleased to be standing there, watching Claire with the curiosity of someone observing a species in a tank.
Claire couldn't hold it. She had to look away, as if that small action could somehow scratch the itch of her hair standing up on the nape of her neck, an instinctual reaction to the sudden shift in the atmosphere.
The intruder's outfit was utterly out of place compared to what Claire typically saw in the city, its strangeness compounded by the way it clung to the contours of the woman's form in defiance of the weather and formal expectations. The black, worn leather jacket had seen better days, its surface scarred by countless creases, faded from age. It was adorned with a chaotic assortment of feathers, both small and large, haphazardly attached in a seemingly arbitrary fashion. Hand-painted decorations spiraled across the fabric, with motives she couldn't exactly pinpoint.
Beneath the jacket, the woman wore a pair of baggy trousers, exaggerated by too many pockets that bulged with mysterious contents. Her shoes, heavy and unpolished, battered and worn, not the kind a woman of the city would wear. They appeared more suited for a worker or perhaps a soldier. But even a soldier would have taken better care of such footwear.
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Claire took a slow, steady breath, gathering the strength to look up again. The stranger had shifted slightly, leaning back farther against the counter, her eyes still fixed on Claire with an intensity that made her skin tighten in an unfamiliar way. There was something about her gaze, impossible to decipher, yet almost unsettling in its focus, that seemed to slice through the space between them. She felt as though the woman was looking at her not just with her eyes, but through them, reading her thoughts with unnerving clarity. It was as though every hidden part of Claire's thoughts, every private part of her, was laid bare and exposed under the weight of that penetrating gaze. The stranger's face remained unreadable, angular and sharp, a mask of pale skin that never twitched, never softened, as if she were a statue brought to life but incapable of emotion. Claire could not discern whether the woman was curious, amused, or simply indifferent. That unnerving stillness in her features made every interaction feel unnatural.
On top of her odd attire, the sides of her head were cut short, revealing the delicate curve of her skull beneath, decorated with variety of tattooed shapes. The remaining hair at the top, silver-white and impossibly bright, was gathered into a disorganized mess, which what Claire assumed must have been an attempt on a bun. Strands of the pale hair fell free, tumbling down her face like ghostly wisps, soft and smooth but unruly. One single streak of black marred the otherwise pristine whiteness, running through the silvery strands like a dark river cutting across an icy plain, a disruption, an impurity in the otherwise perfect image.
The more Claire looked at her, the more a sense of distaste began to creep into her chest. It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible, but soon the feeling was undeniable. Something about this woman, her presence, her demeanor, was off, like the world had tilted just slightly out of place.
"What'chu working on?" The stranger asked, pointing lazily at the restoration set with the same hand that was propped up on her cheek, as if the entire exchange were little more than a passing amusement. Claire felt her lips tighten into a thin line.
"Can I help you with something?" Her voice, though polite, barely concealed the irritation bubbling beneath. What an odd individual. Unsettlingly unserious, childish even. She could feel her patience thinning, every small movement from the stranger grating on her. The disregard for the seriousness of her work, the sheer carelessness, nothing irked Claire more.
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The stranger cocked her head slightly, and her eyes, despite the strange, unsettling stillness, gleamed with a kind of unearned confidence.
"Sure, yes, so; do you have any cool old books?" Her words came in fragmented bursts, each pause stretching longer than the last, setting Claire's nerves on edge. What question is that? Claire thought, her annoyance creeping in again. It’s a library, of course we have old books... Simply awful. Claire took a slow breath, counting to steady herself before speaking again,
"Ma'am, yes, of course. Abigail, could you please assist the lady in her search?" She wasn't about to leave her work in the middle of restoration, not for this peculiar interruption. Abigail, after all, had always handled the... unconventional visitors with more grace.
Abigail gave a polite smile, ready to step in, but before she could offer her assistance, the stranger straightened up, swaying slightly as she waved her hand dismissively at Abigail.
"No, no. I'd like this lady to help" the stranger said, pointing her finger directly at Claire, the gesture blunt and casual.
Claire's jaw clenched, her breath nearly catching. She had to fight to keep the sharp words from spilling out. What audacity... She was about to reprimand the woman, to tell her where her place was, but something, perhaps the sheer oddity of the situation made her hold her tongue. Clients, no matter how peculiar, were always right. But oh, how deeply she resented it.
From what Claire had already learned, those who carried themselves in such an unbothered way were often the wealthiest patrons from the upper levels of the city. The manner in which this stranger stood, both casual and certain, suggested someone used to being noticed, if not adored. As much as Claire felt the irritation rise, she couldn't deny the pull of curiosity, though not toward the individual herself. What truly intrigued her was the position this person might hold, and perhaps more than that, how she had manoeuvred herself into it. That, more than her odd appearance, was the mystery that pricked Claire's attention.
"Of course. Please follow me." Claire's voice, steady and professional, didn't betray her thoughts as she removed her gloves. She moved from behind the counter, her steps measured, though her mind couldn't quite escape the discomfort gnawing at her.
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The stranger seemed pleased by this, the faintest of grins tugging at her lips. She leaned back against the counter with a careless sway of her hips, her posture loose, almost playful. As Claire moved past, the stranger gave a small, almost mocking bow of her head, an exaggerated gesture, but it wasn't lost on Claire. She had waltzed through life with this kind of ease, with the confidence of someone who knew they would never truly be denied. She winked at Abigail, who smiled in return, though it was uncertain if she found the stranger's antics charming or simply amusing.
"What are you interested in, ma'am? Perhaps you'd like..." Claire began, her mind racing as she tried to place this person into a context that made sense. She didn't strike Claire as someone inclined toward science, nor did she seem the sort to appreciate the intricacies of historical machinery. Perhaps something more… abstract? Yet even that seemed far too mundane.
The stranger, unconcerned with Claire's internal deliberations, waved her hand as though dismissing the thought.
"I want an old book. Like, you know, old, old. Old book." Her words hung in the air, the repetition of 'old' drawing an almost comical weight to her request, as if the word itself would carry some sort of mystical power.
Claire blinked, her lips pressing together in an effort to maintain her composure. What kind of request is that? she thought, though she quickly masked the judgment behind a forced smile. "Most of our books are old. There's simply too many, but perhaps that's to your liking. Tell me what you're looking for specifically so I can guide you to the right section."
Her patience, already tried by the stranger's eccentricity, was beginning to wear thin, but Claire pushed forward, determined to find a solution.
"Perhaps some encyclopedias? There are a great many, on a variety of topics. They might suit your taste, and many are quite aged."
The stranger made a noise of mild disdain, a flick of her hand like she was swatting away an annoying fly.
"Boring. But could work," she murmured, her gaze narrowing as she took in Claire, her eyes gleaming with the kind of silent command that could make even the most hardened worker falter. Claire caught a flicker of something deeper in her eyes, something distant, as though this stranger was always looking at the world through a lens far removed from reality. It was unsettling, but Claire knew better than to react.
The woman waited expectantly, her posture relaxed but with an unspoken demand that Claire lead her. The faint, almost imperceptible tilt of her head suggested impatience perhaps, but it was tempered with the type of casual arrogance Claire had seen in the most privileged of patrons, those who thought their whims were commands.
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Claire led the woman to the far end of the main level, toward the left wing where that particular category of books resided. Rows of encyclopedias, historical volumes, autobiographies, and other nonfiction titles lined the tall shelves in quiet pride. She wouldn’t have admitted it aloud, but this corner was among her favorites in the entire library. All the subjects she treasured gathered in one place, dozens of shelves dedicated solely to history, archaeology, and the whispered echoes of old civilizations.
She cast a glance at the client, who now stood with arms folded tightly across her chest, examining the shelves with an expression that teetered between judgment and assessment. As if measuring the worth of what she saw.
“I’ll leave you to it” Claire offered shortly.
The stranger gave a curt nod.
“If you need anything” she added, turning away, “you know where to find me.”
With that, Claire exhaled a long, tired breath that released the stiffness from her shoulders. She welcomed the shift, the return to solitude, and tried to refocus her thoughts on the work she’d abandoned earlier. Hopefully, the woman would find whatever she was searching for and, more importantly, leave her alone.
There were already too many things gnawing at Claire’s attention. The ball loomed ever closer. Only a week remained, but the anxiety it stirred had taken root days ago, burrowing deep like some malevolent parasite. She had managed to survive previous events, yes, but time kept slipping through her fingers, indifferent to her resistance. This time, there would be no avoiding it. She would have to try, truly try, as if some desperate last resort might yield a different outcome.
When she reached the front desk, something stirred within her. Perhaps it was a flicker of courage, or perhaps something more primal. A fear disguised as resolve. A hushed, fleeting attempt at saving herself.
“Abigail” she said, her voice calm but low, “do you have any free time this week?”
Abigail turned as if struck by lightning. Her eyes widened in disbelief, as though Claire had just confessed something impossible, absurd. But once the initial wave of shock ebbed, she softened, smiling gently, though still with a wary curiosity in her gaze, unsure of what might follow.
“Yeah, I do. Why?” Abigail's eyes lit up with sudden hope, an ember flickering to life.
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“I might need a bit of help with my wardrobe for the ball” Claire admitted, the words slipping out before she could change her mind.
It was exactly what Abigail had wanted to hear. She nearly bounced on her heels, nodding so eagerly it looked almost comical.
“I’m free the day after tomorrow! And we’re on the same afternoon shift, so we can go in the morning!”
Claire blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the whirlwind of enthusiasm.
“That’d be great. Thank you,” she said, her voice quieter now, tinged with the faintest surprise at herself. Not just for asking for help, but for reaching out at all. It wasn’t like her.
She rarely went out, even less so with company. It wasn’t discomfort with solitude, no, that was familiar, almost sacred. But something deeper, something harder to untangle. Whether it was simply in her nature or something she had long internalized, Claire never quite knew. The idea of anyone seeing beyond her professional exterior, of witnessing the messier parts… The softer, more uncertain parts, was unbearable. Maybe even impossible.
She watched Abigail out of the corner of her eye, still radiant with plans not yet made, and wondered what it was like to trust people so easily.
With that small success buoying her, Claire returned to her work. She slipped on the soft, stretchy white gloves, their familiar pressure against her fingers grounding her, and resumed examining the books for damage. A few minor flaws revealed themselves, loose spines, torn corners, slightly warped covers, but nothing serious, nothing worth fretting over. These were easy repairs. Simple. Repetitive.
Book after book passed through her hands. Each one seemed increasingly identical to the last, their wear and tear predictable, their history unremarkable. It should have been a relief. Less work, fewer complications, but in truth, the absence of challenge brought its own kind of fatigue. A smooth task offered no friction, no spark. And sometimes, a little resistance made the work feel worthwhile.
Claire had long since learned that the true story of a book wasn’t always written in the text. The damage itself told its own mute tale, one woven into the margins, between the lines. A coffee-stained edge spoke of late-night reading, perhaps in the warmth of a favorite chair. Torn pages hinted at frustration or heartbreak, maybe a passage too difficult to face. Pencil marks and underlined sentences, the sign of a curious mind, eager to understand, or someone cramming desperately for an exam. Even neglect had its own signature.
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It became a kind of silent game, guesswork wrapped in empathy. Where had the book been? Who had held it? Did they cherish it, or discard it without care? Some copies wore the marks of reverence, others the scorn of indifference.
By the time she finished one of the three last books, the hour had grown late. Shadows dancing around the surfaces, stretched long across the room not interrupted by any outside source of light, and the muffled hum of the building had begun to quiet. Claire packed away the tools with methodical care, returning each instrument to its designated place in the worn wooden box. The remaining books, those yet to be examined, were stacked neatly beneath the counter. She noted their status in the ledger, her handwriting precise and controlled, making sure not to omit the forgotten boxes in the document department. That, too, would have to be addressed.
Tomorrow, she would finish what remained from today. And perhaps, if time allowed, she would climb the stairs and see to those untouched boxes hidden for later. With any luck, they’d be in decent condition too. If not… well, she didn’t mind a little mess. What mattered is so that they would be tended to, at long last.
About half an hour remained until the library was due to close. That meant it was time to notify the patrons, a responsibility that fell to the staff, ensuring no one was accidentally left behind, locked in for the night. Claire and Abigail made their usual rounds, gently reminding readers that the day was drawing to a close.
But in the back of Claire’s mind, something itched. A small, persistent feeling she had forgotten something. It didn’t take long for the thought to sharpen.
She turned toward the left wing of the library, instinct guiding her to where the unusual client had been earlier in the day. The strange, sharp-eyed woman. But when Claire arrived, the section was empty. No trace. She scanned the shelves, peering between aisles, but saw no one. Maybe she’d left already… or moved to another section. Either way, it didn’t seem worth spiraling into doubt over. Still, the absence left a faint echo.
Claire returned to the front counter, where she began wrapping up the final tasks of the shift, filling out the ledger with closing notes, assisting lingering customers with last questions, and managing a few last-minute purchases. Quietly, she found herself hoping the odd woman might appear again, if only to see what kind of book she had chosen. What sort of title could possibly suit someone like that? But she never came.
“Hey, Abigail” Claire asked, trying to sound casual, though a thread of unease wove through her words. “Did you see the lady from earlier leave?”
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“Which one?” Abigail replied.
“The one who very much enjoyed interrupting the restoration” Claire said flatly. The dryness in her tone was impossible to mask. Abigail shrugged.
“No, I didn’t. But I wasn’t really paying attention either. She probably left long ago. I didn’t see her when we made the final rounds.”
Claire nodded slowly. That made sense. She’d probably just missed it, too caught up in her work to notice someone slipping past. And yet, the thought gnawed at her, if only out of simple, unsatisfied curiosity. But some questions, she reminded herself, didn’t come with answers.
The rest of the closing went smoothly. No interruptions. No stragglers hidden among the aisles, lost in books or in dreams of better places. No one so deeply buried in another world they’d forgotten their own entirely.
The walk home was uneventful. She and Abigail said their goodbyes at their usual corner, parting ways beneath the orange haze of the few streetlamps. Claire continued alone, quietly, toward her small, cozy apartment, her sanctuary. A place where she could breathe, unwind, and forget the things that weighed too heavily in silence.
The world felt balanced again. Everything in its place. The strange occurrences of the morning faded like mist, already half-forgotten, as if they had happened long ago… or perhaps never at all.
***
When Claire arrived at the library the next day, she found a note tucked neatly in the corner of the ledger in Abigail’s handwriting.
“It wasn’t Otto. Or at least, that’s what he says. He also had no clue about the boxes. According to him, his last intakes were on the 13th and 27th of last month, and he hasn’t handled any since then. Try not to let it weigh on you too much. Have a lovely day, Claire! Smile :)”
Claire stared at the words for a moment longer than necessary. The sticky warmth of frustration started to creep under her skin, not directed at Abigail, but at the situation itself. She didn’t feel like smiling. Not even a polite one to keep up appearances. And she definitely wasn’t in the mood to fake any sort of enthusiasm.
She didn’t want to be dragged into some petty mystery about neglected duties and forgotten boxes. But at the same time, she couldn’t quite bring herself to let it go, either. There was something quietly irritating about it. And even worse, she didn’t want whoever was responsible to get into trouble. Why, though?
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She didn’t owe them anything. Not loyalty. Not kindness. And certainly not the benefit of the doubt. She barely tolerated most of her coworkers on a good day. The library had always been a place of solitude for her. Work done quietly, efficiently, and without the messy need for social entanglements.
Except, lately… there was Abigail. Claire wasn’t sure what to make of her yet. She was loud, excitable, frequently off-task, and had a habit of trailing her thoughts in five different directions before circling back around. By Claire’s standards, she was chaos wrapped in cardigans and half-drunk juice cups.
And yet… she didn’t mind it. In fact, if she were being honest, she looked forward to it. Abigail’s presence didn’t fray her nerves the way it should have. On the contrary, her endless chatter, her impulsive observations, even her small, goofy notes in the ledger… they all carved out little moments of relief. A break from the monotony of controlled order.
Claire had always held people to a certain standard. High, uncompromising, and rarely met. Abigail didn’t fit it. Not even close. And still, Claire found herself letting her in, bit by bit, like warm light through a cracked window. She didn’t understand why. But she also didn’t want to resist it.
Maybe sometimes it was okay to talk about nothing. About the weather, which hadn't changed in weeks, heavy and unmoving; about the library, with its perpetual dust and barely noticeable decay; about the days that blurred together like carbon copies of each other. Predictable. Dull.
Still, those conversations, however shallow they seemed, filled a certain hollow space. An ache in her chest that she didn’t often acknowledge. One that dulled even the brightest moments, flattened every success into something unremarkable.
Because in the end, what was the point of celebrating, if there was no one to celebrate with?
The older she got, the more persistent the feeling became. That odd heaviness in her chest. The one that hovered, never quite fading, no matter how often she tried to reason with it. She’d spent years trying to bury it, rationalize it, grind it down into nothing. But still, it lingered. Pressing. Constant. Familiar. And maybe… maybe it really was time for a change.
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If her studies didn’t work out, she’d have to find something else to hold onto. Something tangible. Maybe friendships. Maybe even the idea of family, not the one she came from, but the kind you built carefully, brick by brick, out of shared moments and warm silences. That was how it worked in this city, wasn’t it? If the system failed you, you were expected to cling to something else. Anything else. Just so long as you didn’t fall. At least the option existed. For now.
She was still deep in her thoughts, eyes half-focused on the page in front of her, when a familiar voice cut clean through the silence.
“So, I haven’t really found what I was looking for.”
Claire blinked, her mind snapping back to the present.
The odd, pale girl from yesterday stood once again in front of the counter; same posture, same unsettling calm. Her attempt at a friendly smile hadn’t improved overnight. It stretched a little too wide across her face, and her eyes, those glassy, wide-open eyes, gave it a sense of wrongness, like someone trying to mimic friendliness from the outside in. The expression didn’t quite reach her features in the right way, as though she were exaggerating what she thought a “normal” person might look like in this situation.
Claire narrowed her eyes, then looked back down at the ledger, pretending, again, to be absorbed in its contents. But her gaze was empty. She hadn’t really read anything the first time, and she certainly wasn’t reading now. The thoughts swirling in her mind had erased any attempt at comprehension.
“And what are you looking for?” she asked dryly, her tone flat but not unfriendly. Just… tired.
“Old books” the girl replied simply. Same answer as yesterday. Same strange cadence. As if the term itself should somehow make perfect sense, no clarification needed. Her voice had the soft, certain tone of someone stating the obvious, like the book she wanted should have been sitting plainly on the counter, waiting.
Claire exhaled slowly through her nose and closed the ledger with a soft thud.
“Let’s try again, then, shall we?” she muttered under her breath. The words were more habit than hospitality, carried by routine rather than interest. She didn’t have the energy to argue. Not today.
She stepped out from behind the counter, motioning for the girl to follow. The strange customer trailed behind her without a word, footsteps light and oddly rhythmic against the hardwood floor.
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This time, Claire didn’t bother asking questions. No more circling the issue. She would choose something at random, offer it, and hope for the best. Her eyes caught on the section labeled Astrology and Related Sciences, a quiet, rarely touched aisle that collected more dust than checkout stamps.
She led the girl toward it with deliberate steps, weaving between the old shelves. Maybe the stars held the answers today. Claire doubted it. But then again, everything about this interaction felt slightly out of place, just off-kilter enough to make her question her own instincts.
“Here” she said, gesturing vaguely at the shelves.
There was a pause. The pale girl tilted her head slowly as she scanned the shelf, her eyes sliding over the spines like she was deciphering something beneath the surface. Claire stood beside her, watching out of the corner of her eye, trying not to let the silence stretch too long or settle too deeply.
“The information, as you’re probably aware, in most of these books is dated” Claire said, gesturing toward a particular shelf lined with worn leather-bound volumes. “They’ve been separated, though, to avoid confusing accurate research with obsolete theories.”
She half-turned, mentally moving on. Her restoration kit was waiting, and for once, she was genuinely looking forward to it. Steady work, clean lines, no strange questions or glances.
“What makes you think they’re untrue?”
The question stopped her mid-step. Claire blinked, unsure if she’d heard correctly.
She turned her head slightly, and there the stranger stood. Still, expectant, her eyes sharp and impossibly wide. They were locked on Claire’s face. It was unnerving, how little she seemed to blink.
“They’re old” Claire said after a pause, carefully. “New research proved them wrong.” It felt like the obvious answer.
“And what if the new ones are wrong?”
There was no mockery in her tone. No curiosity, either. Just a stilled assertion, delivered like a challenge without malice. Claire crossed her arms lightly.
“Then they’ll be proven wrong too. And new books and documents will take their place.”
“So why bother learning it at all?” The girl tilted her head. “If it’s all just a cycle of mistakes. You study fake information, then have to unlearn it, and maybe they never get it right at all.”
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Claire opened her mouth, but no words came. She hesitated, surprised by the weight of the question, and even more surprised by how much it echoed thoughts she’d never fully voiced. Thoughts she’d carefully filed away as distractions, unproductive doubts.
“Because…” she started, but the sentence unravelled halfway through. Her mind scrambled to connect the dots, to shape a defense. The stranger waited, not pressing, not pushing, just watching. Claire forced herself to continue.
“Because we have technology now. Better methods. I trust that the people who dedicate their lives to researching, to writing books… they’re trying to tell the truth.”
The girl didn’t react, just gave the faintest shrug and turned her attention back to the shelf, running her fingers along the dusty spines like she was skimming them for something hidden between the lines.
Claire lingered a second longer, then caught herself. She cleared her throat, excused herself softly, and returned to the counter with careful steps.
She opened the small wooden drawer where the restoration kit was kept and laid out the contents: gloves, brushes, a small bottle of binding agent, linen patches, tweezers, cloths. Her hands moved from memory, trained and calm, but her mind was somewhere else. Something felt off. She couldn’t quite place it. It wasn’t the room. It wasn’t the girl.
It was something subtler. Like she was a half-step behind the moment she was supposed to be in, slightly unanchored, as if someone had changed the rhythm of a familiar song and expected her to keep dancing.
She’d questioned things before, of course. Everyone did. She’d wondered if some of what she was studying was outdated or biased, had even caught herself side-eyeing certain passages in old volumes. But hearing the doubt aloud from someone else, spoken so plainly, it had an effect she hadn’t expected. It felt like being nudged off a ledge she hadn’t realized she was standing on.
Claire shook her head sharply. No. The facts, the lessons, the lectures, they were still here, still part of her present. They were the steps she needed to take to reach her goal: university. Higher learning. Truth.
Maybe one day she’d be able to challenge flawed research. Write her own books. Set the record straight. But she couldn’t get there by doubting everything now. She had to trust herself. She would do right by science. She would contribute something real, something lasting. Something true.
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With that small but solid resolution tucked in her chest, Claire felt her shoulders ease. Her breath came easier. She picked up the first battered book of the day and brushed a hand gently over its frayed edge.
Then, a thud. The sound jolted her upright. She looked up quickly, heart giving a quiet knock inside her chest.
It wasn’t hard to find the source.
On the coffee table near the display, a heavy stack of books had appeared. Books that Claire was fairly certain hadn’t been there a moment ago. And in the armchair she usually claimed during her study breaks, sat the silver-haired stranger.
When their eyes met, the girl beamed, lifting her hand in a slow, fluid wave. The motion was oddly graceful, like water moving through air.
Claire’s jaw tensed, her instincts readying a sharp scolding, but she caught herself. The chair wasn’t technically reserved for staff. There was no sign, no rule. Anyone could use it if they wanted, and the stranger couldn’t have known it was Claire’s usual spot. Still, the presumption irked her.
She turned back to her workstation with a soft sigh, allowing herself only the tiniest roll of her eyes. She would focus. She could work. Even with a mildly invasive, possibly wealthy visitor hovering around.
“So, what is it exactly that you’re doing?”
Claire flinched. The voice came from right behind her, and when she turned, there the girl was again, this time leaning over the counter, practically breathing down her neck.
“The space behind the counter is for staff only,” Claire snapped, her voice clipped with annoyance.
But the girl didn’t move. She simply tilted her head, eyes flicking over Claire’s hands with curiosity.
“You’re restoring books, right? How do you deal with bigger damages? Like… can you fix letters under an ink spill?” Her tone was almost innocent, genuinely intrigued, even. But by now, Claire wasn’t buying it. The girl clearly just wanted to be a nuisance.
“Yes” she replied curtly. Short answers. No encouragement. But the girl lingered, expectant. Claire finally turned to face her and gestured toward the armchair.
“If you’re truly interested, you should take book restoration and conservation classes. Now, please… ” her tone softened slightly, but only out of necessity, “I need to focus. These books are delicate, and distractions can ruin them.”
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That seemed to work. The stranger drifted back to the armchair and pulled one of her books from the stack. She began flipping through it with unnatural speed, pages fluttering like they were made of air. Claire wasn’t sure she was even reading, just putting on a show. No matter. She tried, once again, to focus.
But her hands still trembled slightly with irritation, and that was dangerous. The parchment beneath her fingertips was fragile, older than either of them. She set the tools aside with a sigh. A break would be smarter than risking damage in this state.
She leaned back and glanced toward the armchair, only to freeze in place. The girl was seated in an absurd, almost contorted position: legs stretched out and propped on the coffee table, her torso twisted so that both elbows could rest on a single armrest. The book she held was nearly touching her face, her eyes locked onto the page with an intensity that made Claire’s skin prickle. It wasn’t just rude anymore. It was unsettling.
Claire bit her tongue. At least now, it was quiet. For now. Only the occasional question or passing comment broke the silence, and each one died just as quickly. She reached into her bag and retrieved her study books, then settled onto the small foldable chair behind the counter. Notes in hand, she began to read.
Today, aside from the persistent guest who had taken a peculiar liking to her company, not many people visited. It was a lazy, quiet day with no leftover tasks. The morning shift had wrapped up the bulk of the day’s work, leaving Claire with little more to do than keep the peace and preserve the delicate balance of the book temple. Help whoever needed helping. Keep order.
The stranger, for reasons unknown, had taken to ferrying books to and from the library’s main hall, always from the same shelf Claire had shown her earlier. The stack grew. From time to time, Claire glanced over and felt a creeping itch in the back of her mind. She just knew this was going to leave a mess. People like that didn’t put things back properly, especially not when they were pulling this many volumes at once.
Still, she’d take care of it later. If needed, she’d stay after closing.
“So, what are you studying?” the stranger asked suddenly, snapping shut an old, blue leather tome about stars and constellations.
“Archaeology.” Claire didn’t feel the need to elaborate.
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“What for?”
“To get into university.”
“What for?” The stranger repeated the question as if Claire had misunderstood the first one.
Claire glanced at her sideways, pausing mid-sentence in her notes. Was she serious? For a moment, she debated ignoring her completely. But then again, maybe there was an easier way through this. She could do what she did with Abigail; let the talker talk, nod occasionally, and keep one ear tuned in while the rest of her mind focused on the task at hand. She sighed.
“I want to find a solution to the rain. To help the city. I believe the answer lies in the past.”
The woman blinked, then burst out laughing. The sudden shift in tone caught Claire off guard. It wasn’t just a laugh, it was loud, dismissive, almost mocking. Claire stiffened at the sound.
“Well, you’re not wrong about that” the stranger added casually, reopening her book without explanation.
Claire didn’t know how to take that, so she chose to move on.
“And you?” she asked, more to keep the girl occupied than out of genuine interest. “Didn’t you think about attending?”
“Nah” the woman said, flipping a page without looking up. “I know what I need to know. That’d be a waste of time.”
Claire felt heat rise in her chest. She wanted to argue, to explain that education mattered, that people like her had no other choice but to learn. But she held back. No use lecturing someone who clearly didn’t care.
Her attempt to spark a real conversation had failed. Whatever curiosity she’d had, whatever topic she might’ve hoped to explore, it dissolved like smoke in her fingers, gone before she could grasp it.
The rest of Claire’s shift passed quietly, almost peacefully. At some point, the silver-haired stranger had vanished into the main room, carrying her stack of books with her. Now, as the library prepared to close, Claire braced herself for what was sure to be a time-consuming cleanup. She took a breath and began her final duties, walking the floors and gently reminding readers of the approaching closing time.
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From the upper levels to the smallest reading nooks, everyone was informed and packing up to leave. Everyone… except the strange girl.
Claire checked twice, everywhere. The reading corners, the halls, the bathroom, even the fire escape doors, long closed off and not in use, in case someone got creative. But there was no sign of her. And yet, what surprised her most wasn’t the girl’s disappearance.
It was the shelf. The one the girl had emptied and revisited repeatedly throughout the afternoon. Claire had expected a scattered mess, books half-shelved, titles out of order, pages bent and bruised. Instead, it looked pristine. Every volume was perfectly in place, alphabetized down to the letter. Not a single spine out of line.
It should’ve felt like a relief. Instead, it left Claire unsettled. She didn’t know what to make of it. One thing she did know, however, was that she sincerely hoped the stranger wouldn’t be back during her next shift.
She moved on with the closing routine: extinguishing the lamps one by one, locking cabinets, double-checking registers and corners for clutter. Everything was in order. Too in order.
With a final turn of the key in the front door, the library fell into silence. The day was over. Another shift survived. Time to go home, on time.
***
She woke with her head throbbing. A dull ache that pulsed behind her eyes, the cost of sleeping in too long and growing too accustomed to the bitter luxury of coffee.
There was nothing particularly different about the morning. It unfolded like any other day. Except, today she was supposed to meet up with Abigail. They’d made plans to go shopping, something Claire rarely did for herself, as she saw little to no point in doing so.
Now that she thought about it, she couldn’t even remember the last time she went out to buy anything beyond the bare necessities. A quick run to the grocery store here and there, enough to use up a portion of her monthly allowance, but nothing more.
In the lower city, grocery shopping was a regulated affair. Restricted, rationed, controlled, to make sure there was “enough for everyone.” But that word, enough, had long since lost its meaning. Most families went hungry. Parents skipped meals so their children could eat.
It had been the same when Claire was little, though the details of her childhood were hazy now, blurred by time and deliberate forgetfulness. Still, she remembered it feeling... less desperate. Maybe her parents had hidden the worst of it behind forced smiles and comforting words.
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She didn’t like to dwell on it. Memories of her parents came with a strange ache, soft, but hard to shake. It was easier to keep them tucked away.
The present, at least, was kinder. Her current allowance was enough to cover her needs, and the long hours she worked often earned her bonuses. Her supervisor sometimes gifted the employees little things. Leftover supplies, odds and ends for personal use, and, for use at work, the precious coffee she was now dreaming of. Sometimes, He’d also bring sweets with him, though rarely, but it was enough to leave one longing to taste them again.
But that would have to wait until the afternoon. Her shift wasn’t for a while yet. For now, there was just the morning, Abigail, the city, and the strange silence of a day not yet begun.
Claire dressed quickly, trying to strike a balance between elegance and comfort. On most days, she preferred more formal clothing, but with all the walking ahead, practicality won out. She settled on a below-the-knee plaid dress, mostly brown, with thin red lines forming a neat checkered pattern. It had once belonged to her mother and hung a little loose on her small frame. She cinched it at the waist with a matching brown belt to fix the fit. As usual, she wore a white shirt underneath, letting the collar and the cuffs peek out neatly. It gave the outfit a cleaner, more intentional look.
She skipped breakfast, the dull throb of her migraine smothering any hint of hunger. Instead, she slipped on her high brown leather shoes, well-worn and weathered, the kind of wear that even matching polish couldn’t quite hide anymore.
Shoes like these were rare. Genuine leather wasn’t produced in the city and had to be imported, which made it expensive, bordering on luxury. Claire took meticulous care of hers. They’d served her for years, and she intended to make them last many more.
The rain that morning was light, barely enough to be irritating. Still, she opened her plain umbrella and stepped into the street, heading for the corner where she and Abigail had planned to meet. It was their usual spot, the one where they’d part ways after walking home. The route was familiar, one she often took to reach the library or Mr. Bauer’s class.
She arrived fifteen minutes early, though she was fully prepared for Abigail to show up late. Claire had learned to expect it by now. She found a dry spot under the recessed doorway of the old building on the corner, brushing her coat off before leaning back against the cold, damp wall.
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The city wasn't in a rush. She watched people drift by, all dressed in similar, faded tones. Gray coats, dull trousers, worn shoes with soles that scraped the pavement in resignation. Some had scarves pulled high over their faces, others hunched slightly against the light drizzle, but none of them moved with urgency. The morning shifts had already begun, and it was too early yet for those assigned to the midday rotations to be scrambling. For a moment, time seemed to almost come to a pause.
Claire turned her attention to the ambient sounds, but they offered little comfort. From the direction of the industrial zone came the low, ceaseless rumble of the factories, as ever-present as the rain. Sharp metallic clinks echoed now and then, like a wrench dropped on concrete, or the clash of massive gears shifting into place. She could hear the occasional hiss of pipes exhaling bursts of steam, the sound startling even though it had become part of the city’s constant background rhythm, like the sigh of something exhausted but still alive.
Overhead, a delivery wagon thundered across the raised tracks, rattling the metal beams above her. Claire looked up briefly as it passed, watching rusted wheels spin by through the gaps. And then, as quickly as it had come, the noise faded, leaving only that quiet hum of industry again.
There were no conversations. No music drifting out from cracked windows. No barking dogs or chirping birds. The absence was so complete it almost felt deliberate. But Claire had grown used to it over the years. Silence, once foreign, had become familiar, like background noise you forget to notice until it’s gone.
It was that silence that made the footsteps stand out. Quick, firm, and approaching fast.
“Hi, Claire!”
She turned around. Abigail was walking quickly towards her. She wore her usual oversized sweater, this one a dark teal, tossed lazily on her shoulders over her wrinkled work clothes.
Claire had to admit, Abigail had a way of pulling off the kind of disheveled charm effortlessly. There was a softness to it, an indifference to rules that somehow didn’t feel careless. Claire doubted anyone would bat an eye, least of all herself.
Abigail’s cheeks were slightly flushed from rushing. Her umbrella was half-collapsed and tucked under her arm, dripping steadily, as if it had given up halfway through its duty.
“You’re early” she said with a grin, brushing her bangs out of her face and trying to pat her sleeves into place with little success. “Or maybe I’m just tragically on time”
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Claire offered a smile in response.
“I figured you’d be late.”
“Well” Abigail said, folding her arms with mock offense “I considered it, but I had a feeling you’d be standing here judging every soul that walks by, and I couldn’t have you turning that sharp gaze on me as well.”
Abigail gently bumped her shoulder.
“Let’s see if we can make you look a little less like a tragic haunted ghost girl from some oddly popular novel.”
“I’ll have you know ghosts can be stylish” Claire muttered, falling into step beside her. Abigail, stopped, her eyes widened with pretend surprise
“Have you seen one?” Abigail giggled. Claire smiled and only shook her head.
“I don’t really know the shops around here” she admitted, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Only the one next to the grocery point, but none beyond that.”
She glanced at Abigail, the unspoken cue clear: this trip was in her hands. But Abigail didn’t take it as a burden, on the contrary, the spark in her eyes only brightened as if it was exactly what she wanted to hear.
Claire found herself having to work to keep pace. Abigail moved as if gravity favored her, bouncing slightly with each step, the rhythm of her stride loose. Every so often she waved to a passerby, or paused to offer a word or smile. Sometimes it was just a nod. Other times, a brief exchange with someone who looked as though they hadn’t spoken to anyone kind all day and needed a smile.
Claire stayed a step or two behind, watching. She studied the ease with which Abigail seemed to move through the world, the way she laughed with complete strangers, how her posture remained open, never guarded. How conversation just seemed to find her, unforced. Claire tried to take mental notes, on the way she stood, the cadence of her voice, the small gestures that turned politeness into warmth. But deep down, she knew it wasn’t something she could imitate. It wasn’t for lack of knowledge, it was something else entirely, coming from a place she had yet to find. A looseness. A freedom in the way Abigail moved through the world. Claire doubted she could ever mimic it without it feeling like a costume.
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The air was thick with the scent of rusting iron and the smoke drifting up from the factories below, settling into the folds of clothing and the back of the throat.
They walked for nearly twenty minutes before reaching the first stop , and Abigails tour counted four in total, scattered out quite far from eachother. Claire had doubted the plan from the start, each additional stop increased the risk of running late, and she had little desire to repeat her most recent mishap.
What made the anxiety worse was that the shops had, so far, offered little in return. Most of the best dresses had surely been claimed long ago, snapped up by those with the sense, or the luxury, to plan ahead.
Most of the shops were small, modest at best, dimly lit and narrow, offering more dust than choice. Smelling of old aged cloth and cheap air fresheners, that were for some reson though, oddly comforting. Some felt like someone’s basement, with worn linoleum floors and exposed pipes overhead, and had ceilings so low that even Claire, short as she was, felt she might touch them if she reached up on her toes.
The clothes themselves had bore it's mark of time. They weren’t new, that was clear, but most were relatively well-kept. Here in the lower city, most garments on the racks were hand-me-downs from the upper levels, discarded after gentle use, or imported from outside the city.
Claire never quite understood it. Why would anyone throw away perfectly fine clothes? It felt wasteful. But then again, she supposed that was how the world worked. Some people had more than they needed; others never quite enough.
Abigail was the driving force of this whole endeavor, quickly pulling gems hidden behind others unremarkable garments, and forcing Claire into them, to see and, get ideas as she said, but also to keep her friend from straying into the work attire racks.
Some shops had entire sections devoted to it, rows of tailored suits, crisp shirts, structured professional dresses, and all kinds of small, functional accessories meant to elevate a simple outfit into something respectable and well put together. Claire couldn’t resist wandering over. Even if she wasn’t looking to buy. Everything here spoke of structure and practicality, a kind of elegance that appealed deeply to her. It was the kind of clothing that told the world who you were before you opened your mouth, and in Claire’s view, the less said aloud, the better.
She lingered over a gray blouse with a high collar. She didn’t need it, but part of her wished she did. Abigail, of course, noticed the detour right away.
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“Well, I hardly think those would be fitting for a ball, Claire. Unless there’s a promotion party you forgot to invite me to” she teased gently, leading her away, making her focus once again on the task at hand Claire tried to subconsciously avoid. She had to admit, maybe Abigail was the right person for this job after all.
She seemed to flip through hangers as if she already know exactly what to look for, even if the options here weren’t particularly stunning. Most of the dresses had some issues. Slightly faded and worn out. A few had small repairs done; hidden stitches, replaced mismatched buttons, faded spots dyed over in slightly off shades.
Claire felt like a child, uncertain whether to help and risk being gently scolded, or stand aside and observe. She wasn’t used to choosing clothes for occasions like this, or realistically, not at all. And most certainly not anything with expectations of beauty or grace. For previous balls, she had always worn her mother’s simple black dress.
“What about this one?” Abigail held up a burgundy flowy dress with a square neckline and short puffy sleeves. It had an asymmetrical hem and looked like it was meant to flatter a taller frame. Claire tilted her head.
“It’s nice…” she said carefully, “but I think I’d trip over that hem before I even got to the ball.”
Abigail laughed. “Fair enough. You’d make a very dramatic entrance though. Maybe a prince would catch you mid fall!”
Claire felt the faintest flicker of something that could pass for excitement. Not about the dress, necessarily, but maybe about the act of allowing herself to choose. Letting herself imagine looking a little different, even just for one evening, and it wasn't without a purpose either.
After leaving the third shop, with only two ‘maybe’ dresses to return to, Abigail stretched her arms above her head and let out a long, theatrical sigh.
“We’ve got time. The ball’s still a few days off. Besides, the best pieces are often tucked away in the strangest corners. There’s another place I know, by the wall, a bit hidden. Not many people know about it, so maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Claire nodded, faintly amused by how steadfast Abigail remained in her enthusiasm for what was, essentially, digging through the castoffs of those better off than them.
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Their path led them through narrower streets now, between buildings that leaned inward, as if whispering secrets from times long past. Here, the pipes ran low along the walls, humming softly with heat and steam.
The building they stopped in front of didn’t have a sign. Just a window, fogged slightly from the temperature difference inside, and a dark green door with a tarnished brass handle. The display had one mannequin, dressed in a pair of polished shoes, a scarf, and a long dress in dusty rose.
Inside, the shop was peculiar. The walls were uneven, the light dim and golden, and the air was cleaner than any of the other shops. pleasant, with a faint scent of waxed wood. The racks were crowded and mismatched, some leaning to the side dangerously. A mirror stood in the corner, its frame lined with delicate, antique metalwork. A curtain marked the changing area, and a small radio in the corner played static, perhaps between broadcasts, or simply out of tune. Its volume was barely louder than the groaning of floorboards and pipes above.
Abigail was already deep in the racks before Claire had finished scanning the room, and showing her finds to her. Some were clearly too big, some had hidden tears they only noticed when trying them on, and one was a disaster of lace and sequins that they both paused to gawk at before bursting into hushed laughter.
“Do you think this was ever in fashion?” Claire asked, eyebrows raised as she poked at a particularly gaudy sleeve.
“Only if fashion meant looking like a chandelier” Abigail whispered conspiratorially.
Claire sighed, beginning to suspect she’d end up in her mother’s dress after all, when a glint of color caught her eye, peeking from behind another garment. Amid the ordinary and the overlooked, one piece stood out. A deep forest green dress.
The color was rich, like the stain used on old leather-bound books. The fabric caught the light in a way that made the shade seem to shift as it moved. Its shape was clean: fitted through the bodice, with a gentle A-line skirt that fell to the mid-calf. The sleeves were loose and flowy, and the neckline, though modest, was daring by Claire’s standards. It would sit just off the shoulders, exposing the curve of collarbones.
Claire reached for it without thinking, brushing her fingers over the fabric. She looked at Abigail, then back at the dress. Abigail nodded eagerly, raising her brows and pointing toward the changing room.
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A short while later, Claire stepped out, adjusting the fabric along her arms. Abigail’s eyes widened.
“Mhm! I’d say that’s it. What do you think?”
Claire turned slowly in front of the mirror. The dress moved with her, flowing gracefully. The neckline still felt bold, unfamiliar, but not inappropriate. Not something that Claire imagined herself in, but she had to admit it looked nice. She looked at herself, then looked again, then finally nodded.
There was no point in looking further, her mind would only circle back to this dress anyway. She knew she would only circle back to this one. Doubt still lingered, she searched for flaws, but the thought of the dress had already settled in her mind like something inevitable.
She changed back into her clothes, folding the dress carefully and glancing at the tag. It wasn’t cheap, but not costly either. Fair, she thought, for something like that. Still, she tried not to dwell on the price too long.
She had a habit of saving. Of pausing before every small indulgence, passing on anything not strictly useful for her apartment or her job. But this felt like a spending she wouldn’t regret. Something for herself, and something that could maybe open a door for her, that were previously locked in what seemed like thousands of locks.
At the counter, Abigail struck up a conversation with the clerk. Somehow, she managed to trim a bit off the price, not much, but enough to turn Claire’s gratitude into a small, twisting guilt.
She looked down at her watch. The hours had slipped past without mercy.
“Is it really that late?” she muttered. Abigail leaned over, catching the time as well.
“We’ve got to go. Fast.”
And just like that, the spell of the day broke, replaced by the rush of reality creeping back in. They stepped out into the street again, dress safely tucked into a paper bag under Claire’s arm. Even as they hurried, weaving through the crowd, Claire’s thoughts kept drifting back to the green fabric and how, for once, something had felt right.
They tried to take the shortest possible route, but the city had other plans. It was as if the streets themselves had turned mischievous, twisting in unfamiliar ways, splitting where they should’ve been straight, folding in on themselves like some joke at their expense. What should have been a clear path became a small maze, frustrating and oddly personal.
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Eventually, Claire spotted the familiar stretch of pavement and the entrance to their building. Relief started to rise until… She really looked. Her steps faltered. Just outside the door, leaning casually against the display window, stood the one thing Claire hoped not to see today.
A cold sweat prickled across her back. There she was, the strange, pale girl who had been appearing like a shadow on the edge of her vision these past few days.
Claire’s eyes flicked to the ground: a neat little pile of cigarette butts lay by her feet, all gathered carefully in one spot. She’d been waiting. As they approached, the girl didn’t even turn to look at them.
“There you are” she said pretending to be surprised, exhaling smoke like punctuation. “I was starting to worry.” Girl said with an attempt of a friendly smile.
She dropped her cigarette and stamped it out with deliberate care, then crouched down to sweep the butts into a small plastic bag. Strangely meticulous. You couldn’t say she was messy, at least. Unsettling, yes, but tidy.
Without another word, the three of them slipped inside. The building swallowed them in familiar dimness, the light feeling of the morning now a fading memory. The excitement of the day had vanished like steam. In its place: a knot of unease settling deep in Claire’s stomach. She let out a quiet sigh as she took her place behind the counter.
It was going to be a long day. And it definitely was. As was the day after, and the rest of the week.
The white-haired stranger was as unyielding as ever. Every day, like clockwork. Whether Claire was arriving at the library or preparing to leave, she was there. Always nearby, always watching what Claire was doing. Always asking something, her voice a constant hum of annoyance.
Her presence was maddeningly distracting, but what made it worse were the pranks. Small, petty things, subtle enough to brush off, yet persistent enough to drive Claire up the wall. She’d break the silence with a sudden laugh at the moment of deepest focus. She’d appear from behind a shelf, startling Claire with that deadpan face. And her favorite, by far, was simply standing right behind you, just close enough to feel but not see, waiting for the moment you'd notice.
The worst part? She never made a sound. Not when she moved. Not when she came or left. Claire realized one day that she’d never actually heard her enter. Only once had she seen her arrive, if it could even be called that, and that one time had been odder than all the silent entrances combined.
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That morning, determined to catch her in the act, Claire came in for her opening shift with a plan. She unlocked the door, stepped inside, and immediately shut it again, locking it behind her. The key stayed in the lock. If anyone wanted to enter, she’d hear it and open up herself. No exceptions.
Then she scoured the library top to bottom, room by room, nook by shadowy nook. No sign of the girl. No trace of her slipping in early, or perhaps camping inside. Finally, with no results and growing embarrassment, she returned to the counter, ready to open the doors properly. She began to think she was overreacting, that she was being ridiculous.
And that’s when the bell above the door jingled. Claire turned sharply. There, standing in the doorway, was the pale girl, calm as ever, one hand still resting on the doorframe as if she’d been expected. Her eyes met Claire’s with casual certainty, as if it was Claire, the strange one. As if she’d done something inappropriate by watching the door so closely, or was in the midst of doing something utterly outrageous.
Claire blinked. She was so sure she had locked it. Absolutely sure. But the longer she stood there, the more doubt crept in. Had she really turned the key? Had she left it in the lock without twisting it? The memory was suddenly... slippery.
A failure of an experiment. And worse, one she couldn't repeat without feeling like she was chasing shadows.
On the last day before the ball, Claire decided she wouldn't be caught off guard again. No more sudden scares, no surprise attacks from behind. Today, she would be ready for whatever trick may come.
She brought in a small handheld mirror and propped it up near her station, angled just enough that she could always catch a glimpse of what was behind her. It sat at the edge of her vision like a silent guardian, reflecting rows of books and empty aisles.
Each time she walked between the shelves, she moved a little more cautiously. She strained her ears for the faintest sound, approaching footsteps, a soft shuffle, even just the air shifting in that peculiar way it sometimes did when the girl appeared. At the slightest sign, she’d spin around sharply, expecting to catch her off-guard. Once, she startled a poor customer in the history section so badly the man nearly dropped his bag, and after that, Claire toned down her reactions, at least when others were around.
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Still, she waited. Her tasks crept by slower than usual, her mind half-occupied, focused less on shelving books and more on staying a step ahead in this strange little game.
It felt childish. Like hide and seek. But she had to win this round. Except… the moment never came. The pale girl never showed up.
Claire should have felt relieved. That’s what she told herself. She should have been glad.
And yet, there was a strange weight in her chest. An odd disappointment that lingered longer than it should have. She couldn't quite understand it, and worse, she couldn’t seem to shake it.
Twice that night, she walked a full circle around the library, pretending to tidy up, half-expecting the girl to leap out from behind a shelf or whisper something in her ear when she wasn’t looking. But there was nothing. No presence. No tricks. No laughter. Just silence.
Claire went ahead to fill out the ledger, just as always. And yet, it felt strange, like something new. Something unfamiliar that was pretending, wrapped in the costume of routine.
She grabbed her bag. It felt heavier than usual. Perhaps it wasn’t the contents, but the emotions pressed down inside it, packed away for her to carry home. At the door, she turned the key slowly, fingers hesitating longer than they needed to. As if still holding onto something, maybe waiting, half expecting.
But nothing happened. What was supposed to happen, she couldn’t say.
Outside, the city felt unusually still. Quiet in the way that felt unnatural, almost tense. But the raindrops hit like bullets, loud and insistent, turning rooftops and pavement into percussion. The soft hum of it all; the water, the gutters, the distant trickle of pipes, echoed between the buildings. Somewhere far off, what sounded like wind added a deeper layer to the white noise. Or maybe it wasn’t wind. Maybe it was just the sound of the city pretending to be something it wasn’t.
The rain slid down metal drains, rushed down the sloped streets, filling the air with the sound of of what she imagined a river could be, one Claire had only read about in books.
She wondered if that’s what it was like out there. In the real outside. If the world hadn’t been completely drowned yet. Did the wind between cliffs sound like this? Did the rain tap against stone the same way? Was the air this heavy beneath forest canopies?
The thoughts startled her. She rarely thought of the outside, and most certainly not like this. When she did, it was about the forgotten cities hiding secrets, or the source of the endless rain. About stopping it, reclaiming control. Not about small, irrelevant details like the feel of forest wind or the rhythm of rivers.
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She shook her head sharply. She wasn’t a dreamer. She never had been, and she shouldn’t now become one. A change for the worse. It was a distraction, unnecessary for the cause, and now that the stranger was gone and hopefully not returning, it should be easier to focus. Easier to return to herself.
With that thought as armor, though pinching her uncomfortably, feeling heavy on the shoulders, she picked up her pace, boots splashing through puddles. The sound of machinery surged around her, sharp and rhythmic. The rain trickled down the back of her neck and made her shiver, a cold line that followed her spine.
Back at home, after hanging her clothes to dry, Claire changed into her usual worn out t-shirt and shorts, then flopped onto the couch with a thud, legs kicking out lazily. The fog in her mind lingered stubbornly, refusing to lift. Maybe she needed a break, but that was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Not truly. Still, maybe just for tonight… maybe just this once.
Tomorrow was the ball. It felt unreal that it was happening so soon. She had already made plans with Abigail to come over early and help her get ready. Abigail had seemed genuinely excited about it, even though Claire could offer nothing in return in the matters of advice. She had no eye for fashion. Everything that looked mismatched or awkward to Claire, Abigail managed to turn into something flattering with what seemed effortless.
But now, the idea of it, the clothes, the preparations, the people, pressed down on her chest like a stone. It was all too much to take at once, especially after a week so tiring.
She reached for the remote and turned on the TV, letting its voices fill the apartment. It wasn’t exactly a luxury… though maybe it should have been. In truth, she could leave it on all the time if she wanted, the channels were government-funded now, and energy rations covered it. Sometimes she thought of that as a small miracle. If not for the switch to public broadcasting, she likely wouldn’t have been able to afford a TV at all. And it was nice, having a voice speak into the silence. It dulled the cold edge of an otherwise cluttered and full, but somehow, at the same time, empty and cold space.
Maybe she was just hungry. Though now that she thought about it, she didn’t feel so. More so hollow, disconnected.
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With effort, she pushed herself off the couch and shuffled to the fridge. The cold light blinked on as she opened the door, revealing more emptiness than expected. She’d need to go shopping soon.
It felt strange. She didn’t remember eating that much this week. And yet, the fridge was nearly bare.
She stood there for a moment, puzzled. Had she really forgotten so much? The week had been such a haze, maybe she’d just been on autopilot. Or maybe the constant disruption, the pranks, the noise in her head, had left no room for ordinary tasks like counting meals. Still… it unsettled her. This wasn’t like her.
She sighed and shrugged, more to herself than anything else. She needed to pull herself together, and fast. A week was far too long to be drifting like this. She was angry for letting it go on, allowing herself to spiral.
Unreliable, the word echoed in her head like a curse. She couldn’t be that. She wouldn’t become a person, she despised.
Claire settled on a simple sandwich. Unsurprisingly, it tasted as bland as it looked. It did nothing to clear her head. If anything, it only deepened the fog. The flavorless bite matched the way she felt, like everything inside her had gone grey and flat. Her emotions, too, seemed unseasoned.
From her cocoon of blankets on the couch, she reached for her bag. She didn’t want to get up, so she strained toward it, managing to snag the arm strap, with the tips of her fingers. She tugged. Too hard. The bag gave way and tumbled over, its contents spilling across the floor.
She swore under her breath. Now she had to get up and organize everything again. But she didn't move. Because something had stopped her cold.
Among the notebooks, pencils, and worn textbooks was a book. One she didn't recognize. One she certainly hadn't packed. She stared at it. Her breath hitched.
It was unfamiliar in every way, its cover, its texture. An unplesant static appeared, a hum in hear ears from the blood rushing in. She hadn’t seen it before. She hadn’t owned it before. She hadn’t even noticed it at the library and nor did she put it in her bag.
Hands trembling, she reached for it. She sank back onto the couch, the book resting in her lap now. Her back felt slick with sweat, cold and painfully sharp, like tiny ice picks pricking beneath her skin. Her heart beat too fast.
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Was someone trying to frame her into stealing from the library? The thought came like a splash of cold water. The tome looked impossibly old. It looked as if it belonged in the restricted, climate-controlled basement wing of the library, where the most fragile, valuable, and historically volatile books were stored.
Access for outsiders required both clearance and supervision. The books down there weren’t just rare, they were irreplaceable. Bringing any of them outside the building, even by mistake, was a serious offense. Anyone caught doing so faced disciplinary action at best, and legal prosecution at worst. The kind of thing that went on record permanently.
Her stomach churned like she had swallowed a stone. A creeping nausea wrapped around her spine and settled deep in her chest.
She had no memory of touching that book, let alone packing it into her bag. And yet here it was, among her belongings, lying there as if it belonged. Like a ghost she hadn't invited, making itself at home.
Her breath caught, then quickened. The air around her felt heavier. A sudden thought froze her in place, what if this wasn't a mistake? What if this was a warning? A message, sent by the elusive worker she'd been chasing all week? Maybe they'd caught on that she was investigating. Maybe this was their retaliation. A message that the game could be played both ways, one side playing fair, the other not at all.
But as she stared at the book, her confusion only deepened. It didn't look like something from the basement. That wing housed brittle manuscripts bound in cracked leather, their pages threatening to crumble if you breathed too close. This… this looked like something a collector might fight to the death for. Something someone would snatch off the intake cart the moment it arrived.
Could it be part of the recent or forgotten unprocessed shipments? If that were the case, there would be no official record yet. Still, if it had been processed, there would be a stamp inside, proof of approval and finished intake.
Her fingers hovered over the cover. For a moment, she hesitated, then brushed it gently, as if it might flinch from her touch.
The book was larger than standard format, closer to a folio. Its spine was thick and firm, edged with decorative metal corners that glinted softly under the overhead light, and ridges running down it. Its edges were gilded in gold, though time had dulled the luster into something more like ancient bronze. Small studs lined the border of the red leather, forming intricate patterns that might've once had symbolic meaning.
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Embossed across the center of the cover in shimmering gold leaf was the title in a language she could not understand. Underneath, clearly hand added later by someone inexperienced, were letters she knew the meaning off: “Collection of Xavaelish Stories.”
Claire blinked. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the couch cushion.
Xavael. The word sparked something in her memory, though the connection didn't immediately come. It sounded familiar in the way ancient names did, half-remembered from childhood lectures or dry historical texts.
She leaned closer, squinting at the edges of the book. A handful of loose papers jutted from the sides, messily inserted, like someone had used it as a personal scrapbook. Bits of parchment, faded clippings, and even small pressed flowers or herbs seemed to peek out between the pages. It was chaotic in a way that didn't match the pristine cover, like two lives had collided inside it, one careful and curating, the other frantic and scavenging.
She opened the front cover with caution, fingers tense. The pages inside were yellowed and thick, heavy with the scent of something earthy and metallic, like old coins and dried leaves. The letters on the first page weren't in any script she recognized. Curved and elegant, but with sharp angles woven in, as though the ink itself had been etched rather than written. She flipped to the next few pages, scanning for a stamp. Nothing.
So it hadn’t been logged. Her mouth was dry. She swallowed hard, as she turned another page, she stopped cold. Her eyes widened.
There, drawn in meticulous ink, was an illustration. A full-page rendering of something she couldn't even begin to describe properly. A creature, vast and impossible. It had wings, too many of them, layered like feathers and shadow. Its talons looked like rusted iron spears.
Her heart pounded. She had seen this creature before, not in real life, of course, but in the footnotes of old records. She remembered now. Xavael wasn't just a name.
It was a faction. A group of pagans from one of the earliest era of human civilization, during the first attempts at city-building. They had been a thorn in the side of the early world powers, people who resisted rule, resisted expansion. They worshipped the earth, the sky, the dead, the in-between and the demon that slayed the merciful god of the sun, according to the legends, resulting in the endless rain.
They believed in tearing down man's towers. Burning his laws. They weren't just spiritual, they were violent.
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What she held in her lap wasn't just contraband, it was heresy. A relic from a group long banished, their legacy erased, their gods hunted out of memory. And it was in her apartment. But why would someone spend so much time and care binding a collection of stories from a group like them?
Claire stared at it, numb, the cold sweat on her back now fully soaking through her shirt. She couldn't even bring herself to close the book. All she could think was: if someone finds this here, I'm finished
A panic set in, sharp and all-consuming. She couldn't decide what to do. Her thoughts twisted around each other like panicked birds in a net, tangled beyond recognition. If she reported the book, what would she even say? That it had mysteriously appeared in her bag and she had no idea how? That she’d never seen it before today? It sounded like a flimsy lie, one anyone in her position would tell to cover their tracks. She’d be viewed as either careless or criminal. Maybe both.
For a split second, she considered sneaking out now, slipping the book back into the library somewhere, perhaps on one of the upper floor shelves, tucked behind something dull and dusty. Then, tomorrow morning, she could “find” it during her shift and report it like any responsible employee. There had been cases before, donation boxes occasionally brought in illegal or unregistered books, usually caught during the intake process and immediately logged. But this wasn’t the same.
This book had sat in her home. Her home. And in the library, for God knows how long. If this one was from the forgotten donation stash, which had been waiting weeks to be sorted, then its presence unreported for so long, would raise many questions and red flags. She could already hear the tone of the committee: Why didn’t you say anything? Why now? Who else knows? There’d be a full investigation into every staff member who touched that shipment. Her record, her job, her life, would be dragged through the mud and all of her collegues with her.
She stood up abruptly, heart thundering, and headed toward her wardrobe with a sense of rising urgency. She needed to get dressed, leave, do something. Anything. Anything other than let that thing sit in her apartment like it belonged here. She yanked the curtains shut with unnecessary force, even though nobody could see in from outside anyway. Still, it gave her a strange sense of control. She checked the lock on her door once, twice, three times, then turned back toward the living room.
Now she was pacing, her bare feet whispering against the scuffed wooden floor. Her thoughts raced faster than her steps. The book remained exactly where it had been, resting serenely on the couch cushion, as if it had always been there. Like it had chosen this spot, and waited for Claire to return there.
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She wrung her hands, glancing at it out of the corner of her eye. It looked almost… comfortable there. The soft light from her ceiling fixture glinted faintly off the metallic corners of its binding. She had the unsettling sense it was watching her.
She had no one to ask for advice. No one she could trust with something like this. Abigail was the only person who came to mind, loyal, sweet, and undoubtedly willing to help, but Claire couldn’t risk involving her. The consequences were too steep. Even if Abigail swore to keep it a secret, Claire couldn't be sure she'd hold up under pressure. This city did not reward loyalty. It punished risk. It wasn’t known for open-mindedness or understanding. It was a place of silent betrayals, and she had no illusions otherwise.
Mr. Bauer? He had always seemed genuinely kind. Interested in things others dismissed. A little eccentric, maybe, but insightful and fair. He might even understand. But he was still her mentor, and while he was helpful with academic issues and bureaucratic nonsense, this was something else entirely. This wasn’t about late essays or shifting class credits. This was serious. Illegal and Dangerous.
She drifted toward the door, then slowly slid down until she was sitting against it, knees drawn to her chest. Her hands found her head, pressing gently against her temples. Listening for any movement outside. With a soft, tired motion, she slapped her palm against the top of her head, not enough to hurt, just a hollow tap of frustration.
“What to do… what to do…” she murmured to herself, rocking forward and back in a slow rhythm, the mantra spilling from her lips like a chant. Her breath was shallow, and the only light, usually always too dim to read comfortably, now seemed too bright, like it was spotlighting her failure, helplessness, her indecision.
Time passed. She wasn’t sure how long. The panic didn’t go away so much as it settled, changing shape, curling inward. It became a quiet throb in the back of her mind, no less present, but no longer screaming. Her heartbeat slowed. Her fingers stopped trembling. And then, slowly, something new began to rise.
Curiosity. It slipped in under the door like a draft, uninvited but persistent. The kind that didn’t knock or ask permission, just waited patiently until you noticed it. Claire sat up straighter, her breathing shallow but steady. Her eyes flicked toward the book again.
It still sat there. Perfectly still. Innocent, almost. Yet undeniably out of place, like a fossil in a kitchen drawer.
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She stood, moving toward it cautiously, but before taking that final step, she paused and returned to the door, standing on her toes to glance through the peephole. The corridor outside was empty. Silent and still, only weeks of dust present. But she stared for several seconds anyway, her breath fogging the glass ever so slightly.
It didn’t make sense, this fear of being watched. She was alone. She knew she was alone. And yet… somehow, it felt like the story had already started without her.
Claire sat on the couch and picked up the book gently. Her hands felt numb, tingly, as if they weren’t her own. The panic had left her cold, her mind fuzzy. She ran her fingers along the spine, inspecting the golden decoration with care. She shouldn’t be doing this, and yet, she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to know. She needed to know the contents, the taste of something forbidden. Why was it banned? What made it so dangerous?
She made up her mind. After tomorrow’s ball, she would take the book to Mr. Bauer for advice. She had to put her faith in someone, and he was one of the few people in this city where her odds felt, if not good, then at least slightly in her favor.
As the night wore on, she studied the book: its illustrations, the strange letters, the handwritten notes tucked between the pages. Loose sheets covered in words that could have been someone’s stories or perhaps something else entirely, documents, notes or anectodes left for someone else. She tried to decipher the text, but it bore no resemblance to any language she had ever seen or heard of. Desperate, she turned to her own collection, flipping through reference books in search of a clue. Nothing. Not a mention.
Maybe the library would hold answers. But no, she couldn’t risk it. She couldn’t allow herself to keep the book until her next shift. That was too long, She had to get rid of it as soon as possible.
And yet... the book drew her in. The colorful details, the small paintings, the mysterious symbols, they whispered of hidden meanings. It felt like more than a book. It was a mystery. A puzzle meant to be solved. A war began in her chest: curiosity against righteousness.
It was well past midnight when she finally noticed the time. She needed rest for tomorrow’s ball. The idea of returning to something so mundane, after an evening like this, felt wrong. But what else could she do? She had found no alternative path, no better solution.
Exhausted, Claire lay down on the bed with the book on her chest. She tried to close her eyes, but the ceiling above seemed suddenly more fascinating than ever. Sleep slipped further from reach. Her thoughts circled back again and again to what now should stay hidden, her new little secret, one she wasn’t exactly happy to have.
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The more she thought about it, the less sense it made. How had the book ended up in her bag? How had she not noticed? Who would do this, and why? Who was trying to harm her? Where had the book even come from?
If one of her colleagues had planted it to dodge responsibility for some mishandled intake, then they were far more dangerous than a lazy employee. They were in possession of illegal items, items no one should have. And if that was the case… what else might they be involved in?
She tried to imagine her coworkers leading such a double life. By day, quiet, unassuming librarians. But in the shadows? Traders. Smugglers. Black market dealers. It was absurd. No one seemed the type. Still… it would be the perfect cover, wouldn’t it?
Books were among the most sought-after contraband. And if you worked in a library, especially one that received donations, it’d be easy to slip something past inspection. To stash a rare item, sell it off quietly, and make a tidy profit. Far more than whatever they were earning at their day job. A dangerous game... but one that might just pay off.
Claire propped herself up and opened the book once again, as if it were pulling her in by invisible threads, wrapping the unfamiliar words around her mind and refusing to let her rest. Her thoughts felt foggy, suspended somewhere between exhaustion and obsession. She studied the pages again with care, her fingers trailing along the delicate script, still utterly unreadable to her. The strange symbols seemed to shift subtly each time she blinked, or perhaps that was just the sleep-deprived haze clouding her vision.
***
The sharp sound of knocking startled her awake.
She jolted upright with a gasp. The book was still in her hands, nestled against her chest like a sleeping animal. Her heart leapt into her throat as panic surged through her limbs. Instinctively, she leapt off the bed, staggered to the corner of the room, and lifted one of the floor panels. Her hand shook as she reached down and pushed the book into the gap as far as her arm would allow. The panel clattered softly back into place.
It wasn’t a perfect hiding spot, not even close. But it was the best she could think of. Unless someone knew exactly where to look, they wouldn’t find it easily. At least, she hoped not.
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Sweat was already gathering on her brow as she crept toward the door, every creak in the floorboards sounding far too loud. Her mind spun with worst-case scenarios. This was it. Someone had come. They’d tracked the book to her. She was about to be dragged away and interrogated, locked up in the city’s coldest cell blocks, never to see sunlight again. Maybe not even put on trial. Just... removed.
She held her breath and peered through the peephole. Abigail.
Relief struck her like a cold splash of water. She exhaled audibly, pressing her forehead against the door for a moment before collecting herself.
She was overreacting. Claire pushed down the residual panic and opened the door, trying to school her face into something resembling normality.
Abigail stepped inside, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she looked Claire over. Her hair was already done and prepared.
“You’re not even dressed yet?” she said with a playful lift of her brow. “You know it's better to arrive early.”
Claire offered a tired smile and rubbed the back of her neck.
“I didn’t sleep well.”
Abigail glanced toward the apartment, as if expecting some chaos behind Claire’s shoulder.
“Clearly. Come on, let’s get you sorted.”
She didn’t wait for permission, she threw her things on the couch, as if she had done this a dozen times before, but in fact it was the first time Claire invited anyone to her apartment. She had always found it amusing, how effortlessly Abigail took up space, with unbelievable amounts of confidence, like she belonged wherever she walked. Abigail clicked her tongue.
“You were really going to show up looking like you just rolled out of the archives? It’s not like you to not have prepared ahead of time.”
Claire flushed. “I didn’t have time to…”
“Relax” Abigail interrupted, already unhooking Claire’s dress from its hanger. “We’ll make it work. First, sit. We’re doing something with your hair.”
Claire obeyed without protest, still trying to wake up, sitting stiffly in the chair as Abigail gathered her supplies like a painter preparing a canvas.
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“You have good hair, you know” Abigail said, brushing through the thick curls with gentleness. “It just needs a little coaxing to behave, you should try a new hairstyle sometime”
Claire made a soft, uncertain sound. Compliments always felt like lies to her. Especially ones she could see for her own eyes were untrue. She always had trouble with her hair, like her mothers, it was curly and an undesirable rusty color, that she always tried to hide somehow, with temporary powders and tight hairstyles, always keeping her hair short so it’s the most managable.
Abigail took out a curling iron, and begun shaping. She went for a wavy, elegant style. Claire glanced at her reflection in the handheld mirror she was passed.
“It’s better than I expected.” Though she felt uncertain, as it was quite different from her usual style.
“High praise” Abigail teased. “Alright, dress next. I’ll turn around if you’re feeling modest. I have to get dressed as well”
Claire changed quickly behind the corner, tugging the dress over her hips and adjusting the neckline. She always got lost, looking at the deep green color of it, uncertain as to why that was, but it certainly made her feel at ease. When Claire stepped out, Abigail gave a low, appreciative hum.
“You look like someone they’d actually let into the upper balconies. Not that we’ll ever see them, but still.”
Claire gave a weak smile at that. Abigail pulled a final hairpin from her pocket and placed it behind Claire’s ear. A small silver ornament in the shape of a leaf, very subtle, but elegant.
“A little charm” she said. “For confidence.”
Claire blushed, touching it gently. “I’ll need it.”
“We both will” Abigail replied, locking her eyes with Claire’s for a while. Then she reached for her own coat and bag. “Now come on. The world won’t pause while you worry about it.”
“Do you think… ” Claire paused, reaching for one of the jewelry pieces out of her small wooden box sitting on the table, and picked up an old silver one, with blackening on the edges and in the groves. It was some kind of bird, with its wings spread and tail long, splitting into two. It was hung on an old brown thick string. She showed it to Abigail who seemed to understand.
“Wear it. If anything, you’ll be seen as sentimental. It could be a good trait” Claire nodded and put it on.
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They gathered the last of what they needed, and headed for the door. Abigail chatted about the upcoming performances and what to expect, fantasizing about who they could meet, while Claire gave distracted nods, her mind still brushing the edges of the hidden book, heavy beneath the floorboards.
But for now, she smiled, even if the smile wasn’t quite a true one. Tonight, she would pretend everything was fine, and tomorrow, the book will be gone, and problem resolved.
Both women made their way outside and began walking toward their destination. To attend the ball, they first had to reach one of the government transit points, where papers and identification were required. Among Claire’s documents was the official document she had received from Mr. Bauer to fill out. Part invitation, part travel permit, and part social credential. It wasn’t just for entry. It was something you presented to people you met, with a bunch of informations about age, workplace, and potential hobbies to present to people quickly as to not waste their time, that could be interested.
One of these transit points was located south of the library, about a kilometer away. When they arrived, they were met by a small, gated checkpoint. A guard stood at attention, expression unreadable, as the line of attendees trickled forward. Claire and Abigail joined the queue, and Abigail exhaled with a loud groan at the sight of the crowd.
“And that’s why I always say it’s best to be early.”
Claire smirked. “Most of the time, you’re always late.”
“Not for this” Abigail replied curtly, ending the exchange with a flick of her eyes toward the gate.
They waited their turn, inching forward as guards examined each document with slow, practiced scrutiny. When finally called, they presented their IDs and papers. The guard gave them a nod and gestured them through.
Once inside, the exterior gate gave way to a narrow, institutional corridor. Dimly lit and sterile. There were no destinations, no branching paths. Each district had only one way up or down: a restricted metro line that funneled everyone toward the central government elevator.
There, deep in the heart of the city, another round of checks awaited. A gauntlet of scanners, questions, and surveillance before one could be deemed worthy of ascending.
The ball, held on the middle levels, was always hosted in a grand hall specially reserved for the occasion. According to government rhetoric, it was a symbol of unity, an event meant to bring people together, regardless of status or circumstance.
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Claire used to believe that. She used to think it was kind. Thoughtful, even. But now, as they stepped onto the waiting platform, a strange taste lingered at the back of her tongue. She couldn’t quite explain it, bitterness, maybe. Or something sharper. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t go away, as if some sort of distaste at the thought.
They rounded a corner, following the steady trickle of people ahead, and soon reached the station, where an old train stood waiting, already humming with anticipation, as an ancient beast, that seemed tired from it’s long existance and needed a break. Claire and Abigail found seats near the door, preferring to avoid the shuffle and squeeze of the crowd when it was time to disembark.
The wagons were aged, their paint faded and the cushions flattened from decades of use. Still, it was always the most pleasant part of the whole ordeal, Claire thought. There was something oddly comforting about sitting in motion, it felt like a rare treat of something reserved for important people.
The city didn’t have public transport, not really. She’d heard rumors that the top levels had their own sleek trains, small and efficient, gliding between the upper sectors like veins in a living body.
Down here, people walked wherever they needed to get to. A bicycle was another option, although rare, usually used by those whose jobs required crossing the districts. But for most, people were born within a small radius and remained inside it, circling the same streets and corners until they died.
Claire leaned her head against the scratched glass of the window. It was easy to imagine it continuing like that. After all, if the ambition failed, and all effort come to naught, what was left to do other than live out the rest of your days like this.
The train jolted gently as it slowed to a stop. The new station wasn’t much more impressive than the last, but it was larger. They followed the flow of people into a vast circular hall, tiled in pale stone that caught the glow of the overhead cold lights.
In the center stood a ring of counters, manned by stiff-faced clerks. From every direction, tunnels fed into the room, corridors from other stations across this level of the city. But the real sight was the columns.
A dozen thick, metal cylinders lined the outer ring of the chamber. The elevators. People stepped into them as soon as the doors opened, or stepped out, always with the help of security, checking the passage card whenever entering or leaving. With a sharp hiss and a burst of steam, each vessel ascended, vanishing into the ceiling. Moments later, an identical one would slide smoothly into place, open, waiting for the next group. It was a constant, calculated cycle. When all the capsules had gone up, the direction would reverse, bringing people back down, while the other set prepared to rise.
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A marvel of technology, Claire thought, not for the first time. She always found herself staring, half-mesmerized by the mechanism, wishing she could see the system behind it. How the elevators exchanged, what tracks and gears churned beneath the surface. She’d probably never get to see the inside mechanism and what was hidden behind the scenes, but still, she could imagine.
After waiting in line for some time, they finally arrived at the counter, where their documents were reviewed once again. They were asked to fill out several forms. Personal data, purpose of visit and other small things. It all felt routine, yet invasive in its thoroughness.
Then came the security check. Metal detectors, pat-downs, and a search through any personal belongings, bags, backpacks, even the inner linings of suitcases. Claire had brought none of those, only a clutch bag with a few necessities, but even that was opened and carefully inspected. Abigail endured it with patience, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.
Once they cleared the checkpoint, they were handed their cards. A small square of thick, stamped paper. Claire looked at hers. On it was printed the precise number of hours she was permitted to spend on the middle level. A grace period, they called it. If you overstayed it, well, the consequences weren’t often discussed aloud, but everyone knew. You didn’t want to find out.
They boarded one of the elevator vessels together, Claire, Abigail, and two others. As soon as the door sealed shut with a faint hiss, a deep vibration began to build under their feet. Claire braced herself against the wall, holding onto the railing tightly. Then, with a sudden jolt, the vessel launched upward.
It was a strange, unnatural sensation, like her body had stayed behind, while her bones were being pulled into the floor. Her stomach dipped, unsettled by the speed. Abigail seemed not to care, locking her eyes with one of the strangers that entered the elevator with them, smiling sweetly.
In just a few seconds, it was over. The elevator came to a stop with a thud. Before she could fully reorient herself, the doors slid open, and a uniformed worker ushered them out briskly. No time to linger. The capsule was gone the moment they stepped out, making way for another vessel on its way up with the next group.
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Claire looked ahead, heart beating a little faster. This was it. The middle level. The ball was just a short walk away now.
The ceilings here were high, far higher than what Claire was used to, not even the main library floor could compare and she considered it enormous. The space was vast, mostly empty, yet adorned in sweeping whites and golds. Occasional greenery broke the cool palette, carefully trimmed plants in porcelain vases, spaced along the walls. There were also benches and cushioned seats arranged neatly, giving the waiting hall a sense of calm opulence, and a bit of a quiet space for some that needed to escape the chaos of the main room.
They were directed forward by a line of temporary but elegant rope fences, guiding the guests through the grand space and into the left corridor. From a distance, Claire could already see the open doors of their destination, warm light spilling out into the hallway, soft music drifting from inside, and the low hum of conversation echoing between the marble columns. Once they stepped inside, they were left to their own devices.
The ballroom was large and ornate, with no single focal point but a number of smaller stations meant to invite mingling, clusters of armchairs, standing counters with light refreshments, a few stages where musicians played live. Some areas were bustling with guests deep in conversation, others remained untouched, waiting for more attendees to trickle in.
The point now was to socialize and exchange cards. For those who disliked the charade, a nook to the right offered a more practical solution: a table staffed with assistants where guests could present their documents and be quickly paired with someone deemed a "suitable match" by the system. Claire had always gravitated there. Efficient, impersonal, and tolerable. But she never had success this way. This time, she wanted to try something different.
She glanced at Abigail, holding on to the sliver of confidence she had managed to muster just moments ago. But the moment she saw her companion, that confidence faltered.
Abigail looked distant. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her hands fidgeting at her sides. She was visibly nervous, something Claire had never witnessed before. It was jarring, almost surreal. Abigail, always composed and charismatic, now seemed small and uncertain in the grandeur of the room.
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Without a word, Claire reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. A silent offering of comfort and maybe a plea for reassurance herself.
They found a seat on one of the plush couches lining the far wall, tucked just enough to feel out of the way. They sat down, hands still joined, and took a moment to breathe. It was time to think of a strategy.
Claire picked at the hem of her sleeve, while Abigail smoothed her dress for the third time, trying to look like she was focused on the fabric rather than the room around her. The music played gently. People glided past them in small clusters, dresses rustling like wind through paper, conversations weaving in and out like threads.
Claire let out a small exhale through her nose.
“It’s worse than I remember.”
“It always is” Abigail muttered, a little too quickly. Her attempt at a smirk didn’t quite land, but Claire appreciated the effort.
They looked at each other, a mutual understanding passing between them, two people trying to smile in a room that wasn’t built for them.
“I keep thinking I’ll get used to it” Abigail said after a pause, her voice quieter now.
“Like maybe the fifth time will feel different. But I still feel like I snuck in through the back door.”
Claire nodded slowly. Abigail let her hand fall from her dress.
“Alright” she said, squaring her shoulders. “New plan. We try. Properly this time. We split up, talk to someone, anyone. And then we meet back here in… what, fifteen minutes?”
Claire gave her a look. “Fifteen minutes?”
“Ten if it’s terrible.” Abigail offered her a shaky grin, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, “We’ll call it a recon mission. We gather intel, then regroup. You’re the academic, you love fieldwork.”
Claire gave a reluctant laugh, though her stomach tightened at the idea of being left to fend for herself, in what now seemed like entering an active battlefield.
“Alright. Ten minutes.”
Abigail reached for her hand, gave it a quick squeeze.
“You’ve got this.”
Claire watched her go, shoulders back, chin high, weaving through the crowd now seemingly gaining some of her familiar confidence and stride. The moment her friend disappeared behind a group of sharply dressed older guests, the room felt ten times larger. Her mouth had gone dry. She took a small step forward, then another, pretending she had somewhere specific to be. Maybe she’d find the refreshments table.
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She weaved through the groups of people, careful not to nudge anyone or bump into someone, causing a scene. Looking for anyone standing out to her, someone who seemed approachable and less scary than all of the other strangers. Claire paused, a bit of panic setting in as she was failing to decide.
“Excuse me.”
The voice came from just behind her. Claire turned slightly, unsure whether it had been directed at her or someone nearby, making way for the person out of habit, if it was because they needed to pass her.
A man stood there, not quite the image she’d expected of a ball guest. A bright haired man with tired eyes, not particularly tall, nor dressed in anything loud or showy. Dark jacket and a muted tie.
“Apologies” he said, and gestured with his card. “I noticed you weren’t speaking to anyone, and, well, I figured I’d do us both a favor. I’ve already stood near the same fern for five minutes pretending to admire it, but I guess that tactic doesn’t really work well.”
Claire blinked, the words slowly sinking in. Then, to her own surprise, she let out a soft laugh.
“That bad?”
“Worse” he said with mock solemnity. “I think the fern was judging me instead.”
Claire hesitated, but then shifted to face him properly. “Claire” she offered, holding up her card.
He took it lightly, examined it with the briefest of nods. He didn’t offer one back, which Claire overwhelmed with mixed emotions have not even noticed. He handed Claire her card back, and answered “Cyril”
He didn’t give off a feeling of being someone important in the society’s scene, at least not in the way that came with obligations or hidden agendas. He didn’t seem like he was here to show off. If anything, he looked just as displaced as she felt.
“I’m not very good at these” Claire admitted, glancing around the room as though suspicious of the walls themselves eavesdropping.
“Neither am I. But if we’re already here, we might as well make it useful, don’t you think?”
Claire gave a small nod. It was enough.
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Cyril stood beside her, not too close, giving her enough personal space but also not too far as to seem distant. His posture was relaxed, hands loosely folded in front of him like he wasn’t in a rush to go anywhere. Claire appreciated that. Too often, people here pushed, too much energy, trying too hard to impress, or rush the whole thing to try something else, talk to another person. But Cyril let the silence settle for a second, comfortable with it.
“So” he said, lightly “Are you here for the networking, the prestige, or the free sparkling water?”
“There’s free sparkling water?” Claire raised an eyebrow.
He smiled “Somewhere. Hidden, I assume, behind a wall of people who already know each other.”
“Well, then I suppose I’m just here for the thrill of existential dread” she said shakily, and was surprised again when he laughed. It wasn’t loud, but it was warm.
“Ah, the rare fourth reason”
Claire felt the tension in her chest shift. It wasn’t gone, but it eased just enough to let in a breath that didn’t feel entirely forced. She looked at him properly now. His eyes were thoughtful. Not sharp, not searching, just seemed to observe the surroundings without any judgment. He didn’t carry himself like someone on the hunt for social gain. If anything, he looked like someone trying to get through the evening without too many conversations about family connections or real estate holdings, and head home where the pleasant silence waited.
“You don’t seem like the usual crowd” she said.
“I could say the same.”
“So what’s your story?” She tilted her head, curious.
Cyril hesitated, not uncomfortably, more like he was deciding how honest to be.
“I work in data analysis” he said. “Infrastructure reports. Building safety. Things no one here ever wants to hear about unless something collapses.”
Claire gave him a slow blink. “You’re joking.”
“Sadly, no.”
“That’s… actually kind of refreshing.”
Cyril gave her a look.
“That’s a first. Usually, if you’re not giving a speech about innovation, leadership synergy or anything else promising, no one wants to talk to you.”
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Claire laughed before she could stop herself.
“You’re not wrong. I already overheard someone introduce themselves as a ‘thought architect’ earlier.”
“That might be grounds for exile.” Cyril winced.
“And they said it with a straight face as well.”
He leaned in slightly “Promise me you’ll never say things like ‘vision pipeline’ or ‘strategic optimism.’”
“Only if you promise not to sell me on your personal brand.” They both laughed.
A brief silence passed between them, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Claire’s eyes drifted across the room, scanning for Abigail. She caught a glimpse of her across the hall, speaking to someone near one of the standing tables. Her expression was animated. Nervous still, maybe, but holding her own. Claire felt a flicker of pride mixed with relief. At least one of them was doing well.
“You’re looking for someone?” Cyril asked, following her gaze.
“My friend. We came together. She gave me some courage to actually try tonight instead of hiding in a corner like I usually do.”
“She sounds like a nice person”
“She is.”
Cyril nodded. Then, with a slightly more serious tone, he said “It’s brave. What you’re doing.”
“What do you mean?” Claire looked at him, uncertain.
“Trying” he said simply. “Most people just survive these nights by sticking to what’s safe. Being here, talking to someone you’ve never met, letting yourself be uncomfortable, that’s not nothing.”
Claire blinked, caught off guard. It wasn’t the kind of praise she was used to hearing or expected, and certainly not from a stranger. She didn’t know what to say, so she just gave a quiet, awkward, “Thanks”
He glanced away.
“If it helps” he added, “you don’t necessarily seem like someone who’s out of place.”
She thought about that. Let it settle into her chest, still unsure if she believed it. They chatted, and after some time taking their place on one of the couches, immersed in the small talk, a bit of judging of other attendants here and there, exchanging small anecdotes.
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The music changed. This late into the event, dances would occur, before the attendants started to leave as the event will be coming to an end soon. The hall felt brighter somehow, warmer, and not because of the light. Claire found herself easing into the moment, forgetting for a while how tightly she'd been holding herself all day. Cyril glanced toward the open center of the room, where several pairs were already forming, dancing the practiced, traditional dance that every young person had to know, well familiar for everyone, formal.
He turned back to her, one brow raised as if it was the only way he could ask the full question.
“Would you…?” his voice faltered, unable to finish the sentence.
Claire hesitated, a thousand excuses lining up in a neat list in her mind, forming in an order of best to worst. She didn’t exactly know the steps. She practiced it, as everyone had, but it’s been many years now. She hadn’t danced since she was a teenager, and even then it was in the privacy of a class with not many students.
But then she looked at him, and he didn’t look smug or expectant. Just patient, giving off a feeling that however she answered, she’d be alright with it.
“…Alright” she said softly.
He smiled, stood, and offered his hand. Claire took it carefully. They made their way toward the edge of the crowd. Cyril took the lead, careful and deliberate, guiding her without force. At first her steps were stiff, her shoulders tense, but his calm rhythm pulled her in, slowly loosening the edges of her thoughts.
“You’re doing fine” he murmured. “The trick is to let yourself mess up.”
“That’s very comforting” she said sarcastically, trying not to step on his foot. It was the exact opposite of Claire’s usual demeanor. There should not be any messing up.
“It should be. No one here’s paying attention to us anyway. They're all too busy pretending they’re not pretending.”
She gave a breathy laugh, then exhaled a little more of her nerves. Around them, the gilded lights glittered, catching on polished glass and golden fixtures. The white tiles reflected it all back.
Claire turned her head, just for a second. The mirrored wall behind the dancefloor caught her eye, stretching tall, a decoration of opulence.
And there, behind the movement of her own form and the others dancing, she saw someone familiar. For a split second. Silver haired, with striking white eyes focused right on her.
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Her breath caught. She twisted her head around, heart thudding, but when she looked, the space was empty. She was not there. Just a party full of oblivious people and a room too bright for shadows.
“Are you alright?” Cyril asked, slowing slightly.
Claire nodded, even though she wasn’t sure.
“Thought I saw… someone familiar. But I must’ve imagined it.”
He didn’t press her for answers. The rest of the song passed in a blur, her thoughts spiralling, trying to make sense of the image burned into her mind. But soon enough, it was interrupted by a familiar voice.
“Claire” Abigail called, appearing just beside them. “Time’s nearly up, we need to check out before the limit hits.”
The couple of hours had felt like mere moments. Claire pulled away from Cyril gently, brushing a curl from her forehead.
“Thank you.” She said, immediately flustered “For the dance. And for the conversation.”
“Likewise” he said. Then added, a little more quietly, almost seeming shy “I’d like to see you again. If that’s alright.”
She was caught off guard by it, something flickering behind her eyes, but then she nodded. He smiled again, warmer this time, and let her go. Claire took out her card, and handed it to him. He did the same, handing her his own. It was a gesture that meant the interest of both parties, and a way to contact each other later.
She followed Abigail toward the exit, turning her head back once, her steps slower now. Her heart still pounding, not just from the dance, or Cyril, but from that flicker in the mirror. That moment she wasn’t sure had ever happened.
The vessel ride down was less exciting. Still fast, still making her light-headed, but the moment had passed. The real thrill sat somewhere behind them, still echoing faintly through Claire’s chest like music she couldn’t quite stop hearing. Her knees still felt a little weak. Her mind seemed to stay in the moment in the ball room.
The lower station was as bleak as ever when they stepped out into it again. The crowd around them buzzed with tired chatter, some people exchanging post-event gossip, others walking in resigned silence. Claire and Abigail boarded the train, squeezing into a pair of seats, their dresses brushing against the faded upholstery.
Abigail exhaled dramatically, slumping with a huff.
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“I can’t believe this” she said, tugging at her dress as if it was at fault “I must’ve had at least six guys offer their cards to me and I didn’t give mine to any of them.”
Claire blinked, only now really hearing her. She’d been staring at her own hands, absent-mindedly turning the card Cyril had given, her over and over between her fingers. She hadn’t looked at it yet. Not properly.
“They were all just…” Abigail waved her hand vaguely in the air, her head swinging. “Stupid. Or awkward. Or already too full of themselves. I thought this time might be different, but no. I’m going to die cardless at this rate. They’re just the exact same copies of eachother as if they were being produced in a factory.”
Claire smiled faintly
“You’re not going to die cardless. Not with your charm.”
Abigail sighed again, then turned her attention to Claire, eyeing the small paper in her hand.
“But I see you’re in luck. The change of strategy was worth it huh? Who’s the mystery man? I saw you dance with him, don’t try to play coy.”
Claire hesitated. The card still felt warm in her hand, like it had soaked up the energy from the evening. She hadn’t dared check it. Somehow, she liked the idea of not knowing, of keeping it a little longer like a secret pressed to her chest.
But now Abigail was already leaning closer, impatient. “Come on, show me.” And took it out of Claire’s hands, unfolding it.
Cyril A. Moineau, 29, Silverpoint district.
Beneath it, in smaller print, were lines of text detailing his position:
Chairman of Moineau Infrastructures Group
Founder & CEO of AscendCore Safety Systems
Senior Partner, Intercity Architectural Board
Claire blinked. Abigail made a choking sound.
“Well, fuck. You’re kidding me.”
Claire was unsure if to be more surprised at the information on the card, or that Abigail even knows how to swear.
“I… I didn’t know” Claire said quietly, reading the names again, as if they might shift into something more familiar. “I thought he was just…”
85/87 Chapter 1 – spring
“Claire. Moineau is huge. Their logo’s stamped into half the damn buildings of the city. You know those beams over the main plaza? The ones they installed last year to stop it from collapsing? That was them. And AscendCore handles most of the middle-to-upper-level support structures, elevators, ventilation safety, pressure gates… And silverpoint? That’s on the very top. You didn’t just dance with some rich guy, Claire. You danced with someone who probably has a private garden where the sun still exists and if not they can afford to buy one.”
Claire stared down at the card, the weight of it suddenly sinking in.
“He said he wanted to stay in touch” she said, not quite believing her own voice.
Abigail was staring at her like she’d grown wings.
“You’re staying in touch with the guy who owns gravity.”
Claire gave a soft laugh, then leaned back against the seat. Her eyes flicked to the window, but there was no reflection this time. Just darkness, stretching past the glass like an ocean of black. Still, she held onto the card a little tighter.
She said goodbye to Abigail at their usual corner, the two of them lingering longer than usual, deep in conversation. Claire walked the rest of the way alone, oddly light on her feet. A part of her still couldn’t grasp what had happened. It felt surreal, like something from a fairytale, or one of those overly romantic paperbacks she always helped strange customers pick out at the library.
Maybe it was a chance. A door opening, one she’d always dreamed would come as a rescue if her studies failed. Except, now, it didn’t feel like it would be out of necessity. Not anymore.
Cyril was different. She’d sensed it before reading the card. The fact that he hadn’t led with his status, hadn’t tried to impress her with wealth or connections, said a lot. He didn’t need to flaunt anything. He was content talking about little things. About her.
That breathless thought stuck with her as she walked, her heart both fluttering and grounded. It was impossible, wasn’t it? This sort of thing didn’t happen to people like her. Not unless it came with a cruel twist at the end.
She inhaled deeply, hoping to quiet the buzzing in her chest. Maybe it could work out. And if it did, maybe she wouldn’t have to spend her days helping people choose books with titles like The Duke’s Secret Florist. Maybe she could finally live a story of her own.
86/87 Chapter 1 – spring
She was so wrapped in her thoughts she passed her building without noticing. She doubled back with a flustered huff, opening the rusted door, only to be hit by a wave of shouting echoing through the stairwell. Claire froze.
The noise was loud. She looked up through the gap in the metal railings, heart thudding. Some of the tenants were already peeking out of their doors, murmuring, watching. Judging by the way the heads were all turned in the same direction, the shouting was coming from her floor.
“Oh no…” she whispered.
With shaky hands, she tucked Cyril’s card deep into the safety of her dress pocket, pressing it close to her chest. Then, steeling herself, she started up the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. The door to her apartment was wide open.
People in dark suits moved briskly inside, almost finished with their search. The place was in shambles, books torn from shelves and scattered across the floor, furniture flipped and gutted, drawers left dangling open like broken jaws. Now, some of the agents were returning things to their original positions in a perfunctory sort of way, while others gathered her belongings into a careless pile near the door.
A man stood at the threshold, clearly in charge, surveying the chaos with narrowed eyes. As Claire approached, he turned to face her. Her breath caught.
They found the book. It’s over.
She didn’t run. She didn’t cry. There was no point in resisting.
“Claire Ashford?” the man asked, his voice like thunder rolling through the hallway.
She nodded. No use in lying now. But then he dipped his head, in what seemed like… Remorse?
“We were investigating a lead” he said. “But we made a critical error. The apartment we entered is not the one we were supposed to. I sincerely apologize for the mistake and hope it will not cause you much distress.”
Claire blinked. What?
The man continued, his tone flat and reserved, but respectful. “We apologize for the mess. I’ll organize reimbursement as soon as possible.”
Then he gave a sharp whistle. The others obeyed without a word, filing out one by one, each giving her a brief nod of acknowledgment as they passed. Once they were gone, the last of the neighbors retreated into their own apartments, leaving Claire alone in the silence.
87/87 Chapter 1 – spring
She stood at the door, motionless. Panic buzzed so loudly in her ears that her thoughts couldn’t form properly. She felt… detached, like she was watching herself from somewhere outside her own skin.
Had they found the book? No, if they had, she wouldn’t be standing here. But how did they not know? What exactly had just happened?
She stepped inside slowly, as if any sudden movement might draw them back. The mess was everywhere. Pages crumpled, clothes thrown across the floor, drawers gutted.
Almost on autopilot, she shut the door behind her. The click of the latch sounded distant, muffled.
In the bedroom, she knelt beside the floorboards and carefully pried them open, reaching into the hollow space. Her fingers met empty air. The book was gone. Her heart stopped.
“Are you looking for this?”
Claire screamed, flinching so hard she fell backward. She scrambled on the floor, eyes darting to the doorframe.
She had been alone. She was sure she’d been alone. And yet, there she was.
A pale, familiar girl leaned casually against the frame, holding the story collection carelessly, like it all had been a game. Her expression was calm, too calm, with a sly, almost playful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“You look good in green, you know?”
01/48 Chapter 2 – sUMMER
It was nearing four in the morning. Claire paced the length of the cramped apartment slowly, her hands trembling, her gaze flicking between the front door and the couch with what could only be described as a kind of desperation, as if expecting one to burst open or the other to suddenly rise without a warning. Nothing like that happened though. The door remained shut, and the figure on the couch sat perfectly still, seemingly unbothered by her agitation.
Caligo, whose name Claire had learned shortly after stumbling into what felt more like a carefully staged reappearance than a break-in, was calmly thumbing through the pages of the illegal, very problematic book, its title half-obscured, the cover made it clear she hadn’t noticed, or didn’t care, that it was upside down.
“The pacing won’t do you much good” she said eventually, her voice flat and definitely without anything that could pass for concern.
Claire stopped briefly. Then her legs resumed their path before she could even think to hold them still. After a second, she found her voice back.
“You shouldn’t even fucking speak” she snapped, voice sharp from fatigue and fraying nerves. “What other golden advice do you have? I’ve asked you to leave. Repeatedly.”
“And yet” Caligo replied, with the confidence of someone entirely unconcerned by consequences “I’m still here. Strange. It’s almost as if you have no idea how to make me go. Not that there is a way.” She shut the book and rested it on her lap, finally lifting her eyes.
“I may have golden advice, Claire. But more importantly, I might just be your golden ticket out of this whole mess that you’ve found yourself in.”
“And how would that be?” Claire snapped “All I know is that you’re some unhinged squatter who’s been hiding in my walls. The door was locked, I’m sure of it; how the hell did you even get in?”
The white-haired girl smiled, her expression placid, unfazed by the outburst, as if she had been through this hundreds of times before already. She met Claire’s furious stare with an unsettling kind of calm, as if the storm unfolding before her had nothing to do with her at all. She didn’t bother to answer the accusation.
“The people who came here… ” she said, brushing a bit of dust from the spine of the book, all be it mostly for that theatrical effect, as if she was some old sage, telling Claire of things normal people had no chance of knowing about
02/48 Chapter 2 – summer
“They’re bad news. They’re after a certain kind of item. Rare, illegal, valuable in ways most people don’t understand. They’d do anything to get it. Even if they haven’t found what they’re looking for yet… they now know something’s off.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed, her whole body tensing.
“How do they even know I have this?” she said, voice rising sharply, and then disappearing under a hush of fear that the walls could have ears. “It’s just a book. It was a setup, wasn’t it?”
She stepped forward suddenly, half a lunge of an animal about to catch their prey, eyes wide with panic and suspicion. Caligo didn’t flinch. If anything, she leaned in, in a steady movement, the corners of her mouth tugged upward in a way that suggested neither kindness nor malice. Just a strange satisfaction.
“Perhaps” she murmured. “Maybe someone out there doesn’t like you much, eh? Atta girl. Wouldn’t suspect you to have enemies.”
The words struck harder than Claire expected. Her breath hitched. That single confirmation, casual and almost flippant, sent a cold wave through her body. Dots connecting in her mind. Whatever scraps of certainty she had left seemed to unravel at once. She backed away, slowly at first, then dropped to the floor beside the wall, hands limp in her lap. Her face was pale, and the strenght to fight was leaving quickly.
Caligo shifted on the couch. She moved without hurry, crawling across the cushions to the far end, positioning herself closer. She said nothing yet. She didn’t need to. Something in the air between them had already changed, and she seemed to know very well how to spin it, use it for her gain.
“So, if you’re willing to listen now” Caligo began, voice low and steady, “I might be able to help you. Let’s say I’m part of a… certain organization, not unlike those people who came searching for the book. Only that we are on the other side of this mess. We protect those items. We collect them, keep them safe.”
Claire’s eyes sharpened, a flicker of hope breaking through the storm inside her.
03/48 Chapter 2 – summer
“You mean you can take the book? Just like that, and everything goes back to normal?”
She pushed herself forward on her knees, searching Caligo’s face for some sign, some promise and reassurance.
“Sort of” Caligo said tilting her head, smiling faintly. “Yes, I can take the book. But those people already know you’re involved. You’ll be under watch. Investigations, questions at your work, your school. They’ll show up wherever and whenever you don’t want them the most.”
The words landed like an unimaginable weight shaking the ground, and Claire collapsed back onto the floor. The air seemed to thicken around her even more. If that happened, she could kiss goodbye to university, to her job, and worst of all, if Cecil ever heard, if he found out, she would become unworthy of the higher classes; be marked as a criminal. He would turn away. Not even out of cruelty, but because his world couldn’t afford the stain of association.
The flood of new fears and truths spun around her head. Her once dull, predictable life now felt like a carousel, spinning fast out of control. She didn’t know if she could stop it, or if she even wanted to. No thoughts came, only the desperate wish to close her eyes, to make it all disappear. Not to wake up as before, just to be free of the heavy numbness pressing down inside her mind.
“Oh, don’t do that now” Caligo said softly, tugging on Claire’s shirt to draw her back. “I never said it’s hopeless. You just need to get away for a while. Leave the city. Take a vacation. Ey?”
“I can’t leave the city” Claire murmured, too drained to find her usual clarity. Her voice came hollow, the shape of defeat settling into it. She covered her eyes with her arm, the pressure pleasant on the eyelids.
“Then how did I get in?” Caligo asked, feigning offence, though the glint in her eyes betrayed a certain delight. “Do you think someone like me was born here? Raised within these walls? I’d be as boring and in line as you turned out to be.”
But Claire didn’t rise to the bait. The teasing washed over her entirely. She didn’t believe escape was possible. No one ever left the city. Yet in the silence that followed, the words echoed, refusing to leave her mind. Because what choice was left? She could turn herself in, let them have her, and whoever had slipped that book into her hands would have won. Her reward would be a cell. Or worse: exile to the lower districts, to live and die forgotten. Cecil would abandon her because he’d have no choice. His life belonged to the upper castes, and she; she’d become a liability.
04/48 Chapter 2 – summer
Still, leaving? It wasn’t just fear that made her hesitate. There were reasons deeply woven into her daily life.
“I have a job” she said finally. “I’m supposed to be studying. The entrance exams are in a little over half a year. If I leave now, I lose everything I’ve worked for. If I stay, and confess… I lose it all just the same.”
“Well, my people don’t just protect the books, you know” Caligo said. “We look after the ones who end up with them too. I could arrange something… let’s say, a sudden illness. Something mysterious. You’d be quarantined. From what I’ve gathered, your city takes that kind of thing very seriously, given how tightly everyone’s packed in and young people dying is unpreferable to the overall cause.”
“Oh, sure” Her voice dry and unimpressed. “That easy. I’d need a diagnosis, an official test result, paperwork, signatures, approvals. And no one’s been quarantined in years. What kind of illness just appears out of nowhere?”
Caligo exhaled, clearly trying to explain with as little effort as possible, “Imported goods. Or a neighbor who illegally left the city.”
“Oh, brilliant” Claire muttered. “Can’t wait to find one of those. Maybe I’ll just eat a rat.”
“You talk like you’re clever” Caligo said, unfazed “yet you seem unaware of something as basic as a small, harmless lie. There is no neighbor, and they wont even look into it. I’ll handle the documents. You won’t even have to leave the flat. Just say the word.”
“Yeah, sure.” The sarcasm was thick, but Claire no longer expected logic from her uninvited guest. If humoring her meant she'd finally leave, then fine.
“Perfect!” Caligo beamed, leaping from the couch like a child set loose from a long lecture as if the mischievous spirit waited for something at least slightly resembling a yes, that could be used and spinned. She was halfway to the door in seconds. “I’ll be back in a few hours. In the meantime, pack what you need.”
And then she was gone. Just like that.
05/48 Chapter 2 – summer
The silence that followed was jarring. But the rush of adrenaline, half victory, half disbelief, pushed Claire to her feet. She reached the door, locked it with trembling fingers, then dragged over a chair and wedged it under the handle, as if that is what was missing in the last attempt of keeping the intruder out. Just in case. A moment passed, and only then did she allow herself to exhale.
But the world was spinning, and it was spinning fast. The solution to the mess still nowhere in sight. There was no way she’d make it to work, not today, with all of what was happening. And that thought alone sent a wave of cold panic crawling through her. Still, she’d try. Her shift wasn’t until late; there was time to rest. Time to think. Time to figure something out. There had to be a way out of this. Must be.
Stumbling, unsteady, she collapsed onto the bed. The moment her head touched the pillow, the lights inside her mind flicked off.
***
A sharp, relentless knocking tore Claire from of whatever nerve soothing dream had only just begun to form. One second she was weightless in sleep, the next she sat bolt upright in bed, heart hammering, sweat slick on the back of her neck.
For a moment, she thought of staying silent and pretending not to be home, but the knocking didn’t pause. It only grew more frantic, more insistent, as though whoever stood outside had no intention of leaving without actually seeing her or maybe as if they knew that she is inside, aware of their presence.
Claire moved cautiously to the door. Rising on her toes, she peered through the peephole, hesitating before briefly as though even the act of looking might carry some invisible risk. And a risk there was, if not to her body, then to her nerves; Another eye stared right back at her.
She flinched, gasping under her breath, but the fear passed quickly. She slid the chair aside and unlocked the door.
“Oh, thank the golden God you’re alive” Abigail exhaled, her voice unsteady with relief. She looked genuinely distressed, as though she'd spent hours imagining the worst and being prepared to see it.
06/48 Chapter 2 – summer
“Why wouldn’t I be? To what do I owe your visit?” Claire asked, her tone uncertain, though already a dozen explanations began swirling in her mind. She stepped aside, expecting Abigail to enter, but she didn’t move.
“Well… it’s not like you to miss work. I got worried.” Abigail studied her face. “You look terrible. Are you feeling alright?”
The words, though direct, carried only concern. Abigail’s eyes were kind, and her hand reached instinctively to Claire’s forehead, checking for warmth, but Claire pulled back, suddenly alarmed. Her eyes darted to the clock.
She had slept through most of the day. A sick, sinking feeling passed through her, draining the color from her face.
“I don’t understand how that happened…” she murmured, mostly to herself.
“Have you been to a doctor?” Abigail’s voice was gentle now. “Maybe you’re just overworked. It wouldn’t hurt to take a break. You’ve earned one, Claire.”
“What? No, why would I leave?” Claire snapped back too quickly, her voice sharp with panic. She sounded like someone caught mid-crime. Abigail blinked, startled by the tone.
“Oh, Claire. You really do need rest” she said softly. “I wasn’t saying anything dramatic. Just… maybe some time off. You’re the only one of us who’s never taken a single day.”
Claire didn’t respond. Her mouth opened, then closed again, as if she feared what might come out if she tried to explain. In truth, the fatigue had begun to mimic illness; her body felt detached, and her thoughts, weightless and strange.
“Just think about it” Abigail added, reaching into her bag. She pulled out a small container. “I made too much dinner. Was going to bring this for lunch at work. Maybe I had a premonition you’d need it more.”
Claire took it, her hands trembling faintly.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome” Abigail said, then stepped forward and gave her a firm, reassuring hug.
“See a doctor. Today, if you can. And please, rest plenty. Don’t feel guilty about it.”
With that, she turned and hurried down the stairs, her presence vanishing as quickly as it had come, leaving only the lingering warmth of her perfume, and the soft click of her shoes echoing down the corridor.
07/48 Chapter 2 – summer
The girl stood in the doorway for a long moment, hardly comprehending what had just happened. The apartment felt too still, the silence stretched thin around her. Slowly, she closed the door and turned, ready to drag herself back to bed, only to freeze mid-step.
Caligo was standing in the middle of the living room.
“Oh, fucking hell, a rat…”
“That’s mighty kind of you” the intruder replied, waving a small stack of papers in front of Claire’s face. “Such a warm welcome for your savior. And you haven’t even started packing.”
“As if I’m going anywhere with you. And those fake papers? Really?” Claire shot back, narrowing her eyes. “And it happened again, how did you even get in?”
“You’re so sick you didn’t even notice me slip right past you at the door. Poor thing.”
Caligo stepped forward, tucking the documents into Claire’s hand while simultaneously lifting Abigail’s food container from the other.
“Hm. No idea what this is, but judging by the contents of your own fridge, I’m guessing it’s not much to write home about.”
Claire didn’t answer. Her eyes were already on the papers, skimming through line after line, fingers tightening around the edges as she read. They were crisp, properly stamped, fully formatted. Official. All of it looked real.
“How… how did you manage this?” she asked, voice low, unsure if she wanted to know.
“Magic” Caligo replied with a smirk, then immediately grimaced after taking a bite of the contents of the container.
“Might as well be” Claire murmured.
She kept reading. Every detail appeared correct. Real names, real department stamps, plausible quarantine protocols. On this level of the city, even routine forms took weeks to process.
She looked up, suspicion still heavy in her chest, but beneath it, something else was stirring. A reluctant sort of awe. Whoever this strange girl was, she had access. Influence. Resources Claire couldn’t begin to understand. And perhaps, even more unsettling, she seemed to be telling the truth.
08/48 Chapter 2 – summer
Maybe she really was part of something larger. And maybe she could actually help.
She looked up to see Caligo at the fridge, rifling through its contents with visible disappointment and tossing the nibbled on Abigails dinner inside, like a bored thief surveying a vault of lint. Whatever she was hoping to find, it clearly wasn’t there. Her shoulders sagged theatrically, and she let the door close with a sigh.
For someone supposedly affiliated with something secret and powerful, she certainly didn’t carry herself like it. Her manners were atrocious. She moved with the confidence of a stray who had decided it owned the place, chewing with her mouth open, speaking like nothing ever required discretion or apology. And yet the documents were real.
Which meant she was someone with reach, at least. Someone who could move through systems most people couldn’t even see, let alone manipulate. Claire still struggled to reconcile the strange, uncouth girl before her with that kind of influence. But maybe that was the lesson: power rarely looked the way you expected.
“So…” she cleared her throat, trying to sound more composed than she felt “if I were to go out of the city with you… where would we go?”
A smug grin crept across Caligo’s face.
“Wherever you’d like” she said with a wink, then shrugged. “But realistically? I’ve got some frie… well, acquaintances, in the south. There’s a kind of official refuge there. People like you tend to end up there.”
Claire gave a small nod, her stomach sinking.
“I suppose I don’t have much of a choice…”
“Perfect! Pack your ba…”
“I have conditions” she interrupted, more firmly this time, something of her usual self rising again.
Caligo groaned, dropping her head back in mock exasperation, “Girl, you are in no position to negotiate. But fine. Let’s hear them.”
“I need access to a library. I still have to study. And I want to be able to send letters regularly. To Abigail, Mr. Moineau, and Mr. Bauer.”
Caligo made a face but didn’t protest.
“Ehh, I can arrange that.” She extended a hand toward Claire, expectant.
09/48 Chapter 2 – summer
“…And are you sure the documents will cover my absence? I won’t lose my job?”
Caligo raised a brow.
“Sugar, I’m the best at what I do. Your employer and your study program legally have to honor official quarantine documentation. You’ll still have your job when you come back. Though I should warn you, it probably won’t be paid time off.”
Claire hesitated. Caligo smiled again.
“But don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”
She punctuated it with another wink. Claire grimaced slightly, brows twitching with something between suspicion and reluctant amusement. Still, she reached out, and shook her hand.
“Now pack!” Caligo barked, leaping onto the couch and curling into her former position, where the abandoned book still lay. “Just not too much. I don’t have a lot of cargo space.”
Claire crossed her arms. “Well, I’d expect you to tell me what I need to pack, for the destination and the duration.”
The irritation in her voice was masked just barely, sharp enough to poke through. She didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to rely on this stranger for anything, but the truth was she had no choice anymore, and she might as well play the same game.
Caligo waved a hand lazily, not even glancing up. “Clothes for maybe a week. I’ll get you the rest once we get there. Toothbrush, underwear. You know, the basics.”
Claire turned without another word, suppressing the urge to slam the bedroom door behind her. She packed quickly, efficiently. A week’s worth of clothes. Soap. A small mirror. Toothbrush, hairbrush. After the essentials, her hand hovered for a moment over her desk before she reached down and began pulling her study materials from the shelves. Coursebooks, exam notes, notebooks marked with sticky tabs and scribbled margins.
From the living room, a voice rang out: “We don’t have space for that.”
“Then I’m not going.”
10/48 Chapter 2 – summer
There was a pause. A heavy, deliberate silence. Caligo peeked over the book with a theatrical frown, her lower lip pushed out so far she might’ve meant to pout. It was so absurd that Claire froze for a second in disbelief that an adult can act like this. The silver-haired girl sighed, the page of the book she was holding fluttering under her breath. But she said nothing. She could see Claire wasn’t bluffing. If there was no space, then space would have to be made.
And though Caligo might try again, just for the principle of pushing her limits, she now understood that Claire would not budge on this. Her education was the last thing she still had control over. The only future that still felt like hers.
By the time everything was packed, night had fully settled. The dim streetlights outside hummed softly through the windowpanes, casting long shadows against the walls. Claire stood in the middle of the living room, her bag zipped and waiting by the door.
“You still haven’t told me how we’re getting out” she said quietly, more tired than suspicious now, though half certain that they will get turned away at some point, unable to make it out.
“Don’t bother your pretty little head with that” she replied, patting Claire’s head briefly as she passed. “So. You got everything?”
Claire glanced around the room once more. The space felt almost hollow now, though still packed to the brim, stripped of even the illusion of permanence. She’d never spent a night anywhere else, not once in her life. This place had held her through study and sickness, quiet nights and dull routines. And now it felt as if she were about to vanish from it entirely, like stepping out would mean it ceased to exist, never to return.
Some part of her, the quiet, instinctual part, hesitated. She could feel it pulling at her, invisible fingers around her ankles, holding her still. It didn’t feel right. And yet… she reached for the bag anyway.
She stepped to the table in the center of the room, fingers brushing against the little ornament Abigail had given her before the ball for luck. Perhaps, now, it would do more than that. She hoped it would keep her grounded, a piece of home to anchor her as everything else slipped out of reach. Without quite thinking, she put it on.
“Yeah” she murmured, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile sense of resolve forming in her chest. “I guess I have everything…”
Her voice was thin. The strength she had found only minutes earlier drained away again, leaving behind the familiar tide of doubt, and something else too. Something warmer, stranger. An itching sensation, as though tiny sparks raced beneath her skin, darting up her arms and down to her feet. It was not fear though. More like the curious tension before an exam, that trembling anticipation.
11/48 Chapter 2 – summer
Excitement, perhaps. Or dread. Or both, tangled in the veins like twin strands of the same thread, pulling her forward even as part of her screamed to stay.
She bent to lift the bag, but Caligo was already there, tugging it from her grasp without a word and slinging it over her own shoulder. Together, they stepped out into the sleeping city, closing the doors of safety and security behind them.
The streets were still. The air pressed down heavy and cold, thick with the hush of curfew. Every step echoed just a bit too loud, too sharp, bouncing from the narrow alley walls like thrown stones. Claire flinched at each one, instinctively glancing over her shoulder, half expecting someone to lean from a window or emerge from a doorway to stop them. But the buildings remained quiet. The city, for once, seemed not to see them.
Caligo moved with ease, guiding them through narrow passages and gaps between maintenance corridors; paths Claire had never seen, though she’d lived her entire life within these walls. It was like walking through a hidden, separate city, one that coexisted with her own but remained hidden just beneath the surface.
Then the way straightened, choked with buildings on both sides, until it ended abruptly in a blind alley, with seemingly no way to go further. Before them stood a structure, a boarded-up ruin, sagging with age and disrepair, its bricks splintered and patched with haphazard fixes that had long since failed or were unsuccessful to begin with. It leaned crookedly against the outer wall of the city as if it was the last thing still keeping it upright, and the thought of standing so near filled Claire with dread. It looked ready to collapse, as if it might lurch and swallow them whole on a whim.
But Caligo didn’t hesitate. She led Claire to one side of the building, where the structure pressed tightly against the city’s perimeter wall. There, nearly hidden in shadow, was a narrow break in the lower masonry, a warped seam no wider than a sewer vent, where water must have worn through over the years.
Claire’s breath caught. Reluctantly, she stepped after her guide, her boots slipping over loose, wet brick and scattered debris. The air was thicker here, muffled and damp, and the darkness swallowed everything. It was the kind of dark that did not allow even shapes, only the cold weight of unseen space pressing in on all sides.
12/48 Chapter 2 – summer
“Caligo...?” she whispered, her voice vanishing almost as soon as it left her. She startled at the touch; fingers curling gently around her hand.
“Keep close to me” came the soft reply, somewhere near her ear. “Don’t let go, sugar.”
There was something amused in the tone, but Claire couldn’t tell if it was true excitement or just the lilt of someone long used to living in the margins. Perhaps it was easier to pretend she wasn’t afraid. She tightened her grip nonetheless, clutching harder with each stumble, each time her foot skidded over the slick, uneven floor. Caligo moved forward without hesitation, as though her eyes could pierce the pitch black before them. Claire didn’t understand how, and perhaps she didn’t want to ask.
Then something shifted beneath her soles. The stone gave way to metal, and her steps rang out sharp and strange, reverberating in great hollow echoes that shivered through the air. The realization, hit her like a sudden punch to the stomach, making the heart beat even faster. She realized where they were. They had entered one of the great pipes.
One of the massive tunnels she had passed countless times on her way to work, always sealed, mystery of some infrastructure from below. She had wondered before, the curiosity that was never really clear to her, what they were for, and dreamed of them being a way out of the city. Now she was walking inside one, theories seemingly confirmed.
A cold wind drifted through the tunnel, curling up from somewhere ahead. It brushed her face like icy fingers, drawing the breath from her lungs. When she inhaled, it stung, sharp and clean, slicing through the cloying weight of the city’s ever-present smoke. Her throat burned, then opened. Her sinuses cleared. It was like her body remembered something it had not felt in years; clarity. Air not as heavily laced with fuel and soot.
With each step, the feeling grew. Her shoulders seemed to lift, her mind unfogged, and the tunnel itself slowly revealed its shape. The rusted curve of iron began to emerge from the darkness, speckled with rivets, its joints aged with streaks of condensation and time. It shimmered faintly with reflected light, though she could not yet see the source.
There was a bend just ahead. And from behind it, a faint glow. Claire’s heart leapt and turned, breath catching in her throat as her imagination ran wild. What would she see? A landscape untouched? A hidden crossing? The world beyond?
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But as they rounded the corner, her stomach dropped. The end of the pipe came into view, and with it, the truth: a rusted barrier, iron bars twisted and bent by time or intent, still holding, trying to block the way. Beyond them lay nothing but fog. Endless, roiling gray, like a sea of smoke suspended in place. The city’s perimeter lights cast their beams into the mist, scattering shadows within it that writhed and twisted like silhouettes of something. Shapes that had no edges. Movements without form. A slow, swirling dance of shadow that made her skin crawl.
“The area outside the wall is monitored closely” Caligo said, her voice low but unwavering. “Do not, and I mean this, do not, under any circumstance, let go of my hand until I say you can. No matter what happens. Understood?”
The sudden shift in Caligo’s demeanor was almost disorienting. Gone was the irreverent smirk, the drawling sarcasm, the perpetual gleam of mischief in her eyes. What stood before her now was someone else entirely, still Caligo in form, but with a gravity she hadn’t known the girl possessed. Her presence demanded respect, and Claire, though confused, felt no urge to question it. She nodded, slowly.
Without another word, Caligo inhaled deeply and moved toward the bars. She slipped between the twisted iron like it was nothing, and tugged Claire after her. There was a slight drop, unexpected, and Claire stumbled as the earth beneath her shifted. The ground was soft. Her shoes sank with a sickening squelch.
She looked down. Mud. Thick, cold, greedy mud, swallowing the soles of her shoes and clinging as if determined to keep her from going any farther.
Each step was a struggle. The land outside seemed determined to resist her, every footfall sinking deeper than the last, the muck clutching at her heels like hands. Claire gritted her teeth and held tighter to Caligo’s hand, not daring to look back.
The city lights were fading. The warm orange glow of the perimeter, dimmed and swallowed by distance and fog, seemed to dissolve into the gloom behind them. She finally got the courage to turn her head, catching sight of faint yellow orbs spaced in steady intervals, hanging high in the mist like strange stars. Higher still, she saw bursts of blue and violet and white, pinpricks of color gleaming through the haze.
She had seen the upper levels from below before, yes, but never like this. From here, with the whole city laid out behind her, she saw it for what it truly was. A fortress. A colossus. A sanctum against the ever-rising dark and rain. Towers pierced the clouds like mountain peaks. Lines of light traced its edges like constellations in orbit. For the first time, she understood the scale of it. The power. The sanctuary.
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And now she was leaving it behind. A quiet ache settled in her chest, a yearning, though she could’ve always felt it, now it was clear. It was for the life above, a life she had never yet touched, seen from afar on the balls, and barely had the courage to dream that big. It called to her now with the voice of longing, even as the earth beneath her tried to hold her fast. It felt as if it was what she was leaving behind, but, how can one miss something they never yet possessed.
She swallowed hard. A swirl of thoughts, annoying and persistent, like a swarm of flies cluttered her mind. Was she walking into exile? Into a trap? The city, cold as it could be, had always been her home, her protection. And now, with forged papers in her pocket and contraband slung across Caligos back, she might never return. Or worse, she might return to find a sentence waiting for her. Prison. Trial.
A tremor ran down her spine. She had so many questions. They pressed at her throat, desperate to be asked. But she didn’t voice them. She already knew the answers. Or she would, soon enough.
So she kept walking. One foot after the other, deeper into the mud, deeper into the mist, fingers locked around Caligo’s hand. And the city disappeared behind her. Long minutes passing in complete silence.
“You can let go now” Caligo smiled, the usual mischievous sparkle returning to her eyes. “Unless you don’t want to, which honestly, I wouldn’t mind.”
At that, Claire realized the girl before her was still the same one she had learned to despise over the past few weeks, and with a quick yank, she pulled her hand free.
“The air here is different. With each breath I feel like I’m getting too much of it” She said, trying to change the topic
“This is nothing yet. Just wait until we reach our destination. You ain’t gonna get enough, trust me.” Caligo looked at her companion as if there was something else she meant to say, but wasn’t sure if she should.
“What now?” Claire asked tightening her coat against the biting wind that clawed through the night, seemingly not noticing that.
“Well…” Caligo began, leading the way down the slope, her footsteps sure despite the uneven ground. “To reach our destination, we need to go further south.”
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Claire squinted into the gloom. “I’ve heard there’s an old city north of here, on the coast. An ancient castle rising like a mountain out of the water.”
“Yeah, I guess there was” Caligo said dismissively. “Probably underwater now.”
“Have you ever been there?”
“Many times” Caligo answered, her voice cold and unreadable. “For business.”
Claire tilted her head, puzzled.
“What do you mean? So someone still lives there? I thought it had been abandoned for centuries.”
“Uh… not exactly” Caligo said, cutting off the conversation abruptly, as if the topic was a closed door. “Let’s just say it’s connected to one of the artifacts.”
Claire felt the shift, the unvoiced warning hanging heavy between them. She didn’t press further. Suddenly, Caligo’s voice broke the silence, sharper this time.
“Oh, there it is!”
Before them stood a strange contraption. Two wheels, a jumble of pipes twisting and curving in ways that made little sense at first glance. Claire’s eyes widened as she took it in. It was a motorcycle. Though unlike any she had seen in books. The frame looked heavier, more archaic. The pipes seemed almost nonsensical, winding like veins through metal ribs.
There were two metal chests fastened on either side. Behind the second seat was a bulky bundle of materials, scrunched and rolled tight, though messily. Surely, more space could be made if only the owner of the machine put in a bit more time into organizing what they had, with a little bit more thought.
“I think I understand now what you meant by ‘lack of space’” Claire murmured, her earlier frustrations rising back up to the surface.
“I wish I had more, but there aren’t exactly many viable options, considering the weather you have up here.”
“Up here?” Claire raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it raining everywhere? Also, you can have more; you just have to learn how to pack.”
Caligo seemed too occupied with attaching Claire’s bag to answer. After several attempts, she finally secured it, though the weight made the motorcycle noticeably off-balance. Still, after a few adjustments, she managed to steady it enough.
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“All right. Hop on” she said with a grin. But Claire didn’t move.
“Can we go see the city first?”
Caligo didn’t look pleased. The faint crease between her brows deepened as she fumbled with the straps securing Claire’s bag.
“Not exactly a joyride” she muttered, voice low and reluctant, each word weighed before letting anything slip. “The city’s about five hours north of here, give or take.” She glanced sideways, eyes flickering with something unreadable, guarded. “But with this weather… it could be more. Could be less. Could take a day. Could stretch into two. Depends on what the skies decide to throw at us.”
Claire frowned, noticing the shift in Caligo’s mood, the sharp edge replacing her usual sarcasm.
“Two days?”
Caligo shrugged, avoiding her gaze.
“Yeah. Could be. Roads get rough. Mud, rain, the usual misery.” She bit her lip. “And it could start to rain even harder, because why not.”
Her fingers tightened on the handlebars, knuckles paling. “After that, we’d have to keep going. North. From there, the closest way forward to where we’re headed.”
“Wait, north? But… didn’t you say we were going south?”
Caligo’s grip stiffened even more, voice sharpening with dismissal. “You don’t need to worry about the details.”
Claire’s mind churned with questions, but the hesitation in Caligo’s tone warned against pressing further. Something was held back. Hidden behind vague directions and wary silence. Maybe it was one of those secret society secrets she could not explain to a stranger without severe consequences.
She could not understand however, no matter how hard she tried, how the trip would play out. There was nothing more than to trust her new found travel partner, but it was most certainly not in her nature to trust what she didn’t know and didn’t understand. And most certainly not something that was being kept from her intentionally.
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She turned around, her eyes desperately trying to find answers in the darkness. The faint glow of the perimeter lights breaking through the fog a little in the distance, as if trying to reach her again.
She hesitated. Trying to find the most logical of options, but there were none. If she were to go back, she’d surely be caught. There was no safe return if she did not ask Caligo for help, who would surely not change her mind. She exhaled loudly.
After a moment of silence, Claire said quietly “I want to see it. Even if we’re only passing by. I wouldn’t mind traveling longer for that.” Although not what she’d prefer over her small cluttered apartment, she felt as if she could still have some resemblance of control in other matters. And she was set on making the most of it from this mess.
“Another thing you’re not gonna budge on, huh?”
This time it was Claire’s turn to smirk, nodding with proud defiance. Caligo exhaled and gestured sharply toward the motorcycle.
“Hop on” she said, already settling onto the seat and steadying the machine.
Claire hesitated for a moment, heart pounding not just from nerves but from the strange thrill of stepping into something so unfamiliar. She slid onto the narrow seat behind Caligo, feeling the cold metal beneath her legs, the coarse texture of the worn leather brushing against her clothes. The motorcycle was smaller, tighter than she had expected, more like an animal crouched and waiting than a vehicle. Some odd, dangerous beast. It did not give a sence of security that a machine should have, she felt. As if there was more to it than she could see.
Before she could fully gather her thoughts, Caligo’s hands gripped the handlebars and the engine rumbled to life beneath them, a deep, throaty growl that vibrated through the metal frame and shot straight up into Claire’s spine. The sound was raw, unlike the distant, mechanical hum of the city trains and machines.
The sudden pulse of power beneath her made her instinctively grip Caligo’s waist, anchoring herself as the bike lurched forward. The ground beneath its wheels slipped and hissed, wet from the rain, sending a shudder up through the frame.
As they moved, the world blurred at the edges, shadows melting into darkness, and the faint light from the headlamp cutting a narrow path through the black. The cool rush of air whipped past her face, tugging at her hair and biting at her skin.
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She closed her eyes briefly, breath catching as the bike picked up speed, every bump and tremor a reminder of the fragile boundary between control and chaos. There was no smooth glide here, no gentle rhythm of steel wheels on rails, just the wild, uneven pulse of engine and earth.
In that moment, Claire understood what it meant to leave the safety of the city behind. Not just the walls and streets she knew, but the quiet certainty of the life she had always lived. Now feeling as unstable as the vehicle below her.
The bumps and sliding gave way after a couple of minutes, to a steady and quiet hum. She peaked in front of it. They were on a road, or, more fittingly, what was left of it. Although still intact in places, there were many holes and cracks that Caligo evaded skillfully.
But what did not give Claire the comfort, was the though of how fascinating the concept of wide, solid roads connecting thousands of cities and settlements was before. And now, being on one of those ancient reminders of the past, it felt hollow. Something so grand, felt actually, very ordinary.
Her thoughts drifted. She felt the gentle sway of the motorcycle as it navigated the traps, the sharp spray of water here and there, and the chill seeping through her clothes, like an invading tide creeping closer with each wave.
It was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. The city train had always been a cage, steady and predictable, guided by rails that never strayed. But this, this was raw freedom and uncertainty tangled together. It frightened her, but the fear was woven with a curious excitement she hadn’t known she craved.
The wind tugged at her coat, whispering secrets she couldn’t quite catch, and with every kilometer, the walls of the life she’d known receded further into shadow.
Gradually, exhaustion wrapped itself around her limbs, the steady drone of the engine lulling her toward sleep despite the chill and the damp. Her eyes fluttered shut, the motion rocking her gently, carrying her into a dream.
***
Claire stirred, unsure at first whether it had been the shift in the engine’s rhythm or the cold, heavy drops of rain on her cheek that woke her. The world returned in fragments; the low, heavy thrum beneath her legs, the pressure of her arms still wrapped tightly around Caligo’s waist, and above them, the dim stretch of sky, heavy and gray, like damp cloth hung too low.
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Her back ached. The side of her face prickled with cold, and her fingers, stiff and curled inward, barely responded. She must have slept for hours, slipping in and out as the road passed beneath them, the steady motion and hum of the machine dulling everything to the edge of dream.
Lifting her head, she took in the surroundings. For a moment, she felt disoriented. The city wasn’t there. Its walls, its noise, the routine she had clung to; all of it was gone. The weight of that truth settled in again. She was really here. Somewhere far beyond the border of everything she had known. Her heart thudded a little harder.
It was already well into the morning. The light had grown, though the fog dulled much of it. Visibility was limited. Still, what was close revealed itself easily enough.
She stared at the unfamiliar green that bordered the road: tall strands of grass, deep in color, rising high and wild along the crumbled edges of the asphalt. Some had pushed through the cracks, reclaiming what had once been taken.
Beyond that, further off, shadows loomed; the silhouettes of trees. Thick, dark trunks and heavy crowns, their tops lost in the fog. Where the mist thinned, she caught glimpses of them more clearly. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Each different. Some narrow, with upright limbs; others broader, their branches spreading wide.
It was the first time she’d seen trees for herself. Not sketches or filtered images in old textbooks, but real ones. She watched in silence, unsure how long.
But now, with the mist picking up on the thickness, the feeling was overwhelming. A pitch white sorrounded her. And the difference between this and the walls of the city, was that she could clearly know where the bounds of the buildings were, but here… It all seemed endless. Unprotected. Dangers invisible in the distance.
Something else caught her attention. They weren’t moving fast anymore. The motorcycle crawled along, no longer riding with confidence but trudging, slow and careful, the wheels grumbling against the ground. The fog had thickened even more into a silvery veil, the road visible only a couple of meters ahead, and the wind carried the promise of worse things to come.
Caligo’s voice broke the silence. Calm, but edged with something else.
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“You're awake.”
Claire shifted her weight slightly, then sat up straighter. “How long was I out?”
“A while” Caligo answered, her eyes still on the road. “Didn’t want to stop. But looks like the rain’s making the choice for us.”
Claire glanced upward. The clouds were darker now, dense and swollen, moving fast across sky. Raindrops streaked past them, sharper, in an angled fall.
“There’s an old abandoned city not far from here” Caligo added, raising her voice a little over the wind. “Mostly ruins, but some of the buildings should still have a roof. We’ll make camp there for now, wait this out.”
Claire didn’t protest. The cold had crept deep into her limbs during the ride, and the idea of solid ground was a relief, even if it meant sheltering in a damp, half collapsed house.
“Is it far?” she asked, brushing water from her face.
“Less than half an hour.” Caligo turned the handlebars slightly, guiding them off the main road onto a narrower, less defined path, flanked by rows of crooked trees. “It’s older than the city of yours. But one of the first to fall when the ocean rose.”
Claire said nothing, but she pressed her lips together at the word fall. Something in the way Caligo said it made it feel personal, like the ruin wasn’t just of buildings and stones.
The rain thickened even more as they rode, The only constant was the sound of the engine, slowing further, as they reached what remained of a stone wall, emerging suddenly from the fog, half-swallowed by earth and time. They had arrived.
The motorcycle sputtered to silence beneath the arch of a worn stone gate, its outer edge choked with ivy. Claire climbed off stiffly, her boots squelching in the wet gravel. As she straightened, she took in the sight before her. A long, narrow street flanked by ancient buildings, their walls bending under centuries of wind and rain, their windows nothing but hollow sockets.
Water trickled in slow streams down the roads and over cracked flagstones. Moss crept up the sides of old facades, and signs that had once announced bakeries, shops, or apothecaries now hung crooked or lay shattered in puddles.
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Caligo dismounted, she said nothing, wiped rain from her brow, and gave a slow turn of her head, assessing. Then, without looking at Claire, she gestured toward a narrow alley branching off to their right.
“This way. There's a place I’ve used before.”
Claire followed, hugging herself to ward off the chill. There seemed to not be a lot left. Most of the buildings almost gone. She could only guess what they could have been previously.
Caligo stopped in front of a heavy stone structure, taller than the rest, with a broken bell tower rising at one corner, its top half caved in. The front doors were gone, but inside was dry, or at least dry enough. A large hall stretched ahead, its floor uneven and cracked with time, with plants trying to take over, covered in a fine dusting of soil and leaves blown in by wind.
Claire stepped inside cautiously. The smell of damp wood and stone filled her nose. She rubbed her arms, still watching as Caligo moved with efficiency: setting the gear down, checking the ceiling for leaks, then kneeling to spread a large piece of cloth over the driest part of the floor.
There were remnants of the old world here too. A shattered altar in the far end, a wall of stained glass, though now mostly missing, and carvings along the walls that the moss had yet to erase. Claire’s gaze lingered on them, tracing the patterns, wondering what they meant.
She approached the altar in the far end of the room, examining it curiously. Was her own god worshipped here, or was it one of those pagan religions she heard so much about. She tried to make it out, looking for clues in the rubble.
“Help me with the blankets” Caligo’s voice broke through the reverie.
Claire flinched, but nodded. She crossed the hall and knelt beside her, pulling the folded woolen fabric from its wrappings and laying it out. The sound of rain grew louder above them as the storm picked up, tapping in frantic rhythms against the stones.
The blankets were of odd material. Heavy, and coarse but soft at the same time. The patterns were mesmerizing and consistent, as if a form of someones tradition, but not any she was aware of.
“I didn’t think we’d stop so early” Claire murmured.
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“I didn’t either” Caligo leaned back, brushing dust from her knees. “But it’s risky to drive when it’s raining so heavily. The roads are not In great shape”
Claire nodded, letting herself sit fully, feeling the fatigue settle again. Her bones ached from the ride, her thoughts dulled and slow. She listened to the wind whistle faintly through the bell tower and tried not to think of how strange it was; to find comfort in ruins.
Her thoughts wandered, spinning circles, coming back around to find her again. The stress of what was happening, what happened and what could be later. The rain was picking up, the heavy drumming merging into a steady humming against the stones, and though it tried really hard to lull her to sleep, there was no use. She got up, dusting herself off.
Claire stepped outside. The earth beneath her boots was soft, sinking slightly with every step, making her trip and wobble. The air here was different. Heavy with a different kind of moisture and the scent of wet earth and decaying structures. It was a sharp contrast to the thick, heavy smoke and stale smells of the city she knew so well.
She paused, looking up into the canopy of trees that framed the ruined square she found herself on. Their trunks were thick and rough, the branches drooped, leaves shimmering with fresh wet green. Claire couldn’t resist and reached out with hesitation, touching the bark, startled by its coarseness. Although sorrounded by rain and cold, the trees almost seemed to be fighting against it, feeling warm, as if it was giving off its own heat. She examined them closely. From the tops, to the very base.
On the ground, clusters of ferns and small plants thrived. Near the bottom of the trees, a bunch of small capped plants on their little stems emerged. They reminded her of small umbrellas. She crouched to look closer, but her attention was pulled by tiny flowers pushing through the earth next to them. Pale and delicate, their petals fragile but well prepared against the rain. The city offered no room for such things; its stones, iron and concrete swallowed everything else whole.
The rain and wind rustled the leaves overhead with a pleasant noise and carrying with it the faint, distant whistling. Claire lifted her gaze just in time to catch a shadow slipping between branches. It seemed to be weightless. It was the first living thing she had seen beyond the rats in the alleys. She looked at it in amazement, as it was going about it’s usual business, seemingly unaware of her presence. It’s beautiful brown, striped feathers, starting to soak with rain. She found it amusing, how the black ones around it’s face looked almost like a mask. It jumped through branches, only to suddenly lift off into the air.
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The sky above was of deep gray, but even though it was pouring relentlessly, the moment felt fragile and silent in it’s own way, like a brief pause between storms she was in. Claire closed her eyes and breathed deeply, letting the cool, fresh air fill her lungs. It was overwhelming in a way she hadn’t expected. She realized now that the city had always felt too small to stretch out in even in its grandness, and no matter how heavy a breath could be, it never gave satisfaction. But out here, with nothing but the sounds of water dripping and leaves stirring, the world seemed endless. There were no cages of wall.
She thought of the crowded streets, the narrow alleys and towering walls, the constant noise and suffocating closeness of the city’s heart. Out here, even in the ruins, the sea of broken stone and rotting wooden beams, there was room to move, to breathe, to see the sky without a barrier and walkways above, eventually cut off by another building.
Claire opened her eyes again and let her gaze drift slowly, now further away. Her
eyes felt strained, trying to see on the horizon. The vasts amounts of wild plants, the distant hills rolling soft and green under the mist. She felt the wetness of the earth in her hands when she knelt down and let her fingers sink into the cool soil.
Her heart beat a little faster as she stood and began to walk among the broken walls, feeling as if she had stepped into another world entirely.
As Claire wandered farther into the ruins, her footsteps grew more sure and steady, as if she finally learned to walk again. She admired what was left. Her attention, suddenly pulled by a reflection of something in the corner of her eye. A faint, glow somewhere in the darkness of a nearby building.
She found herself drawn towards it. It looked more intact than the rest. Its walls still stood mostly whole, though weathered and scarred. She stepped through the rubble in front of the half opened door, leaning, fallen from one of the hinges.
The air inside was musty with the scent of dust and rot. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she stepped carefully through the threshold, with an unpleasant cracking indicating they are about ready to give up. She tried placing her feet wherever it felt the most stable. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light filtering through cracked, grimy, cobweb covered windows.
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She moved slowly, the silence pressing in around her. Here and there, lay remnants of a past life. A broken chair leaning against a wall, shards of pottery scattered on the floor, a rusted lamp half buried in the rubble. But it was deeper inside the room that her gaze caught something.
On a small, battered table near the window, she spotted a few framed photographs, their glass still holding the images within with all its might, as if it was the only last guardian to remember its family, stubborn to protect what no one else remembered.
Claire knelt down, her fingers hovering over the faded pictures as if afraid to touch them.
Faces stared back at her; a man and a woman, smiling softly, their eyes kind but worn. Next to them, two children, a boy and a girl, their laughter frozen in the grainy black and white. The edges of the photos were blackened, starting to decay.
Her breath caught as she noticed something else, half-hidden beneath a fallen beam; a small wooden toy, a carved horse, its paint, that seemed to be applied with a shaky, inexperienced hand, chipped and dull. Claire picked it up, almost hoping the toy could speak and share its memories with her. It was simple, most certainly hand made by someone whose skill in woodworking was lacking, but the vast amounts of love pushed them through the project.
She imagined the children who had once played here, their footsteps echoing around the house. The family who had built a life in this place, now gone, leaving behind only these faint, fragile traces. She wondered what happened to them. Where did they go, did they stay together, did they find happiness elsewhere; a new home?
Claire sat down on the dusty floor, holding the toy horse close. For the first time, the ruins weren’t just stones and weeds. They were the memory of people, of stories lost to time. Forgotten names. A quiet sorrow touched her chest, mingled with a strange feeling of nostalgia. But how could she again miss something she never had?
***
She stepped back into the shelter of their temporary camp, the cold clinging to her skin. During her absence, Caligo had made good use of the time. In one corner a small fire burned low and steady, its light dancing against the dark stone walls. Claire could feel the warmth the moment she stepped close. A creeping relief that made her realize just how cold her hands had become.
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An odd smell lingered in the air. Something sharp and earthy, unfamiliar to her. Above the flames, thin strips of meat hung skewered on a metal rod, slowly turning under Caligo’s watchful eye.
Claire sat beside the fire, stretching her hands toward the heat, fingers still stiff from the cold.
“What is it?” she asked, eyeing the meat.
Caligo didn’t look up.
“Caught a rabbit” she said, voice casual, though a little tired. “Still surprises me, sometimes. You’d think they’d all be gone by now, with the floods and the ground being what it is. But somehow they manage. Burrows must’ve given way to something else.” She turned the meat again, frowning slightly.
“Not my favorite though. Tastes strange. Sweet and bitter, in a way that meat shouldn't be.”
Claire glanced at the food, then back at Caligo. She had never eaten real meat before. Not once. The city’s rationed proteins had always been synthetic. Nutrient-dense, efficient, but flavorless. The thought of something caught and cooked over a fire made the wait feel longer, suddenly harder to endure.
Caligo reached for a stick and began poking at the firewood, pushing it back into place. Then her eyes flicked toward Claire, catching sight of what rested in her lap.
“And you?” she asked, her tone mild. “What’ve you got there?”
Claire looked down. She had forgotten she was still holding it. The small wooden horse. She turned it once in her palm before answering.
“Just something I found. In a house nearby.” She hesitated, then added, “There were pictures too. A family.”
Caligo didn’t respond right away. The fire crackled softly between them, throwing light across the stone floor, shifting on the edges of their faces.
“Strange, isn’t it” she said after a moment. “How it’s the smallest things that last the longest.”
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Claire nodded, her thumb tracing the worn grain of the toy. For a little while, neither of them spoke. The world remained wrapped in silence.
And beside the fire, with the strange scent of unfamiliar food curling through the air, Claire felt, as if for the first time, that she was not just passing through the world, and being just another piece in the game, but beginning to see it; experience it.
“What happened to the people from the city?”
She asked after a while, and paid close attention to anything that Caligos face could betray, that she would not say. But for a moment she said nothing. Her face unchanged, though her brow shaking a little. Or maybe it was just the trick of the flickering light.
“I wouldn’t know. It was a long time ago.” It was not the answer she had hoped for, but it made perfect sense. The city seemed to be abandoned for hundreds of years at least.
The rabbit was cooked simply. No seasoning, just heat and smoke of the moist wood, the skin crisped dark at the edges, the meat pale beneath. It was strange at first. The texture, the thought of it being alive just a while ago, but hunger dulled her hesitation. The flavor was richer than she expected, earthy and faintly metallic. She quite enjoyed it, although she knew that getting used to the thought would take a long time.
They ate in silence for a while. Claire was watching Caligo carefully, the way she tore at the rabbit with absent movements, eyes fixed somewhere just past the edge of the firelight.
“You said you usually travel alone” Claire said quietly. “Why?”
Caligo didn’t answer right away. Today, she had to wait for answers. Maybe the travel tired her out too. She finished chewing, then wiped her fingers on a bit of cloth and leaned back, arms resting over her knees. The fire cracked, a piece of bark curled in on itself and disappeared slowly, turning into ash.
“People are loud” she said finally. “Needy. Complicated.”
Claire tilted her head. “You’re no different though.”
Caligo smirked. She tossed a small twig into the fire and watched it catch. Claire waited, sensing there was more, but knowing better than to ask for it outright. Caligo wasn’t the kind of person you pulled answers from; you waited for them to fall, or accepted they are not coming at all.
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“Most people have rules” Caligo went on, her tone casual, but her gaze unfocused. “Invisible ones. Say this, not that. Act interested, but not too much or they will think you’re a freak. Laugh. Nod. Pretend you’re not thinking something else. It’s a mess.”
Claire folded her legs beneath her, resting her chin on her hand. “You don’t like pretending?”
“It’s not that. I’m great at it” Caligo said dryly. “That’s the problem. It just… doesn’t feel like much.”
Claire thought about that. She’d spent most of her life in libraries and study classes, her conversations confined to theories and data and whatever passed for social obligation in the circles she moved through. She wasn’t good at friendships either, but not because she didn’t want them. Just because she didn’t know how to begin.
“I used to think people were distractions” Claire said softly. “That if I focused hard enough, if I studied enough, I wouldn’t need them. Ever. That I could get through everything alone.”
Caligo looked at her then with curiosity, like she was seeing something she hadn’t expected. Claire hesitated.
“But I might have been wrong, and I realized it after getting closer with Abigail. It’s not a bad form of distraction. It’s what makes everything else bearable. And suddenly, i’ve found myself longing to spend time with her.”
Caligo scoffed, but there wasn’t much force behind it. Claire picked up the wooden horse again, tracing the smooth curve of its head with her thumb.
“You don’t believe it?”
“I think it’s a gamble” Caligo said. “And I don’t like to gamble. I prefer to make sure I win.”
There was something sharp in the way she said it; final. Claire saw it clearly now. The armor, the performance. She wondered if Caligo even noticed how quickly she shut the door when it opened a crack.
“Maybe it’s not about winning” Claire said, more to herself than to Caligo.
The fire popped. Caligo stood up, brushing her hands against her jacket. She turned toward the open doorway and stared out into the dark beyond, where rain dripped steadily from the stone ledges and pooled in the broken cobbles.
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“That sounds like something someone says right before they get hurt” she said, without turning back.
Claire didn’t reply. She just leaned forward and fed another piece of wood into the fire, watching it catch slowly, the flame curling around it, its warmth warding off the chill that crept in from the broken walls.
Caligo had shed her coat and draped it over a stone ledge nearby, and sat back down. The silence wasn’t tense but it had a strange texture to it, like both of them were waiting to see if the other would speak first. It was Caligo who finally did.
“Is it that obvious?” She asked, but seeing the confusion on Claire’s face, she added quickly “That I usually don’t travel with anyone.” voice low and flat.
Claire looked up and nodded slowly. “I think I can tell that you’re not used to this. Sharing space, mostly.”
Caligo tilted her head, studying the fire.
“It’s not that I mind space. I just don’t see the point of making it for people who’ll only leave.”
Claire’s brow knit slightly. “Is that what you think always happens?”
“It’s what does happen.” She poked at the fire with a stick as if looking for a distraction, scattering embers into a new shape. “People stay when it’s easy. When it’s interesting. The second it turns difficult, or strange, or inconvenient; they vanish. I’d rather be alone than have to pretend I don’t see it coming from a mile away.”
Claire was quiet for a moment, considering that. “I don’t think that’s always true” she said at last.
“It’s true enough” Caligo muttered.
Claire shifted slightly, the stone beneath her uncomfortable but grounding. “I spent most of my life alone too” she said. “Not because people left, though. I just… didn’t know how to be around them. I thought they wouldn’t want me. So I focused on other things. School. Work.”
Caligo raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. She seemed to consider something briefly, but her shoulders tensed back up, in a different decision.
“We need to get some sleep. We have an early start tomorrow.” She said and turned on her back, to sleep.
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That was where the moment ended. In odd silence. They both revealed a little more than either of them had meant to show, leaving an uncomfortable aftertaste, of wanting it taken back. Outside, the wind picked up again. Somewhere beyond the ruin, the sea waited. And the morning with it.
***
Claire rubbed the sleep from her eyes, the cold clinging to her fingers as she sat up. Caligo’s blankets were already folded, set aside neatly, and the toy horse was laying on top of them. She hadn’t even heard Caligo move, and yet somehow, everything had been already done.
The faint blue haze of early morning hovered over the ruins, casting the broken stone in pale outlines. Rain fell much lighter now.
“If we hurry, we’ll make it to the castle in about an hour” Caligo said, her voice clipped and even.
Claire stood slowly, brushing dust from her coat. The air bit through the fabric more than she remembered.
“And then we can finally go to where we had planned.”
That second part made her hesitate. The words weren’t sharp, but there was something in the way Caligo said them, something that pressed too hard on the last syllables. Tension, coiled just beneath the surface.
Claire turned, studying her. Was gathering the things, ready to take them to the motorcycle. Her face was unreadable, her movements brisk and mechanical.
“You okay?” Claire asked, keeping her voice light.
Caligo didn’t look up. “I’m fine. We just lost a day.”
There it was again. Not a complaint, but not neutral either. As if the detour had tilted something out of place, and Caligo hadn’t quite figured out how to forgive it. Or maybe it was the late night conversation. She wasn’t sure.
“Wait, let me help you” Claire said, approaching her and helping Caligo put her things in a more organized matter.
The trip would likely be quiet again. But not the same kind of quiet it had been yesterday, where the wind was the cause, stealing the words. Something had shifted between them, and neither of them knew just yet where it would settle.
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The road began to climb, slowly at first, winding through patches of rubble and shallow pools. The rain had settled into a lingering mist, hanging in the air more than falling. Claire could feel it against her cheeks. cold, fine, and clinging like dust that refused to lift no matter how many times one tried to wipe it off. Overhead, the sky was pale and drained of color, with only the faintest tint of blue along the horizon.
The landscape around them held little variation. Now and then, they passed the remnants of structures; collapsed walls, fractured foundations, scattered fragments of stone half-swallowed by the earth. But mostly it was open ground, littered with debris and steadily reclaimed by vegetation. Shrubs gathered along the roadside. Here and there stood a tree, thin and wind-bent, leaning as if uncertain whether to keep standing or give in.
The wind grew stronger as they gained height. Claire pulled her coat tighter and watched the land fall away behind them, faded in the mist.
Caligo brought the motorcycle to a stop at a flat rise above the coast. Claire stepped off carefully, already stiff from the relatively short ride, and moved forward a few paces.
The land stretched empty around them. Scattered stones littered the earth. At the very edge, the road ended without warning, the ground dropping off in a sharp cut. Below, buried in wet sand and tangled in seaweed, lay the remains of what must once have been a village. Shattered wood, broken tiles, fragments of wall and rooftop. All of it collapsed and sunken into the shore, barely distinguishable now from the landscape around it.
The sea had eaten away at the coastline, drawing it back little by little, taking what stood on it. Claire looked down at the wreckage and then further, beyond it, where the waves moved slowly under the fog.
The castle rose from the water in the distance, or rather what remained of it. Its base had long since been claimed by the sea, swallowed beneath the relentless tide, leaving only the upper towers and rooftops visible above the surface. The stone was weathered, worn smooth by years of salt and wind. Several spires had collapsed inward, jagged edges jutting against the dull sky. What once must have been a grand hall now yawned like a hollow wound, its roof caved in and windows empty, dark hollows that seemed to stare out over the endless water.
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Claire stood motionless, taking it all in. She had pictured this place countless times; how it might have stood, proud and unyielding, a fortress guarding the shore, the narrow causeway revealing itself only at the mercy of the tides. She had imagined banners snapping in the wind, flickers of candlelight from within, the sound of voices and footsteps along stone corridors. But now, those visions seemed distant, replaced by the slow, certain erasure of time. The castle was no longer a place of life or warmth. It was a relic, a fragment caught between earth and sea, slipping steadily toward oblivion.
The air smelled faintly of salt and damp stone. Around her, the wind stirred the grasses at the cliff’s edge, carrying with it the endless sound of the tide pulling in and out, still greedy, taking more away each time. Claire’s gaze lingered on the castle’s outline as it blurred slowly with the horizon.
“I told you there’s not much left” Caligo said behind her “It survived sieges, disasters and hundreds of years, yet was felled by nature itself.”
Claire nodded. “It’s strange,” she murmured. “I thought it would feel… different.”
Caligo stepped closer, hands tucked in her jacket pockets.
“There used to be a town wrapped around it near the shore. Market stalls, fishing docks. Dry ground. That was a long time ago. Sometimes, when the tide was far away and the grounds around it uncovered, people would go out and dance. They lived with the tides.”
Claire didn’t reply. She kept her eyes on the castle, studying the broken angles of the tower, and the buildings inside the grand walls sorrounding it, trying to imagine; see, what Caligo spoke about. How it looked like before.
Then, breaking the silence, Caligo spoke again.
“There are other places like this” she said. “Still intact. Castles, cities, strongholds...”
Claire turned to her, wary. “You’ve seen them?”
“I pass through often.” Caligo’s voice dropped lower, more deliberate.
Claire studied her quietly, curiosity flickering in her eyes.
“If you want to see them...” Caligo avoided Claire’s gaze. “But only if you keep your mouth shut about it. It’s not something I’m supposed to do. You’d get in trouble too. No one else can hear a word; not friends, not strangers, no one who asks.”
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Claire hesitated, unsure what exactly Caligo meant. Still, something in the moment felt important. After a pause, she gave a slow nod.
“I guess we have time” she said. “But after that, I need to get back to studying.”
“Oh, you can’t imagine how grand some of the libraries are in those places” Caligo said, almost grinning now. “Thousand-year-old books. Handwritten manuscripts. Scrolls no one’s touched in centuries.”
Claire’s eyes brightened. That kind of research could give her a real edge in her exams, maybe more.
“Why didn’t you say so before?” she blurted, her excitement slipping out too quickly.
Caligo raised a brow.
“Someone’s feeling bold all of a sudden.”
Claire tried to hide it, but the grin was already there.
“Hm.” Caligo turned toward the motorcycle, already moving. “If we hurry and the weather holds, we can be there by midnight. Well... kind of.”
Claire blinked, unsure exactly what that meant, but Caligo was already halfway down the path. She took one last look at the castle’s silhouette, then ran to catch up.
She had a flood of questions now, too many to count, but instead of weighing her down, that restless curiosity seemed to push her forward, lending strength to her stride. She tried to piece together what Caligo had meant. Did she speak of cities like her own? Places similar in safety and purpose? Claire knew only that such zones existed; centers for trade, hubs of knowledge and research. But now, the pull of the unknown was stronger than any lingering fear.
This trip no longer felt like an escape from misfortune. It had become an opportunity; a chance to learn, to discover. For the first time, she felt something almost like gratitude toward Caligo.
True to her word, they turned north, rather than heading back the way they had come. Something about this direction seemed to unsettle Caligo, though when Claire pressed, she offered no answers. Instead, Caligo filled the silence with stories and facts, a running commentary on the lands they passed; lost cities swallowed by time, strange plants clinging stubbornly to this wet world, animals adapted to the endless rain.
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One tale in particular caught Claire’s imagination; the story of small winged forest spirits, said to guide lost travelers through storms or dark woods. Sometimes, though, these spirits didn’t lead a person back home. Instead, they showed them what their heart truly desired. And so, a traveler longing for the place they had left might find themselves somewhere entirely new. Realizing, perhaps, that the place they belonged to was not the one they thought.
The story lingered with her, leaving Claire to wonder if a fairy like that could help her find what she desired, even if she didn’t yet know what it was. On this journey, she felt as if she might need such help. Everything she had once been certain of now seemed uncertain, slipping through her fingers. Was it the college and recognition she truly wanted? Or was it status? Maybe family called to her, or perhaps she was drawn to the solitude of a lone life. Could it be that the city she had always called home wasn’t really hers? Perhaps she belonged somewhere else entirely. She would return with more questions than she had left with.
The road north grew stranger as they went on. The thick trees began to thin, their branches bare. The ground lightened with frost, though the season was not yet meant for cold. Claire could feel it creeping inward with each passing hour, like it was being drawn in, reaching to her bones.
She folded her arms tightly around Caligo, her gaze flicking between the winding road ahead and the edges of the landscape. She tried to picture what this place might once have been, rather than what it was now. It was easier, somehow, to imagine it had always looked this way. She knew nothing of the world before the rain. Here, the quiet settled like a weight, that felt older than them both.
At some point, Caligo cut the engine and turned to face Claire. For once, her expression was something different. Uneasy, almost fearful, as if unsure how Claire would take what she was about to say.
“So, we’re close to a… sort of passage” Caligo began, hesitating. “But the motorcycle won’t go any further. We’ll have to go on foot.” She swung down from the bike and held out a hand to help Claire.
“How far?” Claire asked, gripping Caligo’s hand and jumping down, her knees already protesting the cold.
“About an hour’s hike. But it’s rough terrain” Caligo replied, voice low, concern flickering in her eyes. “How’re you feeling?”
“I’m fine. I think I can manage. It’s just… terribly cold.” Claire pulled her arms tighter around herself as a shiver ran through her.
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Caligo began gathering their gear, then took out one of the blankets, passing it to Claire. “Sorry. I should’ve told you to pack warmer clothes, but I didn’t expect we’d be heading north.”
Claire wasn’t sure if the worry in Caligo’s voice was genuine. She wrapped the blanket around her and started after her guide. Her boots slipped once or twice on hidden patches of ice. The path grew steeper, the wind sharper, biting at every inch of exposed skin. She had never known cold like this. Something about how fast it worsened felt unnatural. But with no experience of these lands, perhaps this was simply the way it was, this far north.
She had read about people who lived on vast plains of snow and ice all year round. Perhaps this wasn’t so unusual. The tribes that thrived there had long since learned how to endure this relentless cold, how to live with it rather than against it.
But with every step higher up the hill, Claire felt her legs growing heavier, as if they might give out beneath her. The frost biting at her nose stung sharper than before, a persistent pinch that made her uneasy. She dared not look at Caligo, who walked ahead in nothing more than a leather jacket, left open to the cold as if it barely touched her.
Surprisingly, there was no snow beneath their feet. Only ice. The wind had risen to a howl, pressing against them like an invisible force. Finally, Caligo broke the silence.
“We’re almost there” she said, voice barely audible over the gusts. “The worst is just ahead. It’s a short walk, but trust me, alright?”
Claire squinted through the blowing mist, confused at first, until her eyes settled on a narrow gap in the rocks right before them; a dark, jagged opening, swallowing what little light remained. She glanced at Caligo, puzzled. What was it with this woman and these dark, forbidding places? The city’s hidden passages she had understood, but a cave? Now a sharp edge of fear began to stir inside her, cold and sudden.
Was this some cruel joke? Was she about to be abandoned in the dark, locked away for reasons she could not guess? She couldn’t fathom why Caligo would go through all this trouble just to leave her alone in a cave.
She moved closer, struggling against the relentless wind that tore at her clothes and shoved against her chest. Then it struck her; the wind wasn’t coming from around them, but from within the cave itself. It rushed out with such force it seemed to steal the breath from her lungs, pressing her back with a power that made her legs falter. She leaned into the blast, trying to push forward, but her body refused to obey.
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Without a word, Caligo reached back, her arm steady, hand outstretched. She didn’t say anything, just waited.
Claire grasped the offered hand, and the moment their fingers locked, the wind changed. It did not cease, but instead shifted around them. The blast no longer threw her backward. It swirled and parted like a living thing, less fierce, leaving just enough space for her to take a step.
She couldn’t explain what was happening, and that was worse than the wind itself. The uncertainty of strange, unnatural force, unsettled her more than any cold.
“What is that?” she shouted, voice barely carrying over the howling gusts. Her words dissolved in the air before reaching Caligo’s ear.
The cold bit deeper. The dark mouth of the cave yawned before her, unwelcoming, threatening, the kind of place no sane person would choose to enter.
She could turn away. Run back down the hill, back to the warmth, to the safety of the bike. But something held her fast, a pull she couldn’t name, a curiosity stronger than reason.
Her grip on Caligo’s hand tightened, fingers digging in as she stepped forward. Into the shadow, into the unknown, her thoughts swirling like the wind itself, yet unwilling to turn back.
Caligo stepped ahead, her boots crunching softly over the ice-laced stone. She didn’t glance back at the entrance, simply ducked her head and moved forward. The mouth of the cave was narrow, but beyond that, the darkness stretched wide, swallowing any hint of what lay ahead. Claire’s eyes strained to adjust, but the faint light was already too weak, the contrast too stark. Once again, she had to trust Caligo’s sure footing in the shadows.
The wind’s howl grew louder as they ventured deeper, then suddenly cut off, as if the cave itself swallowed it whole. Silence fell, broken only by the steady drip of water and the faint grind of their footsteps echoing.
They moved carefully. The cave’s walls narrowed around them, then opened wide again. Thin veins of ice streaked the rock, catching what little light still filtered back toward the entrance, shimmering faintly like fragile glass. Gradually, that glimmer vanished too.
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Claire blinked rapidly, straining and squinting her eyes, struggling to adjust to the complete darkness; not the kind that softens and yields with time, but the absolute absence of light, pressing in from all sides. Her other senses sharpened in response. Her ears strained to catch the smallest sound, imagining monsters lurking just beyond reach. Colors bloomed briefly behind her closed eyelids, only to vanish. Her skin prickled with cold, an invisible chill crawling beneath her clothes.
The path sloped downward, and kept sloping, just enough for Claire to notice. The air grew heavier, damper. A strange scent drifted through it now, something mineral, cold and unfamiliar. It settled deep in her lungs and left a faint, metallic taste on the back of her tongue.
Minutes passed; or was it longer? Time felt warped here, stretched. Between them, only the quiet rhythm of breathing and footsteps broke the stillness. Then, far ahead, a faint glow.
As they drew closer, the light took form; not from a torch or lantern, but something hovering, suspended in the air itself, as if light had been caught and held still. Beneath it stood a figure, half-shrouded in shadow, draped in fabric Claire couldn’t quite make out.
“Vael.” The voice echoed sharply through the narrow cavern, bouncing off stone and fading into the depths beyond. It was strong, raspy, carrying an unmistakable authority.
Claire froze, heart quickening, but Caligo tugged her gently forward, offering a steadying squeeze of her hand.
“Ena sel.”
“Noma.” the figure responded, their voice low and strange, words unfamiliar to Claire’s ears; perhaps a secret code used by the organization Caligo belonged to, designed to stay untraceable. Were they stepping into some hidden stronghold deep within these mountains?
“Va’drel thir omaen noma sen. Caligo. Ena varen sel tor Thura Kavyr.”
The moment Caligo fell silent, the figure sank to their knees, head bowed as if weighed by shame. Then, as if summoned by newfound resolve, they spoke again.
“Luthen mi. Viara Sael'ari thrava sena.”
“Viara Sael'ari thrava sena.” Caligo answered softly, reaching out to touch the top of the figure’s bowed head. The gesture seemed to lift some invisible burden. The figure straightened, turning slowly to face Claire.
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A shiver ran down her spine. Somewhere in the shadows, she caught the faint glint of eyes reflecting the faint light, but the rest of the face remained hidden, swallowed by darkness.
Without another word, the figure stepped aside. The floating light drifted with them, casting a ghostly blue wash over the tunnel ahead. Claire glanced up at Caligo, confusion flickering in her eyes, barely contained. Caligo simply nodded toward the path.
“There will be time for questions. Let’s just get out of here first.”
Claire said nothing. The weight of fatigue and confusion pressed heavily against her temples. Before she could fully grasp what was happening, the cave opened up before them, and Caligo released her hand.
“You’re probably tired. We need to visit a travel post nearby, gather necessities, then find a place to set camp.”
“A… what?” Claire blinked, her confusion deepening. She looked around, a cold flush creeping up her neck, as if the blood were draining from her face.
She had expected somewhere underground, maybe a cave, an underground city, a bunker filled with secret Caligo-esque agents, perhaps even a bed just meters away where she could finally rest. But this… this was nothing like that.
It was night, though she could see no sky above. The thick canopy of trees loomed overhead, their branches interlocking tightly to form a tunnel that cloaked the path in shadow. They stood in a forest, but it made no sense. The entire time she’d felt they were descending. Had they passed through the mountain? But their brief walk didn’t match that.
Claire’s mind raced to make sense of it all, but the forest swallowed her questions as surely as the darkness swallowed the sky.
The questions multiplying in her mind, pounding like a drum behind her eyes. She was on the edge of losing control; too many unknowns, too many half-hidden truths, and they were starting to boil over. Just as she was about to snap, she stopped dead in her tracks.
Her hands pulled the blanket away from her shoulders. It was far too warm now. Too heavy for the air around her, but something else nagged at her. She didn’t feel the familiar patter of rain against her skin. Was it because they were beneath the trees? No, that didn’t feel right. No canopy could be thick enough to block all moisture. She knelt down, pressing her fingers against the earth. Dry. Not even damp.
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“Yeah… There’s no rain” Caligo said, scratching the back of her head with a rare, almost scared expression. Her eyes darted around, weighing the cost of what she was about to reveal. “I guess I’ll have to start explaining. Well… at least not right now. When we set camp, I’ll answer everything. I promise.”
Claire searched Caligo’s face for any hint of reassurance, but found only tension mirrored back at her. The silence stretched before Caligo finally began walking again, leading the way down the shadowed path from the cave.
Claire tried to focus on her surroundings, but the night and the dense forest swallowed most details. Faint outlines of trees and bushes hovered in the dimness, and now and then, a rustle whispered from deep beyond the tree line. Yet fear didn’t find her anymore. The weight of confusion, exhaustion, and unanswered questions had numbed her, leaving her too drained to resist or question further.
She followed Caligo quietly, the heavy silence settling between them like a fog they just left behind.
They had only walked a short while when a soft yellow light began to filter through the trees. Unlike the harsh, clinical glow of the city’s perimeter lights, this light felt different; warmer, gentler, as if it reached out to welcome weary travelers seeking shelter.
Turning a bend in the path, they passed a moss-covered stone fence that had clearly been there for a long time. Beyond it stood a building unlike anything Claire had seen before. Its foundation was a rough mix of wood and stone, sturdy but uneven. The entrance rose atop a wooden platform, reached by a set of curved steps.
The building rose two stories, its upper half constructed entirely of timber. The roof was a thick straw. A large, round window dominated the center of the second floor, catching the soft glow of the light within, like an eye watching the quiet night, looking for visitors outside.
To one side, attached directly to the building, were a series of what she thought market stalls, all identical, simple wooden booths. Cautiously, she approached the closest one and leaned over the low fence beside it, curiosity pulling her forward.
Suddenly, a sharp, raspy noise shattered the silence, making her jump—and stumble back, falling hard on the leaf-strewn ground. She looked up, heart pounding, and found herself staring into a pair of large blue eyes that were entirely unfamiliar but somehow she knew meant no harm.
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In the dim light, the creature’s long face turned toward her, nostrils flaring slightly as if trying to gather her scent, and ears pushed forward in curiosity. It studied her.
“Found yourself a friend?” Caligo called from the path, her voice amused as she watched Claire’s hesitation.
Claire brushed dirt from her clothes, eyes still fixed on the creature. “What is that?” she asked cautiously, unsure whether to approach or retreat.
Caligo gave a small, almost incredulous laugh, her brow furrowing for a moment before clarity dawned.
“A horse.”
Claire’s gaze snapped back to Caligo, disbelief plain on her face.
“But… aren’t they extinct?”
“In your world, yes” Caligo said, stepping forward with a confident ease. “Here, they’re still very much alive. And quite useful.” She smiled wryly. “Maybe one of them, lucky enough, will carry you to our destination.”
Claire looked at her as if she’d lost her mind, the meaning not quite sinking in. But Caligo was already taking her hand and tugging her toward the building’s door. Claire glanced back one last time; the animal’s eyes held hers.
Inside, warmth wrapped around her like a soft cloak, carrying the rich scent of baked pastries and well-tended aged wood. The room was simple, yet inviting. A sturdy counter stood front and center, its worn front etched with delicate, intricate carvings. It reminded her of the counters in her library back home, but here the air held no sterile quiet. This time, there was no attempt at welcoming; it actually felt as if it was inviting in, to approach closer.
Caligo leaned casually against the counter and rang a small, peculiar bell resting there. From a shadowed doorway behind the counter, a large man appeared. At first glance, his size and rugged features were intimidating; broad shoulders, weathered skin, and a beard flecked with gray. But when his eyes met Caligo’s, a warm, genuine smile broke through, softening every line on his face and making him seem years younger.
“Hey there!” Caligo’s voice carried a rare spark of enthusiasm as she stepped forward. “We’ll need some supplies. I’m counting on you to have the best, per usual.” She winked, the ease between them betrayed they were quite close.
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The man chuckled, a deep, hearty sound that bounced off the wooden walls and filled the room.
“Even if I didn’t, I doubt you’d be willing to drag your ass all the way to Duroth on foot.” He shook his head with a grin. “What’s this then? Forgotten your mother’s tongue already on your travels?”
“Oh, I sure wish” Caligo shot back with a sly smile. “But it happens I’ve brought a guest this time. Would be unkind to leave her out of the conversation, wouldn’t it?”
The man’s eyes finally settled on Claire, who lingered by the door, her fingers curling nervously, squeezing her other hand, unsure of where to stand or what was expected of her.
“Well, that’s rare for you” he remarked, stepping closer but halting midway, as if uncertain whether to crowd Claire or give her space.
“I’m Thandor” he said, his voice warm but cautious. “A pleasure to meet you. Though, well…” He glanced sideways at Caligo, a silent question in his expression, as if wondering what she was thinking.
Claire found herself unable to respond; the words tangled somewhere in her mind, too scattered to form.
“This is Claire” Caligo interjected smoothly. “Pardon her, she’s probably quite tired. That’s why we’ll get what we need and make camp soon.”
Thandor lowered his voice, his tone shifting to something softer, almost protective.
“The poor thing’s frightened, not tired.” His eyes met Caligo’s, steady and serious. “If I hadn’t known by now, I’d say you’ve lost your mind bringing her here. But I suppose that’s just par for the course with you.” He scoffed lightly, shaking his head with a mixture of fondness and exasperation.
“So… let’s talk business” Caligo said, turning back to the counter as she reached for a worn catalogue resting there. Her fingers traced the edges of the pages as she flipped through, already making mental notes.
Meanwhile, Claire drifted toward the corner of the room, drawn by a large, fluffy pillow resting on an old couch. Its fabric was unlike anything she had seen; burnt maroon and black dots and stripes scattered in no particular pattern, chaotic, strangely captivating. Tentatively, she reached out to touch it. Suddenly, the pillow moved.
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It stretched out with, revealing enormous paws tipped with sharp claws. The creature… no, the cat, sat upright, its gleaming yellow eyes locking onto Claire’s with an unnerving calm, as if asking why had she woken it up.
“Hey, you seem to have a gift for finding yourself companions” Caligo said without looking up, a playful smile tugging at her lips as she skimmed the catalogue.
“That’s Muffin” Thandor hurried to explain, stepping forward. “She’s a Farlie.”
Caligo giggled softly. “Mhm, a whencecat.”
Thandor scoffed good-naturedly, bending down to scratch Muffin behind the ear. The cat responded with a soft chirp, clearly enjoying the attention. Claire studied the creature more closely: long, slender legs, a luxurious, fluffy tail that flicked gently, and small ears that seemed almost too tiny for its head. Its face was rounded and short, curving into a unique expression, with wide, luminous eyes that gave it an almost otherworldly presence.
“A whencecat?” Claire asked, mustering a bit more courage as she looked at Muffin.
Thandor chuckled. “Eh… Your friend finds the name particularly funny, but those cats are a bit of a legend. No one really knows where they come from. They just appear; choose their person. You can’t own one, or buy one. The cat has to decide to stay. But once they do, you gain more than a companion; they’re remarkable at protecting livestock.”
He made his way back to the counter while Caligo jotted something down from the catalogue.
“Muffin likes scratches under the chin and behind the ears” he added with a grin.
Claire hesitated, then reached forward, letting Muffin sniff her hand first. Deep down, she feared those enormous claws might shred her fingers, but nothing of the sort happened. The cat leaned into her touch, rubbing against her palm. Its fur was softer than anything Claire had imagined, smooth and warm. What surprised her most was the pure, unexpected joy that welled up inside her the moment Muffin accepted her. She carefully scratched behind the ear, slow and gentle.
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“So, that’s it from the list” Caligo said, closing the catalogue. “I’ll take Branuk, and Claire will need one of her own. We have a long way to go.”
Thandor’s eyes gleamed knowingly. “Sure thing. You’re making your way to Hal’Thura-Kavyr, I assume?”
“Yep. As usual” Caligo sighed, a trace of tiredness beneath the playfulness. “We’d be closer by now if we’d taken the Southern portal, but alas, the fates…” She gave a small nod toward Claire, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Decided to come see you instead.”
Thandor chuckled quietly, then glanced over the list once more. He disappeared behind the counter and returned moments later carrying a stack of supplies.
“I assume you prefer it packed?” he asked.
“Yes, but leave out the clothes. There’s a need for a wardrobe change” Caligo replied, taking the bundle from him and moving toward Claire.
“These will be a bit more appropriate for traveling than a long dress” she said, holding up the layers. “Especially since we’ll be riding in saddle.”
“What? In saddle?” Claire stopped stroking Muffin and stared at Caligo, disbelief and sudden apprehension tightening her chest. She was not joking previously “I have no idea how to ride.”
“It’s going to be fine” Caligo said with a confident nod. “Go change.” She pointed toward a small, makeshift changing area tucked behind the other side of the counter. Claire hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly stepped inside.
Once alone, she pulled the garments from the bundle and examined them carefully. The outfit was layered and intricate: a near-white, long-sleeved shirt to wear underneath, paired with loose, mid-thigh shorts. Over the shorts was a kind of dress with three panels. Designed, no doubt, to allow ease in the saddle while giving the illusion of a full skirt when walking. A hooded capelet completed the set.
Claire liked the thoughtfulness of the design, but when she slipped it on, the feeling was entirely different. The fabric was soft and finely made, but the colors were bright; bold, even. Rich embroidery of plants and flowers traced the hems and sleeves, delicate yet unmistakably crafted with care and expense.
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She caught her reflection in a nearby polished wood surface and stepped back, a sudden tightness rising in her throat. It was too much. Too flashy, too showy. Far from the simple, modest dresses she was used to. She felt as if the clothes were a mask, pressing in on her skin and pulling her into a role she wasn’t ready to play.
She stepped out from the changing area, every step heavy with discomfort in her own skin.
“You look great” Caligo said, but the usual smug edge was absent from her voice. There was something different. Softer, perhaps, but Claire couldn’t quite place it. After a moment, Caligo shook her head as if to clear the thought and moved on.
“Now, for the most important part. Thandor, if you will…” She glanced toward the man.
“Of course.” Thandor smiled and waved a hand in invitation.
They stepped through a doorway behind the counter, passing a dim storeroom before emerging into an enclosed courtyard. The space was crowded with all manner of clutter; stacks of crates, coils of rope, wooden barrels, and a handful of stalls arranged in a rough semicircle. Claire counted quietly. About ten in all, two of which stood empty.
“Aah! Branuk!” Caligo’s voice carried as she hurried to one of the central stalls.
A heavy, dark bay horse lifted its head at her approach and responded with a loud, grating neigh before suddenly jumping sideways and knocking its head against the overhead beam.
“I used to think you were too harsh with the name” Thandor said with a soft chuckle, “but the more I take care of him, the more I understand.”
He turned toward Claire, guiding her slowly toward the remaining stalls.
“Got anything in mind for a companion?” Thandor asked, voice patient but expectant.
Claire hesitated. “In mind…? No, not really. I… haven’t exactly been in the presence of a creature like this before.”
“Don’t worry.” Thandor’s laugh was low and easy. “Though the selection isn’t as wide as in one of the capitals, I’m sure we can find something that suits you. Even if only as a temporary steed. After all, it’s pretty rare to find one’s soul companion on the first try.”
He reached for a weathered ledger resting on a nearby bench, flipping through its pages as he prepared to match Claire’s needs and temperament.
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Claire looked around, her eyes searching until they found the ones she had seen before. Deep, calm blue, reflecting the low lamplight like still water. The horse had not moved. Its gaze remained fixed on her, unblinking and sure. Slowly, almost unconsciously, she stepped toward the stall.
The animal’s coat was a soft, creamy off-white, scattered with warm brown flecks like freckles across its body. Its legs and face were a deeper chestnut, the color intensifying down the legs until it shifted to inky black, high socks crowned with soft feathering. The hooves beneath were striped. Its mane was thick and slightly wavy, glossy black streaked with strands of rich brown, messy, falling in generous weight across its neck and shoulders. The forelock hung over its eyes, tangled and unruly.
Claire reached up gently, to brush it away from it’s eyes. The horse didn’t pull away.
“She’s a protector” came Thandor’s voice from behind. “When one of our mares foaled last spring, she was at her side the whole time; wouldn’t leave even for food. Same with Bra… well, Caligo’s beast there. When he injured his leg in the autumn. She stood with him three nights straight. Barely let me near him.”
Claire didn’t speak. Her fingers stayed just on the horse’s forelock, the coarse strands warm beneath her hand.
“She’s got a soft heart” Thandor went on, easing himself down onto a worn chopping log nearby. From the pocket of his apron, he pulled a small pipe, filled it with care, and struck a match. The flame caught, and a faint scent of something earthy and sweet drifted into the air. He watched her over the faint curl of smoke.
“You’ll need something like her out there” he added after a pause. “This place… it isn’t like what you know. You’ll find you need patience, sure, but more than that, you’ll need something beside you that won’t back away when things turn rough. She’s like that. But you’ll have to earn her trust, not expect it.”
He puffed once, then smiled faintly. “We’ve got another mare, younger, more spirited, a bit wild in the head perhaps.”
Claire didn’t hesitate.
“No,” she said softly, but firmly. “I think she’ll be great. We’ll take her. If… that’s alright.”
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Thandor nodded without further word and stood, tapping the ash from his pipe before heading off to the tack room. As he passed Caligo, he nudged her lightly, wordlessly asking her to come along and help pick the gear.
Claire stayed where she was, the quiet of the courtyard settling in again. The mare leaned in, sniffing her, then nibbled playfully at a lock of her hair, lips tickling just behind her ear. Claire smiled, surprised by the sudden warmth that rose in her chest, a kind of comfort she hadn’t felt in what seemed like a very long time.
***
In a short while, everything was ready. The horses stood tacked, the bags packed and secured, the faint scent of leather drifting in the cool air.
“I’m glad you chose a chunky one as well” Caligo said, patting Branuk’s side. “They can carry more. But gee, does that man sure charge a lot.” Her tone was warm, with mock complaint. She turned and gave Thandor a smile that softened her words.
The old man stood in the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching as they were getting ready to leave. He raised a hand in farewell, but his gaze lingered.
Caligo clipped Claire’s horse to her own, then walked over and offered a hand. Claire hesitated. She tried to drag out the moment. Adjusting her sleeve, pretending to brush at nothing, but Caligo was quick and efficient, hoisting her up before she could second-guess it.
The saddle felt far too high. The moment Claire settled onto it, panic curled tight in her chest. The movement beneath her; every subtle shift of the horse’s weight felt enormous, uncertain. She clung instinctively, stiff-backed and wide-eyed, certain she was about to tip forward and tumble to the ground.
“Grab onto the mane or the horn if you have to” Caligo called over as she mounted, “but try to keep your balance. You’ll learn quickly.”
Claire didn’t answer. She shook her head faintly, but both of them knew it wouldn’t change anything. Caligo would press on, and Claire had no choice but to follow.
“Caligo!” Thandor’s voice rang out behind them. He was descending the steps with a hurried stride, worry in his step. She turned, reins loose in her hand. He reached them and lowered his voice.
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“If you’re heading through Sha’l Oran, be careful. Last week, there were reports of fighting. Attacks on travelers. I know you’ve got the immunity, but the locals…” He trailed off, his eyes flicking to Claire. “They’ve never cared much for union laws. I know you’ll manage, but your friend… just, please. Be careful. Be responsible. If not for yourself, then for her.”
“Thanks! You’re the best old man.” Caligo replied lightly. She waved once, then nudged Branuk forward with her heels. The horse sprang ahead eagerly, hooves striking the earth with impatient rhythm.
The sudden jolt as the mare set off nearly threw Claire from the saddle. She yelped, clumsily grasping for anything to hold onto, but there was nothing. Her hands reached forward instinctively, pressing down into the horse’s thick neck, clinging as if she might anchor herself there.
“This way you’re just more likely to fall” Caligo called back, her voice annoyingly casual. “Try to relax. Keep your legs loose for now.”
But she didn’t slow down. If Claire was to stay on, she would have to manage it herself, or fall and figure it out from there. It was a brutal method of instruction, and not one she particularly appreciated.
Still, the saddle began to feel less alien beneath her. The awkward panic dulled, giving way to a tentative rhythm. She was far from comfortable, but she found a sort of balance, enough to move without gripping for dear life. The slow canter rocked her steadily now. Her fingers though, still clutched.
On the ground below, she noticed shadows. The pattern of leaves cast in shifting detail across the earth. That stopped her thoughts. It was night still, deep night, and yet the trees had shadows, pale and clear across the path. She blinked, unsure. Somewhere ahead, the woods thinned, and she caught a glimpse of open land. Fields lying quiet beneath a soft light.
“Hey, Claire” Caligo called, breaking the silence. “Can we do something? Close your eyes.”
“I don’t feel like playing games, Caligo. You still have some explaining… ”
“Please” Caligo interrupted. Her voice had changed. It was gentler, but edged with something that made Claire pause. “Trust me.”
There was an urgency in her tone that Claire couldn’t quite name. She hesitated, lips pressed into a line, then gave in with a sharp sigh.
“Fine” she muttered, and closed her eyes. Better to just get it over with.
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For a few moments, Claire felt the pressing urge to open her eyes. Some deep instinct whispered of unseen danger, of vulnerability in the dark. Her muscles tightened with that unease. The sound of hooves beneath her had changed. No longer the hollow rhythm on packed forest soil, but something softer, broken by a delicate rustling. Grass, maybe. Then, silence.
Not complete silence; just the kind without footfalls. The wind still moved gently, brushing through the tall grasses and whispering in the trees. Somewhere far off, the faint howl or cry of a creature echoed. A sound unfamiliar, yet not threatening. It belonged here, wherever here was.
A hand touched hers. Claire let herself be guided, helped down from the saddle. Her boots found unsteady ground beneath, and then Caligo was leading her forward carefully.
“I actually have no idea what I’m doing” Caligo said quietly.
Claire’s heart jumped at that. There was something unguarded in her voice, something uncharacteristically human. She hadn’t heard Caligo sound like that before. It felt… genuine.
“Open your eyes” Caligo said.
Claire did. At first, she looked at Caligo, but her companion wasn’t looking back. Her face was tilted upward, gaze fixed above. Claire followed. Her breath caught in the chest.
It was night, but not like any night she’d known. The heavens were vast and endless, alive with color; deep sapphire and ash-violet spilling into shades of rose and ochre. Distant white lights were dense and bright, scattered like frost on black glass, some pulsing gently, others stretched like strands across the sky. A broad sweep of light, thick with clustered stars and misted cloud, cut across it all; the Milky Way, but more vivid than anything she’d ever could have imagine, and the descriptions of it in books didn’t do it justice. Near the horizon, the moon hung low, massive and golden, its edges soft with haze.
Beneath that canopy, the world breathed. They stood in an open field, where the grass swayed in low, steady waves, catching the moonlight in silver ribbons. In the distance, a herd of slender, long-limbed creatures darted through the grass. Deerlike in shape, but with elongated necks and arching horns that shimmered faintly. They moved like they were a part with the wind.
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It wasn’t the same world. It wasn’t her world at all. It was something else entirely. A new world, vast and unknown, and, despite everything, achingly beautiful.