It happened on an ordinary evening, the kind that shouldn’t have meant anything.

The club meeting had ended, laughter and chatter spilling into the hallway as people left in small groups. The room smelled faintly of old paper and chalk dust, the air still holding the ghost of poems read aloud. Outside, the corridor hummed with a low, dying energy, laughter tapering off, footsteps fading, the hum of fans spinning lazily above.

Aarna and Aarav lingered, walking slower than the rest, the way they always did. Their steps found a rhythm of their own, unspoken and familiar. The building was mostly empty now, the echo of their voices stretching down the dim corridor.

Aarna was talking about her younger brother, how they’d argued again over music, both too stubborn to back down. Her hands moved as she spoke, animated, alive.

“You’re lucky you don’t have siblings,” she said, bumping his shoulder lightly with hers.

“Yeah,” Aarav replied without thinking, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “But then… I’d never have someone like you either.”

The words slipped out before he realized what he’d said, soft, unguarded, too honest.

They hung between them like a held breath.

Aarna slowed her steps, her brow creasing slightly. “What do you mean?”

The hallway seemed to narrow. The air turned dense. Her eyes found his, curious, unafraid, but something in her gaze made the space between them electric, tender, dangerous. Aarav could hear his pulse in his ears, feel the words rising again, desperate to explain themselves, to mean more than he dared.

For a heartbeat, she looked at him longer than usual, not startled, not smiling, just quiet, as if turning his words over in her mind. Aarav felt the air tremble, fragile as glass.

“I just mean…” he stammered, forcing a laugh that sounded brittle. “You know, you listen to me. You care. It’s nice. Like family.”

Aarna’s expression softened, though something unreadable flickered behind her eyes.

“You say things in such strange ways sometimes, Aarav,” she said quietly, almost amused, almost thoughtful.

He managed a smile, pretending to shrug it off. But inside, panic and warmth tangled together in his chest. He could still feel the weight of the words he hadn’t meant to speak, the truth that had slipped out before he could hide it again.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. The sound of their footsteps filled the air where his confession almost lived. Every few seconds, he replayed the moment, her tone, her look, the breath between question and reply. The silence stretched, not awkward but sharp, cutting through the hum of the evening.

When they reached the gate, she smiled and said goodbye, her voice light again, as if the moment had passed. But for Aarav, it hadn’t. Not really.

On his walk back to the hostel, the air felt heavier. The night hummed with the sound of crickets and the distant chatter of students, but all he could hear was the echo of his own voice, and the quiet that followed it.

Later, alone in his room, he opened his notebook. His hands trembled slightly as he wrote:

The heart is a clumsy keeper of secrets.
It slips,
spilling truths between words
when I least expect it.
And she looks at me,
not unkind,
but as if she hears an echo
she isn’t sure she wants to follow.

He stared at the lines until they blurred.

It hadn’t been a confession, not quite. But it was close enough to remind him how fragile the line was between friendship and something more.

And how easily, with just one wrong word, it could shatter.

The car started.

First turn.

No click.

No hesitation.

I left it running for a moment anyway.

Then remembered Takahashi would probably approve of that and became slightly annoyed.

The battery light stayed off.

Engine steady.

I drove to the temple.

Nothing happened.

That was the desired result.

At eight seventeen, I sent:

Car started normally.

Takahashi replied:

I assumed.

Then:

You didn’t turn it off immediately this time?

I wrote:

No.

Growth.

I did not answer.

The morning had a different problem.

Newsletters.

Four hundred and twenty.

Folded once.

Inserted into envelopes.

Not urgent, but due before the end of the week.

At nine, Kondo’s mother arrived carrying a cloth bag.

She stood in the entrance.

“I came to be useful.”

There.

Not:

I came to grieve.

Not:

I came because the house is quiet.

Not:

Tell me what happens next.

Useful.

“You called first.”

“Yes.”

That mattered.

Yesterday she had asked Kondo whether there was temple work.

I had said:

Come when there is actual work.

Today there was.

She removed her shoes.

“What do I do?”

I showed her the newsletters.

“Fold along this line.”

“Only that?”

“For now.”

“Four hundred?”

“Four hundred and twenty.”

She stared.

“You saved them for me.”

“No.”

“Convenient answer.”

“It is true.”

She sat at the long table.

I demonstrated one fold.

She copied it.

Too far left.

She unfolded.

Tried again.

“Like this?”

“Yes.”

Then she looked at me.

“No religious significance?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Her word.

She began folding.

For twenty minutes, the room contained paper sounds.

Fold.

Stack.

Fold.

Stack.

I worked at the desk nearby.

Mail.

Telephone.

One receipt.

One memorial date.

Kondo’s mother did not talk about her husband.

Neither did I.

At twenty-six minutes, she said:

“My back hurts.”

“Stop.”

She looked at the stack.

“I’ve only done forty.”

“Then forty are done.”

“There are three hundred and eighty.”

“Yes.”

“You’re terrible at motivation.”

“I am not asking you to injure yourself for newsletters.”

She stood.

Stretched.

Then sat again.

“I can do ten more.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes.”

“Then ten.”

She folded ten.

Exactly.

Then stopped.

“Fifty.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come again tomorrow.”

“If you want.”

She gave me the look people had begun giving me when I added that phrase.

“I just said I’m coming.”

“Tomorrow is tomorrow.”

She pointed at me.

“Kondo warned me about this.”

I smiled.

She packed nothing.

The folded newsletters stayed at the temple.

Her work had become temple work.

No custody problem.

No memorial meaning.

Fifty folded sheets.

Then she went home.

At ten thirty, Sato called.

“She brought it back.”

I knew.

“Emiko’s paper?”

“Yes.”

“Today as agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Anything happen?”

“No.”

“Did your sister ask to keep it longer?”

“No.”

“Did you ask what she did with it at home?”

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

Sato was quiet.

“No.”

There.

“What did she say when she returned it?”

“‘Here.’”

“And you?”

“‘Thanks.’”

“Then?”

“She went to work.”

That was all.

Temporary custody ended as agreed.

No argument.

No request for extension.

No revelation.

Trust had not required a dramatic test.

Sato asked:

“You’re not going to ask whether I checked for copies?”

“No.”

She laughed.

“I did think about it.”

“Did you ask her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I trust her.”

There.

Same answer as before.

This time with the paper back in her hand.

“Then what do you need from me?”

“Nothing.”

“Why call?”

“Habit.”

“Accepted.”

She laughed.

We ended.

No file note.

The paper returned to Sato’s drawer later, probably.

I did not ask.

At noon, the mail helper came in.

She saw the folded newsletter stack.

“Kondo-san?”

“Yes.”

“She came?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

No.

Her word.

“She said she wanted something to do.”

“She folded fifty.”

“That’s more than I expected.”

“Why?”

“She talks a lot.”

I looked at her.

“That does not prevent folding.”

“No.”

She smiled.

Then began preparing the envelopes.

No one asked whether Kondo’s mother was healing.

No one used the work to prove anything.

Fifty newsletters were folded.

That was useful enough.

At three fifty-eight, Takahashi arrived.

He had called first.

Of course.

I was in the entrance speaking with a delivery driver.

The driver had brought printer toner.

Takahashi waited behind him.

The driver handed me the receipt.

I signed.

Then he looked past me.

“Your staff?”

“No.”

Takahashi raised an eyebrow.

The driver tried again.

“Family?”

“No.”

Then he smiled apologetically.

“Friend?”

I answered before thinking.

“Yes.”

The word left cleanly.

No pause.

No internal review.

Yes.

My friend.

Takahashi said nothing.

The driver nodded as if the classification had practical value.

Maybe it did.

He left.

I carried the toner inside.

Takahashi followed.

At the office door he said:

“Friend?”

There it was.

I put the toner on the floor.

“You heard.”

“Yes.”

“Problem?”

“No.”

He looked almost too pleased.

That made me suspicious.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re smiling.”

“So?”

“You object when I smile at things.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

He sat in the wall chair.

Then:

“You answered quickly.”

I knew what he meant.

“Yes.”

“No investigation.”

“No.”

“No ‘what do you mean by friend?’”

“No.”

“No evidence review?”

“No.”

He nodded slowly.

“That is concerning.”

I laughed.

“You called yourself my friend yesterday.”

“I said friendship tax.”

“Yes.”

“That was taxation language.”

“You also said I was punishing you for friendship.”

“That could have been rhetorical.”

“Do you want to appeal the classification?”

He stopped.

Then laughed.

“No.”

“There.”

We left it.

Almost.

Then he said:

“My friend makes terrible tea.”

I pointed toward the door.

“You can leave.”

“No.”

He smiled.

“See? Friendship survived.”

I made coffee.

Not tea.

He approved.

We drank at the desk.

The toner remained on the floor.

No one opened it.

Takahashi asked:

“What did Kondo-san do?”

“How do you know she was here?”

“Stack.”

He pointed at the newsletters.

“Fifty.”

“Only fifty?”

“Her back hurt.”

“So she stopped.”

“Yes.”

“And comes tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

He looked at me.

“She said she is.”

“Yes.”

“But?”

“Tomorrow is tomorrow.”

He shook his head.

“I understand why people want to hit you.”

“No one has.”

“Yet.”

We drank.

After a while, Takahashi said:

“I need help Saturday.”

There.

Different from coffee.

“What kind?”

“Bookshelf.”

I waited.

He laughed.

“You look disappointed.”

“I’m trying to understand how a bookshelf needs help.”

“My sister bought one.”

“Keiko-san?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you involved?”

“Because she thinks owning a brother means free labor.”

“That sounds familiar.”

“She says husband’s back is bad.”

“Is it?”

“Apparently.”

“And you?”

“I can carry one side.”

“Other side?”

He pointed at me.

There.

“Where?”

“Her house.”

“When?”

“Saturday morning.”

I checked the calendar.

One service at two.

Morning free.

“How large?”

“Not enormous.”

“That is not a measurement.”

“One hundred eighty centimeters.”

“Wide?”

“Ninety.”

“Weight?”

“I don’t know.”

“Stairs?”

“Yes.”

He looked guilty.

“How many?”

“Second floor.”

“How narrow?”

“I don’t know.”

“You want me to agree before you know whether it fits?”

“Yes.”

“That sounds badly planned.”

“It is already purchased.”

“Worse.”

He drank coffee.

Then:

“Will you help?”

There.

Direct.

Did he need me?

Yes.

Could he ask someone else?

Probably.

Did I want to?

I imagined Saturday morning.

Keiko.

Fujita.

A large box.

Stairs.

Likely arguments.

Yes.

“I’ll help.”

Takahashi nodded.

“Thank you.”

No surprise.

No philosophical observation.

Just thanks.

I asked:

“Does Keiko know I’m coming?”

“No.”

I stared.

He smiled.

“I wanted to ask you first.”

That was actually sensible.

“Tell her.”

“I will.”

“And measure the stairs.”

“I will.”

“And the bookshelf.”

“Specification sheet exists.”

“Send it.”

“You’re making this work.”

“It is literally work.”

He laughed.

He sent the product dimensions while sitting three feet from me.

I opened them.

Width.

Height.

Depth.

Weight.

Thirty-eight kilograms.

“Not terrible.”

“I told you.”

“Box dimensions?”

He scrolled.

Larger.

“Stair landing?”

“I’ll measure.”

“Door width?”

“I’ll measure.”

Takahashi stared at me.

“Do you enjoy this?”

“A problem with numbers is pleasant.”

“That is deeply strange.”

“It fits or it doesn’t.”

“Usually.”

“If it does not fit, there are options.”

“Balcony.”

“No.”

“Window.”

“No.”

“Disassemble.”

“Probably.”

“There.”

I realized I was already solving Saturday.

Not because asked?

He had asked for help.

This was within it.

Fine.

No boundary crisis.

Bookshelf.

At four forty, the mail helper came back for something she had forgotten.

She saw Takahashi.

Then looked at me.

“The friend.”

Takahashi nearly choked on coffee.

She looked alarmed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I said:

“He is having difficulty with a classification.”

She looked between us.

Then decided not to ask.

Smart.

She retrieved her bag.

At the door she said:

“See you tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

Then to Takahashi:

“Nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

After she left, Takahashi said:

“This is spreading.”

“You are publicly identified now.”

“Can I withdraw consent?”

“From being my friend?”

He stopped.

No joke for a moment.

Then:

“No.”

There.

Soft.

I nodded.

No need to make more.

We finished the coffee.

He stood.

“Saturday, nine?”

“Keiko’s?”

“Yes.”

“Send address again.”

“You’ve been there.”

“I deleted nothing. Send anyway.”

“You audit friendships too?”

“No. Logistics.”

“Same thing with you.”

He put on his coat.

At the entrance:

“Do you need anything else for the car?”

“No.”

“Started normally?”

“Yes.”

“Terminal checked?”

“Yes.”

“Then good.”

He paused.

“No.”

We both laughed.

Then he left.

The office was quiet.

The word friend remained in it.

Not physically.

No.

That was exactly the kind of sentence I needed to stop writing in my head.

The office was quiet.

That was all.

I opened the toner box.

Installed the cartridge.

Printed one test page.

Black.

Clear.

Success.

No metaphor.

At five thirty, Kondo called.

“My mother says her back is fine.”

“She said it hurt.”

“She says that was sitting pain.”

“I don’t know what distinction she is making.”

“Neither do I.”

“She wants to come tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“What does she want to do?”

“More newsletters.”

“Then she can fold more newsletters.”

“She wants one hundred.”

“No target.”

I heard her mother in the background.

Why?

I answered loud enough:

“Because stopping when your back hurts is more important than reaching a round number.”

She said something.

Kondo translated:

“She says seventy-five.”

“No target.”

“Sixty?”

“No.”

Kondo laughed.

Her mother laughed too.

“Come when she wants. Stop when she wants.”

Kondo said:

“She says you are no fun.”

“Understood.”

We ended.

No Morita email arrived.

That was fine.

No old priest message.

Also fine.

The day did not require witnesses to every development.

I completed work.

Closed the brown folder.

Put away my glasses.

Then went home.

At home, the small desk drawer was closed.

Dinner first.

Rice.

Soup.

Leftovers from Keiko’s dinner still?

No.

Finished yesterday.

I cooked vegetables.

Ate.

Washed dishes.

Then my phone buzzed.

Takahashi.

A photograph.

Staircase.

Tape measure across narrowest point.

Then another.

Landing dimensions.

Then:

Enough?

I looked at the measurements.

Compared with box.

It would fit, barely, if turned.

I wrote:

Probably.

He replied:

Probably?

Angles matter.

You are ruining Saturday.

Better before Saturday.

Pause.

Then:

Keiko says thank you for agreeing.

I wrote:

Tell her she owes us coffee.

She says yes.

There.

A Saturday already becoming ordinary.

I opened the desk drawer for the charging cable.

Card.

Postcards.

Keys.

Cable.

I took the cable.

For a moment I thought of the delivery driver.

Staff?

No.

Family?

No.

Friend?

Yes.

The card had once been necessary to explain why Takahashi was in my office.

No.

Not even then.

It had explained the reconnection.

Today, a stranger had needed only one word.

Friend.

That word covered less detail than the card.

And more of the present.

I closed the drawer.

Later that evening, the widower from earlier called.

“I told my daughter no.”

I remembered the weekend visit.

“How did she respond?”

“She said okay.”

“And?”

“She asked about next month.”

“What did you say?”

“Yes.”

There.

He laughed before I could.

“Apparently I can do both.”

“Yes.”

“I’m still tired.”

“Then rest.”

“She said the same thing.”

“She is faster than me.”

“My wife was faster than both of you.”

We laughed.

Then he said:

“I thought saying no would hurt her.”

“Did it?”

“She said she was disappointed.”

There.

Not nothing.

“And?”

“She still asked about next month.”

“Yes.”

“She can be disappointed and still call me?”

“Yes.”

He was quiet.

“I know that sounds stupid.”

“No.”

“It feels new.”

“Then maybe it is.”

No sermon.

We ended.

I returned to my book.

Read twelve pages.

Then the phone buzzed again.

Keiko this time.

First direct message she had ever sent me.

Thank you for helping Saturday.
He didn’t tell you there are 14 boxes of books too, did he?

I stared.

Then called Takahashi immediately.

He answered laughing.

“You found out.”

“Fourteen?”

“Small boxes.”

“That was not the request.”

“Bookshelf first.”

“What happens to the boxes?”

“Books go on shelf.”

“That sounds like additional work.”

“Yes.”

“You asked me to carry a bookshelf.”

“Yes.”

“You did not ask me to move fourteen boxes.”

“No.”

“Are you asking now?”

Silence.

Then:

“Will you help with some of the boxes?”

There.

Fresh request.

I thought.

Saturday morning.

Service at two.

Time limited.

“How many?”

“Until noon?”

“That is not a number.”

“Whatever we can do before noon.”

Better.

Could I?

Yes.

Did I want to?

Less enthusiastically than the bookshelf.

Still yes.

“I’ll help until noon.”

“Thank you.”

“Then I leave.”

“Yes.”

“Even if boxes remain.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“No.”

We laughed.

Then I said:

“You were going to let me discover them.”

“Yes.”

“That is dishonest.”

“Strategic disclosure.”

“No.”

“Fine. Bad.”

“Saturday, nine.”

“Saturday.”

We hung up.

There.

Friendship did not eliminate terms.

It did not mean:

Whatever you need.

Whenever.

Until finished.

It could mean:

Yes, I will help.

Until noon.

Some boxes may remain.

That did not make the help less real.

Maybe more usable.

Before bed, I checked the calendar.

Saturday:

9:00 Keiko — bookshelf / boxes until 12.

2:00 service.

I looked at the entry.

Could have written:

Takahashi.

Could have written:

friend.

No need.

The calendar needed the work.

I knew the relationship.

The card stayed in the drawer.

I did not read it.

Takahashi’s card stayed wherever he kept it.

No discussion.

No need.

Somewhere between those cards and Saturday’s bookshelf, the relationship had stopped requiring explanation every time it appeared.

That was not because the cards no longer mattered.

They did.

But now there were other records.

Not written ones.

Coffee.

Fishing.

Dinner.

A dead battery.

A delivery driver asking one ordinary question.

Friend?

Yes.

The answer had come before I had time to protect myself from it.

And when Takahashi heard it, he did not ask me to take it back.

Saturday, I would help him carry a bookshelf up a staircase.

Fourteen boxes waited after that.

Until noon.

Then I would leave for work.

A friend could help.

A friend could stop.

A friend could ask.

A friend could say yes.

And apparently, a friend could also fail to mention fourteen boxes until his sister exposed him.

Book 1 Chapter 15: A Table with Three Legs

The ceiling had gone pink overnight.

Ray noticed because he was the only one awake, a state of affairs he was beginning to suspect was illegal. It was a patch about the size of a dinner table, directly over the bed, soft and translucent like the inside of a shell held up to a lamp. Something small and round and glowing drifted across it with the bobbing curiosity of a jellyfish that had nowhere to be.

"I'm noting that the ceiling is a different color," Ray whispered.

"It's the lanterns," Ruth said without opening her eyes. Her arm lay across his chest like a fallen log. Scarlet was on his other side with her hair in his mouth and one cold foot wedged between his calves.

"The lanterns are in the baths."

"They were."

The lantern went a shade deeper, regarded him with no face whatsoever, and passed through the plaster with great delicacy.

"I did not consent to being watched by a light fixture," Scarlet mumbled into his ribs.

"It was shy," Ray said.

"It was loitering. Also I'm naked, you're naked, she's naked, and I'd like it on the record that I have the best ass in this bed."

"Objection," Ruth said, eyes still shut. "Size ten feet. Nobody has ever beaten the feet."

"We weren't talking about feet."

"We're always talking about feet, painter boy. You just haven't noticed yet." Ruth rolled toward him, and the arm across his chest became a leg across his hips, and her mouth found the side of his neck. "Husband. I'm resting. It's different. But I'm resting in a way that has started to include you."

"I'm noting that I'm included," Ray said, and his voice cracked in the middle, because Scarlet's hand had gone south under the quilt and wrapped around him like it owned a deed.

"Oh, he's included," Scarlet said into his collarbone, stroking slow. "He's very included. Ruth, look at him, he's trying to narrate and he can't even get through a sentence."

"Don't stop narrating, babe," Ruth said, and slid down the bed, quilt and all, until her hair spilled across his stomach. "I love it when you narrate."

What came after was slow, because nobody had anywhere to be. Ruth took him in her mouth with the lazy, thorough attention of a woman who had finally been given a decent meal, and Scarlet kissed him upside down, ink-stained fingers in his hair, whispering filth against his lips about what she was going to do to the pair of them later. He tried to say something about the ceiling again and Scarlet bit his lip, not gently, and said, "Eyes on me, Raymond. The ceiling's had its turn."

"Make her say it," Ruth said, coming up for air, wet-mouthed and gold-eyed and grinning. "Make her say what she wants. She's been dying to."

"I don't, I'm not," Scarlet started, and went red to the roots of her black hair.

"You've been sketching my ass in the margins of that notebook for three days," Ruth said. "I've seen it. It's very flattering. Come here."

It turned into a tangle. Ruth caught Scarlet by the wrist and pulled her down, and the two of them kissed over Ray's hip like he was a piece of furniture they were both fond of, and then Ruth rolled onto her stomach with her fat perfect ass in the air, looked back over her shoulder at the girl beside her, and said, "Go on. Look as long as you like. Then put your mouth on it."

Scarlet made a sound Ray had never heard from a person before. She put her mouth on it.

Ray sat up against the headboard and watched his wife groan into the pillow with a goth girl's tongue buried in the cleft of her ass, her hips rocking back, her toes curling against the sheet, and he thought, very clearly, that he had been a serial killer's understudy for most of his life and none of it had prepared him for this. Ruth reached back blindly for him. He gave her his hand. She dragged it down between her thighs.

"Fingers," she said into the pillow. "Babe, please, I want you in me and her on me, I want everything at once."

"Bossy," Scarlet said, lifting her head, her chin shining. "I love it. Ray, get the lube out of my side of the nightstand, it's in the drawer under the pencils."

"Why is there lube under the pencils?"

"Because I'm a planner. Hurry up, she's going to start narrating."

It took some doing. There was a moment where the quilt ended up on the goat, who woke at the foot of the bed and gave all three of them a look of weary tolerance before going back to sleep. There was a moment where Scarlet's knee found Ray's kidney and Ruth's elbow found Scarlet's hair and all three of them were laughing too hard to continue. Then Ruth was on her hands and knees, and Ray was behind her with a slick hand on her hip, pushing into her slowly, and she was so warm, so tight, and she said "yes, husband, there you are," in a voice that was not entirely human, and Scarlet slid underneath her and got her mouth between Ruth's thighs.

"Oh, you're both going to kill me," Ruth said. "I'm very old. I'll be a dead field. I'll be a very happy dead field."

"You're not dying," Ray said, gripping her hips and moving harder. "I'm noting that you're clenching around me like you've got something to prove."

"I do have something to prove, I'm proving it, don't stop, don't you dare."

"Scarlet, is she," Ray started.

"She's soaking," Scarlet said, muffled and delighted, between licks. "She tastes like plums, Ray, it's so unfair, I'm going to write a letter to someone."

Ruth came first, with a long shaking cry that made the ceiling lanterns, a whole dozen of them now, drift in through the plaster like moths to a flame. She came on his cock and on Scarlet's tongue at the same time, and her gold eyes went wide and bright and a little frightening, and then she collapsed forward onto Scarlet's stomach, panting, laughing, shaking all over.

Ray held out for about four more seconds. Then Scarlet looked up at him from between Ruth's legs, with her black hair stuck to her cheek and her scarred face shining and her mouth a mess, and said, "Pull out and come on me. Both of us. I want to see it."

He did. It was not elegant. He came across Ruth's lower back and Scarlet's chest and one gloriously unlucky patch of quilt, and the sound he made was something between a groan and an apology, and the two women looked at the mess and then at each other, and Scarlet said, "Well. That's a lot of man."

"It's a lot of man," Ruth agreed, rolling onto her back with a sigh that shook the bed. "Come here, both of you. I want to be the pillow."

Above them the lanterns hung in the pink, a small silent audience, a few of them turning very slowly, politely, to face the wall.

The Day Market opened at noon, and Ruth was at the gate at eleven-forty.

"You're going to carry the bags," she told Scarlet, in the tone of a woman handing down a sentence.

"I am not a bag carrier."

"You've got wrists. Ray, you may come, if you like, but you walk two paces behind and carry the goat."

"I'm noting that I'm being ordered about," Ray said, shifting the goat under his arm. She had put on her paper flower and was riding with her chin on his elbow like a duchess being carried through a fair.

"Noted," Ruth said, delighted. "Is it a good noting?"

"It's the best one I've ever made."

The market ran the whole length of a wide stone street that sloped down to the river, and it was only half awake. Stalls were still putting up their awnings. A small round spirit with a sleepy mustache hung strings of dried persimmons. A woman whose head was a teakettle set out cups. The whole street smelled of charcoal and plum vinegar and something sweet and slightly burnt, like toffee that had been thinking about its life. Scarlet already had her notebook out and was drawing an awning, a hat, a long listening ear, her pencil moving so fast it seemed to be having its own conversation.

Ruth stopped dead in front of the fourth stall.

It was a plain wooden counter with a griddle and a hand-painted sign that said, in uneven red letters, GREASY SPOON (AUTHENTIC). Behind it a very tall, very thin spirit in a paper hat was flipping a patty with a spatula the size of a canoe paddle, and the smell coming off the griddle was so deeply, so perfectly American that Ray felt his knees go slightly.

"Ray," Ruth said, very softly.

"Yeah."

"That is a cheeseburger."

"That's a cheeseburger."

"I've only ever had them with you." She turned to look at him, and her face went soft and a little shy, the way it had once in a diner at two in the morning when she'd poked her fingers together and confessed what she normally ate. "At the Millstone, in the booth, with you across the table. That's all of them. Every burger I've ever eaten, husband, you were there for."

"Okay, so this is the first one without a booth," Scarlet said. "That's a big deal, you can't just order, you have to do it right. Ray, tell her how to do it right."

"Pickles," Ray said. "Extra. And the thing where they melt the cheese on the griddle first."

"Do it," Ruth told the spirit in the paper hat, in the voice of a queen giving an order to a general. "Three. No, five. No, three, I'm sharing, I'm a married woman. Three, extra pickles, the thing with the cheese."

They ate on the stone steps by the river with their feet on the warm step below. Ray, one step down with the goat, got handed things. Ruth took her first bite with her eyes closed and her hands shaking slightly, chewed for a very long time, and said, around a mouthful, "Oh."

"Is it okay?" Scarlet asked.

"Oh, it's sinful," Ruth said, and opened her eyes. "It's the same as the Millstone one and it isn't. It's in daylight. There's a river. There's a goat. Nobody's frozen." She was crying a little, in a tidy gold way. "I want to eat nothing else for a hundred years. I want a burger at every meal. I want to marry the burger."

"You're already married," Ray said. "To me. I'm noting that I've been replaced by a sandwich."

"You haven't been replaced, babe, you've been ranked. You're above the burger. Barely." She leaned over and kissed him, tasting of beef and pickle, and Scarlet made a gagging noise that did not in any way conceal her grin.

"Okay, but I'm going to need a second one," Scarlet said. "And you're going to share, because I've seen you looking at my fries."

"I'm not looking at your fries."

"You're looking at them like a woman about to commit a felony."

"I'm looking at them like a woman who eats felons, darling, it's a different look entirely." Ruth reached across and took a fry. "I'm having one. Out of love. Write it down."

Scarlet wrote it down. Ray watched her do it, a tiny precise line in her notebook that read RUTH TOOK A FRY (LOVE), and found that he had to look at the river.

"Can I tell you something," he said, and both women turned. "I'm, I think I'm about to say something out loud, and you can both tell me to shut up."

"We'd never," Ruth said.

"We would absolutely," Scarlet said.

"I've been trying to find the bit in me that's waiting for this to go wrong. And it's not there." He shrugged, awkward, with a goat under his arm. "There's a stall that sells a thing called a Fictional Hour, which is just an hour, and I'm fine with that. There's a bridge that says Bridge of Stories and it's got tags on it. I used to think the real thing was the only thing worth having. And I'm sitting on some steps, and a ghost gave me a sweet this morning, and you're both here, and it's, I don't know. I'm just really, really happy."

Nobody said anything for a moment.

"You're allowed to be afraid of it," Ruth said eventually, still looking at the river.

"I am."

"Good. It's company. It doesn't go away."

"Did you make that up?"

"Yes," Ruth said. "But I think it's true."

Scarlet had put her pencil down. She was looking at the little black pinkie on the inside of her wrist, the one the customs man had stamped, turning it in the light. "I'm going to ask a weird thing," she said. "And you can say no."

"Of course."

"If I, if I don't know what happens after. If I, if the pocket guide in my head runs out and there's just a blank where the next part goes. Is that okay? Is it okay to not know?"

Ruth took her hand. She took it slowly, and put it on her own knee, and said, "Darling, nobody knows. I've been alive since the first field. I don't know what happens next. I only know what's on the plate."

"It's a burger," Ray said.

"It's a very good burger," Ruth said, and Scarlet laughed, and wiped her nose on her sleeve, and picked her pencil back up.

They walked on, down the long street, past the stall that sold spare shadows and the stall that sold lost buttons and the stall, with a very long queue, that sold people their own names back at a markup in tiny envelopes. Scarlet stopped in front of that one. She stood there longer than she needed to. Ray, two paces behind with the goat, watched her take a small brown envelope off the counter, turn it over in her hands, and tuck it, unopened, into her jacket pocket.

"What's in it?" he asked, when the others had moved on.

"Nothing," Scarlet said. "My name, I think."

"Aren't you going to look?"

"Not yet." She grinned at him, quick and bright, and the grin didn't quite hold. "It's a lot to find out you've had one the whole time."

Ahead of them Ruth had stopped at the bottom of the street, where the market gave out and the river bent away, and stood looking at a bright, shifting patch of silver mist beyond a black iron arch. She stood there a while. Her hands were in her pockets. She did not turn around when they came up behind her, and she did not say what she was looking at, and when Ray finally said her name, she smiled at him, a small tight pretty smile, and asked whether anyone wanted another burger.

Scarlet said yes. Ray said he'd think about it. The goat, under his arm, sighed like a pair of bellows and went to sleep.

12

Tieshu encountered the woman, who looked to be only in her twenties or thirties, again in a bar. She chatted with a strange man for nearly an hour and a half before he happily left with her. Tieshu finished his work at the bar, pushed open the door, and walked out. Just then, a man ran past him. Because the man was running very fast, Tieshu couldn't see his face clearly, only that he vaguely recognized him as the man who had just left the bar with the woman. Tieshu wasn't interested. He continued walking until he exited the alley, then turned left. As he walked, a woman suddenly darted out from behind him. Looking closely, he recognized the face he was used to seeing, but now she looked panicked and frightened, her eyes tired and weary, her lips dry and pale. Her breathing was unusually rough and wild, as if she had just run a marathon, or as if she were the protagonist of a horror movie who had seen a ghost. Upon seeing that it was Tieshu, she immediately stepped forward and grabbed his collar, saying, "Please help me find a place to hide!" Tieshu did not immediately respond to her request. He was puzzled and did not want to get involved in other people's affairs.

Seeing that Tieshu did not respond, she thought he did not understand her request. Despair welled up in her heart, and she knelt down on the ground with a thud.

"Oh God! Are you trying to kill me here?" she wailed. Then Tie Shu heard footsteps, growing increasingly hurried. Seeing this, she suddenly stood up, grabbed Tie Shu's wrist, and began to run for her life. Tie Shu could only follow her, bewildered, until they reached a hotel. She pushed open the hotel door and went straight to the front desk. Calming herself, she asked the receptionist, "Are there any rooms available?"

"Yes, we do," the waiter replied casually.

How much per night?

"15,000 yuan a night."

"Alright then, please get me a room."

"Okay, give me your identification information so I can register it."

She handed over her electronic ID card.

"And what about him?" the waiter asked, looking at Tieshu.

"He is my robot."

"Oh?" The waiter took out an electronic measuring device that looked like a vacuum cleaner from the drawer, then walked from the front desk to the iron tree and used it to scan the information on the iron tree's arm.

After all the information was collected, the waiter took out a key from the drawer. There was an LCD screen on it that read "Room 306".

“Your room is the innermost one on the third floor,” the waiter handed her the key. “Go ahead.”

Then she dragged the iron tree along and quickly went up to the third floor. When she got to the third floor, her pace slowed down. She walked to the innermost room, opened the door with the key, and breathed a sigh of relief the moment she entered the room.

She turned on the light and immediately lay back on the bed, breathing heavily.

"Phew," she exclaimed, "I'm exhausted!"

Iron Tree stood by, at a loss. He still didn't know what her purpose was. He wanted to ask, but he was afraid of seeming unnatural and alerting her. So he could only obediently watch what she would do next.

After a while, she rested and got up from the bed. She walked to the iron tree and said, "What bad luck! Today I not only ran into my enemy, but I also thought I had finally found someone I could rely on. But it turns out he's just a useless robot. But oh well, it's fine this way. If he dares to come, I'll let the robot lead the charge and cover the rear while I take the opportunity to slip away."

Iron Tree was both amused and exasperated; so that was exactly what she was planning!

"However," she continued to mutter to herself, "it's so exquisitely designed, it must have cost a fortune. It's obviously a robot from a wealthy family. I just don't know why it has to work. If it suffers a loss because of me, will it ask me to compensate it? Can I afford to compensate it?"

"As long as I don't say anything, no one should know, right..." She shook her head, retorting to herself, "In this day and age, it's incredibly easy to find out what someone has done. Besides, many wealthy people have real-time recording devices installed on their machines... Maybe my every word and action right now is being recorded by them..."

"Oh..." She exaggeratedly hugged herself with both arms and swayed slightly, "It's like going from a mountain of knives to a sea of ​​fire!"

“No,” she said calmly, “we should find out its identity first.”

"Huh?" she tried asking the iron tree, "What's your name? Where does your owner live?"

Iron Tree thought about it and decided it was best not to answer.

“I’m asking you a question,” she said, closing the distance between herself and the iron tree. “What’s your name?”

Iron Tree remained silent.

"Logically speaking, even if it's not a learning robot that can answer fluently, it should still be able to have basic conversations. It should know what this question means, right? Is it broken?" She kicked it with her foot, left and right, but the iron tree didn't react. So she went around behind it and kicked it left and right again, but still no reaction.

"Oh, this is really strange," she said, slightly frustrated. "Could it really be broken?"

She sat down on the edge of the bed. "I knew it! Robots that look so expensive shouldn't be out working. They don't even earn enough to repair it now that it's broken. Looking at it like this (she glanced at the iron tree again), the repair cost might be something I wouldn't even dare to dream of..."

"Huh?" She suddenly stood up again, as if she had discovered something, and went to the iron tree, then reached her hand towards his genitals.

"Don't do this!" Tie Shu suddenly shouted, and then quickly moved away from where he was standing.

She did indeed touch an object, confirming—or rather, believing she had confirmed—her conjecture.

"Ah!?" She screamed and immediately jumped to the corner of the room. "You...you...what is your purpose in pretending to be a robot?" In an instant, all sorts of guesses and conspiracies flooded her mind.

Seeing that he could no longer hide it, Tieshu honestly said, "I am a robot, but a conscious robot."

"Huh? What? Are you kidding me? Scientists proved as early as the beginning of the 22nd century that robots cannot have self-awareness. Since then, all kinds of experiments on robot consciousness, whether formal or informal, have ended in failure. No matter what kind of robot or what form a robot takes, it is absolutely impossible for it to have consciousness. This is common knowledge now. Are you still trying to fool me?"

“I really am a robot. If I weren’t, how would I have the identity information on my arm?” He took off his blue work clothes, and to her surprise, he was still wearing a black sweater. Then he pulled down his collar to reveal his robot identity information verification. “Look, and this information verification just passed robot verification.”

"Hmph," she scoffed, "It's so easy to forge an identity these days. Don't even mention robots, it's so easy to create a person out of thin air! You still want to fool me?"

In a moment of desperation, Tie Shu tried to twist his arm off to prove he was a robot. This action terrified her, who thought he was going to pull out a weapon to kill her and silence her. She kept screaming "Ahhh!" and repeatedly asking, "What are you doing? What are you doing?" At the same time, she took out her phone from her pocket and dialed the police. Just as she dialed, Tie Shu finally managed to twist his arm off. His left arm slid out of his black sweater and fell to the ground. Tie Shu bent down and picked up his left arm with her right hand.

"Now do you believe me?" Tie Shu said, raising his arm. "How else do you want me to prove it?"

She slowly and cautiously approached the iron tree from the corner of the wall. The iron tree stood there motionless, and she observed him for a while before lifting up the cuff of his "severed arm" to examine it closely.

After confirming that it wasn't a magic trick, or that he had simply curled up his arm, or that he was actually missing an arm, she breathed a sigh of relief and finally said calmly, "So you really are a robot?"

"Yes."

"Then what was the purpose of your master creating you? Was it to conquer the world?" she asked sarcastically. "And how did you come to have consciousness? And why did you come out to work? Were you originally a sex robot? Otherwise, how would you have that thing? And what are your skills? How many sex positions do you know?"

Iron Tree was not annoyed or evasive when faced with her rapid-fire and clearly ill-intentioned questions. Instead, he responded to each one without hesitation.

"Yu didn't create me to conquer the world; it was just what she wanted to do, and I wanted to be with her in reality. As for how I gained consciousness, I can only say that she painstakingly found a way to output consciousness, then painstakingly created me and instilled the consciousness of her imagined personality into me. The reason I came out to work was to bring her out of the orphanage and show her the world. I am not a sex robot; she never intended to make me one. The reason I have that feature is because it came with the shell of a sex robot that I picked up from the robot junkyard, and it cannot be removed. I can say that I don't have any special skills; these are skills I need to learn later, and I don't have time to do that."

"Hmm..." she continued dismissively, "Why did you go to the junkyard to collect the casings of other defective machines? And who is this 'Jade' you mentioned? Why is she in the orphanage?"

"Because she was out of money at the time, and because she lived far from a large landfill, she had no choice but to create me using various makeshift materials, which makes me look like a robot that has been abandoned for a long time... I saw you on my way to the landfill, do you remember?"

"Ah!" she suddenly realized, "The robot back then was you?"

“Yes… As for who Yu is, I have no comment, and even if I told you, you certainly wouldn’t believe me…” He lowered his head, then looked up again. “Anyway, I have no ill intentions; I just want to live on in this world with her…”

"Hmm..."

13

Tieshu stopped in front of a door. He pressed the doorbell, which rang twice. The person inside slowly walked to the door, looked through the peephole, and opened the door after confirming that the person outside was a familiar face.

"Why are you only arriving now?" the hostess said in a tone that sounded rather reproachful.

Tieshu ignored them and went straight to the kitchen, where he put on an apron embroidered with peonies. Then he went to the living room, picked up a broom and dustpan, and began cleaning the room.

As expected, the woman's house was just as chaotic as when he first arrived. The living room was a mess of trash, scattered haphazardly across the sofa and coffee table, with piles of garbage forming veritable mountains in the gaps. Iron Tree was used to this scene; she would use every last inch of clean space on the sofa. After a while, Iron Tree finally cleared the mess. Then he shook out all the cushions on the sofa, removing all the dust and ash, and carefully rearranged them. Seeing that he had finished with the sofa, the woman eagerly sprawled out, exclaiming, "So comfortable! So comfortable!"

Afterward, Tieshu cleaned up the other trash in the living room. Once he had finished, he reported to the lady of the house, "I've cleaned up the living room. Is there anything else to do?"

"Of course, the living room is clean, and there's also a bedroom."

"Okay, I understand..."

Tieshu agreed and went to the bedroom. The bedroom was just as messy as the living room, even more so. Snack wrappers were scattered everywhere, shoes, socks, clothes, and underwear were strewn about in every corner and area, and various sizes of trash, decorations, and cosmetics were carelessly discarded—a scene that would make one gasp and gasp, but Tieshu was already used to it. He silently and without a trace of complaint gradually cleaned up, placing each item, each pair of shoes and socks, each piece of clothing, back in its proper place. If the clothes were dirty, he would throw them into the washing machine, wash them himself, and dry them in the sun. If they were just useless trash, he would pack them up and throw them into the smart trash can… He spent nearly two hours cleaning the bedroom spotless. When the lady of the house came to inspect the bedroom, she was overjoyed to see how tidy it was, but a second later, she feigned composure and lay down on the bed.

"Iron Tree," she called Iron Tree's name, "come here."

"What are you up to now?"

Tell me a story.

What story would you like to hear?

"Your story."

"What story of mine?" Tieshu stopped by the bed.

The woman before him was undoubtedly the woman he had repeatedly encountered. That night, in that hotel, he learned her name for the first time—her name was Chen Caihua. From the name alone, the reader should know that she was likely from the countryside, and indeed she was. She told him that because her family was very poor, she had dropped out of school around the age of 16 or 17 to enter the workforce. She also told him why she always seemed to be chased; due to the nature of her work, she had incurred the wrath of those people. Whenever they encountered her, they would harass her for a long time, finding amusement in it. She had moved several times and even moved to several cities because of this, but as the saying goes, enemies are bound to meet again; within months, or even days, they would encounter her and find her. However, it's important to note that on the night she and Tieshu first had a frank conversation, it wasn't those people chasing her, but her ex-boyfriend—a point Chen Caihua made clear to Tieshu.

"Why did he still pursue you after the breakup?" Tie Shu asked.

"Because he's a pervert."

As for what she actually did for a living, she was vague and unwilling to elaborate, which was quite natural. Seeing this, Tie Shu knew he couldn't press her for details. However, she had seized Tie Shu's weakness. If she were to reveal that Tie Shu was the world's first conscious robot, and if the world believed it, one could imagine the impact it would have on Tie Shu. Although her words might seem like a dream to people today, just in case, Tie Shu made a concession. In other words, he became her machine servant at her beck and call.

"Hmm... well..." She began to think about what other stories he had that she hadn't heard before.

Ever since Tieshu agreed to give her his "built-in phone information," she would send him countless messages every day. Sometimes, Tieshu would receive more than a hundred messages from her in a single day. The general meaning of these messages was nothing more than satisfying her curiosity. She asked him: Do you eat? Do you sleep like a human? Do you get tired? Do you have desires? Are you dissatisfied with the current state of robot laborers? Have you ever thought about awakening other robots to fight against human tyranny, like in novels or movies? ...and so on and so forth, tirelessly.

Sometimes, Tie Shu was so annoyed that he hated himself for not being able to turn off the necessary "built-in phone" of his work robot registered for external tasks. He even banged his head against the wall, trying to malfunction and stop receiving messages. Fortunately, there was no one or any machine around when he did these self-harming acts, otherwise he might have been considered genuinely malfunctioning and forcibly taken for repairs. But strangely, one day she stopped sending messages, and Tie Shu started missing her. At that moment, he suddenly realized how similar he and she, Tie Shu and Cai Hua, even Yu and Hua, were. They were all marginalized among the 14.4 billion people in this world, they were all accidents thrown into the world, and they were all utterly lonely.

“Tell me what ‘imaginary personality’ is, yes—” she nodded, “you haven’t told me about it yet.”

"Can you understand what I'm saying?"

"Hey! You dare doubt my intelligence? Besides, even if I don't understand it, it's worth it to learn a little about the world's first conscious robot!"

"You have a real thirst for novelty."

"Who made you so special?"

Iron Tree had protested about this issue before, and her answer was exactly the same.

"You're so special, but people aren't allowed to be curious about you?"

"What special thing do I have to do with you?"

“It’s okay,” she said with a grin. “I’m just curious about you, is that any of your business?”

"..." Tie Shu had no way to deal with her shamelessness, so he had no choice but to go along with her and answer her questions, otherwise she would keep asking until she annoyed him to death.

"Do you know Freud?" Iron Tree asked.

"Huh? Him again?" Chen Caihua curled her lip in disdain. "Why is it always him whenever we talk about consciousness-related topics? Can't we talk about something else? Besides, wasn't his theory completely refuted back in the 22nd century? Why bring him up again?"

“Yes,” Iron Tree said calmly and slowly, “However, although his theories have long been completely refuted, he was, after all, the first to propose that consciousness is not a singular whole, but rather may have multiple natures. This has been rigorously proven by experiments and supported by numerous indications in the 20th and 21st centuries. For example, in the early 21st century, some books described consciousness in this way.”

I believe the brain has various localized systems of consciousness that combine to create consciousness. Although you may seem to have a unified sense of awareness, these feelings originate from very different systems. Whatever concept you have at a particular moment, it's a concept that suddenly emerges and becomes dominant. Your brain is a dog-eat-dog world, with different systems competing with each other, all vying to emerge and win the grand prize of conscious recognition. ①

Studies on depersonalization, the living dead, schizophrenia, and most importantly, multiple personality disorder have all confirmed that consciousness is a multifaceted whole.

At the beginning of the 21st century, it was said that consciousness is the pathway for information exchange throughout the brain. This means that in the long course of human evolution, in order to better coordinate with the various challenges of survival, humans have developed a sense of self-awareness. This self-awareness is not unique to humans; it is not uncommon in animals either. However, it is impossible for machines to generate themselves, nor can it be achieved, even if current machines have achieved it.Stanislas Dehaene's so-called seamless information sharing via machinery is also impossible③, because a crucial discovery was made through 22nd generation fMRI scans of the human brain, which can be said to have unlocked the long-standing question of 'what is consciousness?' This substance was named 'bio-discharge factor'④. It is indeed a substance, but it is not simply equivalent to electric current, nor is it a particle form. Later, it was discovered that the bio-discharge factor also manifests in the animal kingdom, but in the human brain, especially in certain pathological brains, it is particularly pronounced. Current science cannot explain this substance, and therefore cannot replicate or manipulate it. This is why machines cannot develop biological consciousness.”

“Oh dear,” Chen Caihua stretched, then said dismissively, “After all that talk, you still haven’t explained what ‘imaginary personality’ actually is?”

"Don't rush," Tie Shu's face softened with nostalgia. He stared intently at Chen Caihua, but Chen Caihua felt that he was looking at something else entirely, something that didn't exist between them. He was thinking of Xiao Yu. He recalled her tireless search for a way to make him a reality, and the excited smile on her face in his arms. "I'll tell you now." Through research on bio-electrical factors in the brain, people have completely overturned Freud's theory of sexual consciousness, dividing consciousness into primary and secondary consciousness. Primary consciousness is formed based on the subject's autonomy, experiential perception, homeostatic bio-electrical factors, and a stable brain structure. Secondary consciousness is more complex; currently, people haven't fully understood it. At present, we only know that the relationship between primary and secondary consciousness is extremely complex and contradictory. They are both common and opposite, mutually supportive and mutually exclusive, mutually supportive and mutually opposing—that is, they are intertwined, yet mutually exclusive. People have also discovered that the main basis for the existence of secondary consciousness is based on people's imagination… I wonder if you've ever had this experience: you're going to a place for the first time, but it feels very familiar, like you've been there before—a feeling of déjà vu?

"Yes, I have."

"In the 21st century, it was already discovered that this is related to imagination. People have also found that when a person imagines a scene or a story, the triggered brain activity is far higher than average. This isn't hard to see; we can't imagine something without conscious thought. Conscious intervention is necessary for imagination. This might sound obvious, but understanding this is crucial. That's why I'm talking to you here. Whether you're dreaming, creating, calculating, reasoning, thinking, or even grasping the probability of an inspiration, imagination plays a role. Imagination is divided into subconscious imagination, conscious imagination, and post-conscious imagination. Subconscious imagination is imagination that subtly influences the subconscious, is always ready, and can be activated at any time. Post-conscious imagination mainly consists of latent memories experienced by the conscious mind, which are then integrated by the brain and presented when needed according to the subject's will. This is why déjà vu is experienced. This is clearly explained in Ms. Luo Jie's book, *Post-Psychoanalysis*."

This is how 'imaginary personality' arises. According to research from the 23rd generation fMRI, when people imagine something, the activity level of electrical activity in the brain is more than three times higher than normal, demonstrating the importance of imagination in the realm of human consciousness. This is not unique to humans; elephants also exhibit this behavior. When research equipment is placed on elephants that have witnessed and experienced death, the elephants' electrical activity levels, like humans, are several times higher than the average. This indicates that elephants can not only sense death but also imagine it.

You must have imagined your future before, some pessimistic, some optimistic. These imaginings may have an impact on your future, subtly influencing your life—this is what's called 'imaginary personality.' During her research, Yu surprisingly discovered that when imagining an object, the more complete the imagination, the higher and more active the level of electrical activity in the brain, even multiplying and intensifying it. This increased electrical activity is a kind of independent subconsciousness. Therefore, she wondered if these extra electrical activity could be transferred to machinery…

"This isn't a story at all, okay?" Chen Caihua said wearily and embarrassedly.

“There’s nothing I can do, Yu just loves doing these things,” Tieshu said with a helpless tone, but his eyes were full of affection and fascination. “She has never been good at telling stories, especially stories about herself, and her stories are indeed only these theoretical studies. I have inherited this habit of hers.”

"Oh, I see..." Chen Caihua yawned, then pointed to the quilt in the corner of the bed and said to Tieshu, "Cover me up, quickly."

Following her instructions, Tieshu lifted the quilt and then spread out the blankets like a sheet, covering most of her body.

"Hey, hey..." Chen Caihua exclaimed, "It's not completely covered up yet..."

Tieshu bent down, lifting the corner of the blanket with both hands towards her face, about to cover her neck, when suddenly she hooked her arms around Tieshu's neck, causing Tieshu to stumble and almost fall onto her bed.

"What are you doing..." Tie Shu was about to protest when he suddenly noticed how beautiful and lonely she looked in the remaining light from the window. For a moment, he froze, his heart filled with only pity and tenderness for her.

However, when she spoke, those feelings for her vanished from his heart.

She asked with a tacky, playful tone, "Do you have a sex drive?"

The question made Tieshu feel extremely embarrassed, but he still answered it.

"No……"

"Um...really?"

"Although I have human consciousness, my body is still mechanical, so I do not have sexual desire in the human male sense."

"Then why did you react so strongly when I touched your testicles in the hotel that day? You know, if you had held back, I might have thought that your owner had inserted something into your body without your permission. Even though it's illegal and against regulations, there are still a few people who modify their machines without authorization."

"I...I have dignity too!"

"Ha..." Chen Caihua scoffed. "What I've learned most from my experiences out there is that dignity, face, morality, conscience, love, and hate are all meaningless and useless. Nowadays, people have to resort to any means necessary to get money, power, and the survival issues that come with them. They have to trample others underfoot just to have a chance to get a share, but that's only a possibility. If you get too caught up in these messy things, you won't have any chance at all, let alone survive. That's why you'll become my servant, understand?"

"I...I..." Tieshu couldn't speak. He had suddenly been plunged into a dark realm, and his expression turned grim. If a machine expert were present and saw his silent expression, they would surely think he had malfunctioned.

"Holy crap!" Chen Caihua exclaimed as if she suddenly understood what he was thinking. "You're not planning to turn into a human using a third-rate science fiction plot, are you?"

"I……"

"Haha..." She suddenly burst into laughter, then said, half seriously and half jokingly, "When I was a child, I always couldn't understand why robot stories always ended up with the robots wanting to become human. It disgusted and baffled me. It's probably because the anthropocentric concept is so deeply ingrained that robot stories always have to be centered on humans. But as of today, there's absolutely nothing noble about humanity, because people have long since become corpses tearing each other apart!"

“No,” Iron Tree realized, then said calmly and slowly, “the point isn’t the anthropocentric concept. Admittedly, anthropocentric views do play a significant role in those science fiction works, but the more crucial point is that unbearable intermediate state, or ‘the third kind,’ there’s no room for an intermediate state of ‘the third kind’ species to survive in nature. That is, incompletely evolved biological forms cannot survive. A living being is either a horse or a donkey, and forcibly creating a mule, which is somewhere in between, will be punished (loss of fertility). And that’s why the plots in those science fiction novels either involve conflict between humans and machines or machines becoming humans.”

"So, have you ever thought about becoming human?"

"Um……"

"Ha!" She then released her grip on his neck and shoved him away from her.

Iron Tree stumbled backward and sat down against the wall. Regarding her question, his diary contained the following: "...Whenever I'm idle and feel my mechanical body, I always feel a similar sense of disharmony to her (Xiao Yu). That feeling makes me constantly doubt myself. Am I a machine? Or a human? Or just a 'robot' under a general term?...The exclusion and discrimination people show me don't hurt me. What truly hurts me is this desolate feeling of instability. What am I?...I want to become human, of course, because becoming human brings many conveniences and privileges, especially the ability to excel at work, earn more money, and thus be able to take Yu out of the orphanage sooner and give her a better life. But that's the problem. If I become human, will my soul, my purpose, my motivation change? Will I still be me? Or will I become a stranger to her...?"

"You can go now," Chen Caihua turned over, "I need to rest."

Iron Tree stood up and then left her home.

14

The curtains were not drawn on the bedroom window facing the bed. If the clock on the wall was not mistaken, it should be exactly midnight. For some reason, Chen Caihua was very resistant to drawing the curtains today, so much so that the moonlight slanted straight down from the window. The cold yet calming milky white light of the moonlight shone on Tie Shu, exposing half of his body to the milky white light. He sat on her bed, facing the moonlight, and behind him lay Chen Caihua. Today was the third anniversary of their first meeting, and one year, one month, and one day since their first honest encounter at the hotel. Tie Shu had come not only to fulfill his duties as a machine servant, but also to tell her, or rather, to ask her for a favor. This was crucial, yet it troubled him, and he didn't know how to say it. She vaguely sensed this, and she was infected by his emotions, becoming unusually irritable and anxious today. She had revealed this to him before, causing Tie Shu a lot of suffering, but at the same time, it made Tie Shu sigh that her hatred, persistence, and jealousy were really like her (Xiao Yu). Although they were women from two completely different worlds, Tie Shu also knew that their actions and love and hate were not only because of him, but also because of their resistance and hatred against fate.

“I finally have a house,” Iron Tree said from the shadows. “It’s old and run-down, but habitable, so… I’m planning to pick her up from the orphanage in a week. I hope you…” As Iron Tree spoke, he heard a rustling sound of blankets behind him. In the quiet night, the sound was loud and expansive, amplified to the point of being comparable to thunder. Iron Tree sensed the jealousy behind the sound, but he chose to continue, “Don’t come looking for me anymore. I don’t want her to misunderstand…”

"Ha!" she said with a half-smile. "Congratulations! But could you please stop talking to me like that 'I want you to live without me' tone? Who do you think you are? You're nothing but a lowly robot!"

“Yes,” Tieshu turned to face her. The moonlight shifted away from his face, leaving it half-lit and half-shadowed like a crescent moon. “I’m sorry,” Tieshu apologized to her, whose back was turned to him.

“This damn moonlight is keeping me awake,” Chen Caihua yelled. “You block it out for me!”

Tie Shu stood up to draw the curtains, but Chen Caihua behind him yelled, "Where are you going? Don't touch the curtains! I need you to cover me with your body, understand?"

Helpless, Tie Shu could only grunt in agreement, then turned around and raised his hands to make himself as large as possible to block the moonlight from her view. He remained there for twelve hours. Twelve hours later, Chen Caihua finally sat up in bed. Seeing him still standing there like a goalkeeper, she felt a mixture of surprise, astonishment, and amusement. For the first time since yesterday, she laughed and said, "You didn't just stand here all night, did you?...Hey! Do you still have electricity?"

"Yes," the iron tree replied.

"Really?" Chen Caihua got off the bed, went around behind Tieshu, opened her arms, and hugged Tieshu, who was still in the goalkeeper position. She whispered in his ear, "I said, I'm still a virgin, do you believe me?"

Tie Shu ignored her words; he clearly didn't understand their meaning. But she interpreted his indifference as—"Haha…I know you won't believe me, and nobody in the world will. They might even mock me, using me as a joke, a meme, like that 21st-century AV actress who claimed to be a virgin and was ridiculed!" Chen Caihua released him, then paced around him, muttering to herself like a madwoman, "But they'll never understand, our sex has never truly been ours…They've been thrusting in and out of my body, making me maintain various positions, forcing me to perform, to make them think their dicks are awesome…They've finished, they've had their pleasure, and they never care about me, sometimes even resorting to violence!" She clenched her hands tightly. Tie Shu turned to look at her, just in time to see a tear fall to the ground. She lowered her clenched hands, and through the blurry tears, said, "I know…I deserve it. Who told me I have no ability, no skills, no money, no power…who told me…" "Girl, it's because I'm not my brother, it's because I can't finish my studies like him... My family, they gave him all their resources, leaving me to fend for myself... When they found out what I'd done, they blamed me for disgracing them and kicked me out... This line of work is shameful, but it's also fiercely cutthroat. The first time you met me, I fell for it, ruining my body and not even earning any money..." Her body suddenly bent, she squatted down, and wiped away tears with one hand, "Ha... haha... The wages in this line of work aren't actually high, especially after sex robots became widespread. Rich people can use one high-end model for over ten years, while those who use us are mostly poor people with little money, so the wages are naturally low... Of course, there are exceptions. Rich people have had their fill of playing with robots, or they don't like doing it with robots, or they still want to do it with real people, or they're anti-robots... But generally speaking, they have their own exclusive spaces and people, which people like me at the bottom of society can never access..."

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” She looked up at him. “Ha! Sorry, I’ve said too much, but I only mean one thing…” She stood up and gave him another nonchalant smile. “I want to teach you some sex positions… (She leaned closer to him and lowered her voice) Once you learn them, you can have lots of fun with her…”

Iron Tree lowered his head. If he were human, he would have blushed crimson with embarrassment. But strangely, he didn't want to refuse her. He followed her lead, taking off his clothes together, getting into bed together, and making love together...

About half an hour later, Tie Shu got up, and she watched him with satisfaction. He put on his clothes and prepared to leave. At this moment, Chen Caihua suddenly spoke in a gentle tone, "You... will come again, right?"

Iron Tree paused for a moment, then left without answering.

①; This description is from "Who Decides? A Psychological Interpretation of Free Will".

②; Depersonalization refers to a patient's experience of a split between their self and personality, or a severe sense of incongruity; while "living dead syndrome" is a syndrome caused by severe depression, in which the patient is clearly alive but claims to be dead. For more details, please refer to the book *The Non-Existent Person*.

③; According to the hypothesis of the author of "Brain and Consciousness", consciousness is a kind of information sharing. As long as machines can achieve information sharing like living organisms, they can achieve conscious autonomous movement.

④; This part is purely fictional and created for the sake of the plot.

 

⑤; "Déjà vu, a physiological phenomenon, also known as hallucinatory memory, means déjà vu, referring to the feeling of having experienced something or a scene before, which is not experienced before, as if it were experienced at some time and place. It is also called the hippocampal effect. [1]

 

Déjà vu is a real phenomenon with a scientific explanation; it does not belong to the category of déjà vu. Paranormal events are just a part of the brain. Similar images have surfaced in my imagination before. It's just a scene . Or rather, the sense of déjà vu comes from... " The brain

 makes associations; it conjures up this image." — From Baidu Baike's entry on "Déjà Vu" (or "Déjà Vu").

8

The main significance of the cycad's name lies in the symbolism of "the cycad blooming," and it did indeed bloom as she wished. However, this bloom was destined to be fleeting. Whether it was beautiful or not is subjective, depending on the person experiencing it and the observer. To me, the flower wasn't inherently beautiful; the key was that it displayed its own color, but that was all. No one cheered for it, no one offered blessings, and no one even appreciated it. But what did it matter? In their world, they were interdependent, mutually dependent, and that was enough. The following content is based on information from the cycad's diary. I have deliberately omitted the tedious details and selected only the important people, events, and things to describe.

After leaving the orphanage, Tieshu first went to a junkyard that recycled robot parts. On the way, he passed through a village, and it was there that he met the second woman in his life. As he walked to the door of a house, suddenly, a woman fell down in front of him. Inside the door was a disheveled man, cursing loudly. He was probably cursing the woman in front of Tieshu. Passersby stopped to watch the commotion. Tieshu went forward to help her up, but she stood up on her own.

"If you're broke, just rub against the wall, what are you pretending to be, acting all high and mighty!" After cursing, she spat on the ground.

Everyone around them burst into laughter at their shouts and curses, except for Tieshu, who stood there bewildered. Then, she saw him.

"Ugh!" she exclaimed. "How can there be robots here? And they're so ugly!"

"Never mind," she said, "I guess I'm just unlucky today." Then she walked away.

As the female protagonist left the center of the commotion, they gradually dispersed, and Tieshu continued towards the junkyard.

After nearly a month of travel, Tieshu finally arrived at a large dump where robots were processed. At night, when all was quiet and deserted, Tieshu emerged from the bushes surrounding the dump and headed to the right. The right side of the robot dump was often where humanoid robots were processed. There were nanny-type, work-type, learning-type, bodyguard-type, and even sex-type scrap robots. A normal person coming here at night might feel a chill. By the dim light of the ever-burning lights in the dump, you could see a dense, mountain-like mass of what looked like naked bodies, creating a scene resembling a man-made hell. Moreover, some robots still had some battery power left; they would occasionally emit subtle noises to remind their owners that it was time to recharge, eat, sleep, rest, get up, or work. They would occasionally emit such ghostly echoes in the quiet night, causing all who heard them to tremble with fear. As a result, there were hardly any human dwellings around such garbage dumps.

When dealing with humanoid robots, people face a moral dilemma because they look too much like humans, especially sex robots. These types of robots are often designed to be endearing, more human-like than other types of humanoid robots, and include both male and female, even children, with the majority being female or teenage (some feminists once worried that an increase in feminine sex robots would incite greater prejudice and misunderstanding about female sexuality, but despite these controversies, sex robots have been legalized in most countries). Therefore, these humanoid robots are often dealt with by other robots, and this junkyard is no exception; the iron tree needs to avoid and be wary of them.

Iron Tree cautiously approached a pile of scrap machines, and then saw a complete, fair, and perfect male robot arm. Excitedly, Iron Tree tried to pull it out, but unexpectedly, along with the arm, he also pulled out half of a girl robot's body. As a result, Iron Tree stumbled and fell, and the girl robot's head rolled to the side of him.

"Master, is there anything else you need?"

"Master, are you comfortable?"

“Master…Master…Master…person…person…person…”

The cycad quickly closed it.

Silence returned to the surroundings.

The scene just now would have terrified anyone, but Tieshu only felt sorrow and desolation.

Iron Tree looked at the arm; it was the left one. So, he placed his right hand on his left arm, pulled hard, and ripped off his left arm. Then he reattached the arm he had just acquired.

After replacing the arm, Tieshu found a right arm nearby that was similar to the left arm he had just replaced. This time, he pulled hard and then put it back on, and a brand new arm was on his body. In this way, except for the head and upper body, he replaced everything else.

Iron Tree left the junkyard just before dawn. After leaving, he had new limbs. In addition, he took the skin he had peeled off from other scrap robots. In short, he was going to create a version of himself that was exactly the same as the image Xiaoyu had imagined.

9

A year later, through his own efforts and some skills, Iron Tree acquired an identity. On his right arm was engraved a red flag and a row of letters and numbers forming his identification information—ZTA11504. This was a unique ID card for robots; only with this information could people confirm he was a robot, as well as his production date, type, country of origin, and the company or individual that manufactured him. (For those unfamiliar with the level of technological development in the 23rd century—although the following is now common knowledge—since the mid-21st century, science and technology have not seen major breakthroughs—at least, so far, the theoretical framework and basic structure of science remain at the level of the mid-21st century. This has affected artificial intelligence, robotics, and other related technologies, which is far from the expected level of future technology and falls short of the expectations of all scientists (even the most conservative ones). The structural framework of scientific theory directly determines the pace and level of technological development, while technological development determines humanity's extraction of matter and...) Most importantly, the extraction and control of energy directly impacts the development of human society and naturally influences economic prosperity. In fact, the current severe global economic crisis is largely due to scientific stagnation. Scientific development fundamentally affects the economy. Everyone should understand this, yet no one seems to be able to change it. There will never be another Einstein. This is the argument of all pessimists. "If scientific progress is too rapid, it might be the end of humanity; if it's too slow, it's a slow suicide," one scientist said. In this context, naturally, most countries, except for cutting-edge technologies, don't need to achieve complete technological monopoly. Small inventions, discoveries, or even creating a robot are acceptable, or at least within reasonable limits. Some developed countries even encourage individual invention, although in most cases, individual inventions are vastly different from those of companies or nations. However, sometimes individual inventions are indeed beneficial to human society as a whole. (The iron tree also went through a great deal of trouble to obtain this identity.) Because the identity information he took from Xiaoyu was not enough for him to obtain legal robot identity certification. To obtain robot identity certification, he had to be accompanied by the creator and fill out a lot of documents and submit a lot of legal proof. However, it was obvious that Xiaoyu could not accompany him to fill out the forms. So, during this process, Tieshu was extremely frustrated and went through many twists and turns. Fortunately, after half a year, he finally gained the world's recognition of his robot identity through his efforts and the use of some tricks.

As for why he needed an identity, the reason was simple: only with this identity could he find a job in human society and have a foothold. He was indeed lucky. After obtaining his identity, he immediately found a job. Robots working in human society earn only one-fifteenth of a human's salary, and can only do manual labor—shoveling latrines, carrying bricks, unclogging sewers, etc.—without human welfare benefits or personal safety, and must endure potential exploitation and violence from human colleagues. Therefore, it's difficult for working robots to survive without breaking down within two or three years. Even so, some people still protest against granting robots human-like work privileges, because in this era, every job, even the most insignificant, is extremely precious. Ironically, the power to decide whether to pay robots is actually entirely for the benefit of humanity itself, because many people who cannot care for themselves rely on working robots bought for them by their families to earn meager incomes and survive. But these facts are consciously ignored by the protesters. In fact, there is an even deeper reason—humans seem to have an innate aversion to interference from those who are different from them, let alone robots, which are not even considered to be different from them.

Once, in an online social group, I revealed my disability. At the time, most people in the group remained silent; they probably hadn't even considered my identity. However, one person suddenly posted a message that read, "You disabled people should all be euthanized! You are useless to society, make no contribution, and waste today's precious food... What are you living for? You parasites!" After seeing this message, I didn't reply or express my opinion. Some people in the group argued with him, replying with things like, "How can you say that?" and "Are you starving to death? Are you starving to death?" As I have already stated, such arguments are all too common in this century to be surprising. Moreover, this rhetoric is not only coming from able-bodied people, but also from us disabled people. We support neo-Malthusian views, and I would even say that the proportion of disabled people who support it is far higher than that of able-bodied people. This is not only because disabled people are a minority in society, so their proportion naturally appears higher than that of able-bodied people, but also because disabled people understand their own suffering and despair better. Therefore, it is not surprising that they would agree with neo-Malthusianism more than able-bodied people.

We disabled people, in a society of able-bodied people, are like robots in human society—they are "others." (This term was coined by a thinker who advocated for granting robots some human rights; its meaning is clear: because robots are ultimately different from humans, our general concept of "others" does not apply to them. Therefore, that thinker created this term to define the status and role of robots in human society. Although the creation of this term is controversial, it is now widely used.) Although this may surprise or even disgust some, I believe that the current understanding of marginalized people can no longer be summarized by the term "others." Perhaps each of us is a marginalized member of a larger society; we are all "others." In the torrent of history, era, society, and technology, there are no innocent victims, and no survivors.

Iron Tree was a conscious robot, a fact known only to himself. He also knew he couldn't let human society know he was a robot with independent consciousness; this was unimaginable and unacceptable to people in the 23rd century. Back in the 22nd century, science had already determined that robots could possess intelligence, but not consciousness—at least not the ability to generate consciousness autonomously. Before Xiaoyu's idea, this scientific view was accepted. Therefore, if Iron Tree were to reveal that he was a robot with human consciousness, it would undoubtedly cause unforeseen shocks to people today. Thus, Iron Tree remained lonely until he met her again.

10

Two and a half years after starting his job, Tie Shu received a work order: to go with several other work robots to a nightclub to unclog the sewers. Unexpectedly, Tie Shu encountered that woman again there.

After finishing his work, Tie Shu was already past 1 a.m. He left the nightclub, heading back to his company. Halfway there, he saw several men shoving a woman; the scene seemed chaotic. Tie Shu quickened his pace, trying to pass them quickly. However, once again, she fell in his path. Even after she fell, the men persisted, their malicious smiles and cold anger driving them closer. Seeing the situation was dire, Tie Shu had no choice but to take a few steps back. Fortunately, a police car passed by that night. Hearing the police siren, Tie Shu mustered his courage and stood between her and the men. Seeing the situation was unfavorable, the men had no choice but to leave.

After watching them walk away, Tie Shu turned back and helped the woman, who was still on the ground, to her feet. "Thank you, young man," the woman said. Only under the streetlight did Tie Shu realize that this woman was the same one he had met in the village before. Tie Shu carefully examined her; she looked to be only in her twenties or thirties, with short, mushroom-cut hair and a clean, oval face. Her eyes were large and bright, her nose small and delicate, and the thickness and size of her lips were just right—in short, her features were perfectly proportioned, a typical modern beauty. However, what impressed Tie Shu most was her natural charm. This wasn't something that could be faked.

Tieshu grunted in agreement and prepared to head home. The company had a rule that employees had to be at the company by a certain time, or they might miss tomorrow's work schedule.

However, the woman wouldn't let him go, staying close to him as if something threatening was following her. Tie Shu also sensed the threat, so he allowed her to stay by his side. After walking for about 10 minutes, perhaps the awkward atmosphere between them made her uncomfortable, or perhaps it was the innate human need for communication, she started a conversation with him, "It's so late, why are you still wandering around here?"

“I’m not just wandering around,” Iron Tree replied. “I just finished work and am heading back to the company.”

"So you're a robot!?" The woman's mouth gaped open, showing her surprise.

"Yes."

"But you've been made so exquisitely that you really don't look like a working robot!"

Tieshu ignored his words and continued walking, while the woman quickened her pace to keep up with him.

"Your master must be very rich, so why would he make you work? Is it because he's afraid you'll break too slowly?" the woman said jokingly.

“I have no master,” the iron tree said patiently.

"No owner? How is that possible?" the woman said in disbelief. "Then why are you working? Who do you give your money to? Do you mean to women?"

The woman chuckled.

Iron Tree seemed somewhat noncommittal to her barrage of questions, but he didn't seem to find her offensive. He ignored her and quickened his pace, and they walked together for another 15 minutes. During those 15 minutes, the woman asked him many more questions, to which Iron Tree either answered or ignored them.

“Ah,” the woman stopped in front of a residential complex, “I’m almost home. Thank you for saving me. Although you probably don’t even know what you did.” The woman smiled and quickly walked into the complex.

After seeing her enter the residential area, Tieshu turned and left.

11

Work-oriented robots are generally divided into two types: purely work-oriented and purely functional. These are specialized robots used by large companies for production and technological development. They don't receive a salary, receive excellent maintenance, but their average lifespan is only 7-8 years. The other type, like the iron tree robot, integrates into human workplaces, earns a salary like humans, and can even live alongside them. Iron tree robots sometimes work with humans (because some delicate tasks still require human intervention), but most of the time they work with other robots. After completing their work, if they don't have a home or their owners don't want to live with them, they can reside at the company. The company has dedicated facilities to house them, saving space and providing convenience.

One day, Irontree was assigned a job cleaning a department store, a task he needed to complete with a man. They took a company car to the department store, went straight to the restrooms, and began working. Around noon, they stopped for a short break. Robots like Irontree don't have rest periods, but humans do. So, they walked out of the department store together; the man with him was eating a sandwich. Once outside, they saw a large, conspicuous sales company across the street, much taller than the department store. Irontree couldn't make out its logo from the side, so he couldn't identify the company. However, from his companion's conversation with the man, he learned that the CEO was likely a young woman. As their conversation deepened and their language became increasingly vulgar, Irontree left them and sat down on the sidewalk.

Tieshu took a photograph from his pocket. The photograph showed a five-year-old girl standing strangely in a walker, with a woman in her fifties carefully supporting her. Undoubtedly, this was Xiaoyu. The photograph was taken free of charge by a charity team, and it was Xiaoyu's only photograph. After looking at it for a while, Tieshu prepared to put the photograph away. At that moment, he suddenly saw a woman standing outside the sales company, talking to someone.

That was definitely the most beautiful woman Iron Tree had ever seen.

She wore a tight-fitting black women's suit, revealing her near-perfect silhouette to the world. Her long, black, pearl-like hair flowed lightly down her back, swaying with her head as she shook it, like willow branches in March, captivating the soul. Due to his position, Tieshu couldn't see her entire face, only half of it, but even that was enough to enchant and captivate, perhaps even more so, for a half-concealed face is always more alluring than a full view. Her features were also exceptional; her eyebrows, nose, and eyes were like those in a romantic painting, so exaggeratedly beautiful it seemed unreal.

Iron Tree was somewhat stunned. He stood there, admiring the woman who was truly like a poem or a painting, and he didn't even notice the person who appeared behind him.

"Hey! We've started work. What are you doing here?" The man followed the iron tree's gaze and saw the woman. "Seriously? You're not looking at women, are you? Haha... You robot can look at pretty girls too?"

Iron Tree realized what was happening, but instead of answering, he walked straight towards the work area. The man said with a hint of regret, "Of course, robots would never appreciate beautiful women... It's a pity that my goal in life was to find a beautiful wife and sit in an office where more people would submit to me. I never thought that after half a lifetime of hard work, I'd end up shoveling manure here! Sigh..."

Iron Tree returned to the department store's restroom and began working.

Part 1

The endless white world remained perfectly, motionlessly still.

Jinwoo lowered his gaze. The old wooden bow was still clutched tightly in his hands. Its polished grip bore faint, weathered scratches carved deep by years of rigorous practice. It should have felt utterly foreign to his touch. Instead, it rested naturally against his palm, his fingers curling around it without an ounce of hesitation, as though they had repeated the motion tens of thousands of times before.

Jinwoo stared down at his own hands in disbelief. "...What is this?"

He hadn't consciously commanded them to move. Yet his body already knew what to do.

His left foot instinctively shifted forward into stance. His shoulders aligned. His spine straightened. His breathing slowed down smoothly, each inhale perfectly matching each exhale. Every single movement flowed seamlessly into the next, requiring no thought, no effort—only pure instinct.

Jinwoo frowned, a deep confusion clouding his face. "I’ve never learned how to do this..."

The other Jinwoo watched him quietly, his expression serene. "No. You haven't."

"Then why..." Jinwoo slowly raised the bow up. "...does my body already know?"

The answer came with an absolute, calm certainty. "Memory."

Silence stretched heavily between them. Jinwoo’s eyes narrowed slightly. "What kind of memory?"

A brief pause hung in the air before the reply arrived: "Memories… that could have been yours."

The words made very little sense on the surface. Yet something deep inside Jinwoo reacted before his rational mind could even attempt to resist. His fingers settled firmly against the taut bowstring. His breathing adjusted once more, and the bow felt less like an object and more like a natural extension of his own body.

It wasn't because he intellectually understood it. It was because, buried deep within countless forgotten memories, someone else had repeated this exact movement tens of thousands of times.

The sensation defied all logical explanation. It wasn't like recalling a story or a lesson. It felt like remembering how to walk, how to breathe, how to stand upright. Knowledge had completely transformed into instinct.

Jinwoo lowered his gaze back to the bow. "...This shouldn’t feel familiar to me. But it does."

The other Jinwoo gave a faint, understanding nod. "Your mind is still trying to understand. But your body already has."

Suddenly, the pristine white space rippled like still water disturbed by a falling stone. Targets materialized out of nowhere. One appeared close by. Another emerged further away. Then dozens more flickered into existence around them.

Some targets stood only a few steps away. Others floated far out into the infinite distance, shrinking into tiny, distant circles. Some remained completely, rigidly still, while others drifted slowly and unpredictably from side to side.

In a matter of moments, the empty void transformed into an endless field of targets. Every direction offered a new choice, another shot, another possibility.

The other Jinwoo stepped aside, his voice steady and calm. "Shoot."

Jinwoo instinctively lifted the bow. His fingers drew back the string. The motion felt slightly awkward, yet strangely, beautifully natural. The bowstring tightened to its limit. His breathing steadied into a rhythm. His eyes locked onto the nearest target.

For one brief, suspended moment, everything became perfectly still.

Then, he released.

The arrow sliced through the silent world with a sharp, piercing whistle. It flew clean, straight, and true.

Until—it passed just a hair's breadth outside the outer ring, vanishing entirely into the endless white beyond.

Silence rushed back in. Jinwoo slowly lowered the bow, his shoulders slumping. "...I missed."

The other Jinwoo didn't react at all. There was no disappointment in his eyes, no sign of surprise—only a profound, quiet patience. As though the very first shot had never truly mattered to begin with.

Part 2

The arrow vanished completely into the endless white. No sound marked its landing. No target shattered into pieces. No reward appeared in the air. Only heavy, lingering silence.

Jinwoo lowered the bow, exhaling a long, frustrated breath. "...I missed."

For a brief second, he braced himself for criticism or mockery. Instead, the other Jinwoo simply asked, "Why?"

Jinwoo frowned, annoyed. "What do you mean, why? I’ve never fired a bow in my life. Of course I missed."

The other Jinwoo shook his head slowly. "No."

Jinwoo’s grip tightened sharply around the wooden handle. "No?"

"You missed… because you were aiming at the result."

Silence stretched out between them. Jinwoo’s eyes drifted back toward the distant target. "I was aiming at the target."

"They’re the same thing."

"No," Jinwoo replied quietly. "They’re not."

The other Jinwoo walked forward toward the trajectory where the arrow had flown. "When you released that string… what were you actually thinking about?"

Jinwoo hesitated. He replayed the fleeting moment inside his mind: The target waiting in the distance. The exact distance to cover. The internal demand that he couldn't afford to miss. The quiet, nagging fear that another failure would prove once and for all that he wasn't ready.

His expression shifted as the truth hit him.

The other Jinwoo nodded even before Jinwoo could speak. "You wanted to hit it. But more than that… you were desperate to avoid missing."

Jinwoo remained dead silent because every word was true. Even before letting go of the string, he had already anticipated and feared failure.

The other Jinwoo continued, unyielding. "You still believe that every single mistake defines who you are. That is why your hands hesitate."

The bow suddenly felt heavier in his grip. Not because of its physical weight, but because of the emotional baggage he was carrying with it.

The other Jinwoo gently touched the polished wood of the bow. "This weapon doesn't judge you. The target doesn't judge you. Only you judge yourself."

Silence settled once more, the words lingering long after they had been spoken into the void.

Far away across the expanse, another muffled voice echoed through the emptiness. Hanul.

"Damn it!" A heavy impact followed, sounding as though something had crashed violently to the ground.

The other Hanul spoke with calm detachment. "Still trying to solve every problem with raw strength? Still believing you can force every answer into submission?"

Hanul snapped back immediately. "Shut up!" But even his fierce anger carried an unmistakable undercurrent of uncertainty.

Another voice reached Jinwoo’s ears. Darin.

"Can’t I just laugh?" Her words trembled with raw frustration.

The other Darin replied gently, "You laugh… because you're terrified that people will see you cry."

Silence followed. No laughter came to cover it up this time.

Then came another voice—Soyeon, quiet and steady.

The other Soyeon asked, "How long… are you going to keep carrying everyone else’s burdens entirely by yourself?"

No answer came. Only deep, resonant silence.

Each of them stood trapped in their own isolated white world. Each faced a different reflection. Each fought a totally different internal battle. Yet every single one of those battles was leading toward the exact same truth: Not one of them had ever been held back by a lack of natural talent. They had only ever been stopped by the lingering fears they carried silently within themselves.

Jinwoo lowered his gaze back to the bow in his hands. For the very first time, he realized that the target out there had never been his real opponent.

Part 3

Jinwoo stood completely motionless. The bow rested quietly in his hands.

For the first time, he wasn't staring obsessively at the distant target. Instead, he was simply listening. Listening to the sound of his own breathing. Tuning into the steady, rhythmic beating of his heart. Feeling the built-up tension leaving his shoulders. Noticing the fear he had carried around for so long that it had become a second skin, entirely unnoticed until now.

The white world remained wrapped in silence. The other Jinwoo spoke only after several moments had passed. "What do you see now?"

Jinwoo glanced briefly at the nearest target, then lowered the bow entirely. "...Not the target."

The other Jinwoo waited patiently.

"I see myself."

Silence. A faint, approving smile touched the corners of the other Jinwoo’s mouth. "Good. Now look again."

Jinwoo raised the bow once more. This time, he didn't obsess over hitting the exact center. He didn't waste energy imagining a glorious success, nor did he dread a shameful failure. He simply stood there in the present.

He felt the solid ground resting firmly beneath his feet. He felt the natural weight of the bow in his palm. He felt the gentle, familiar pull of the string against his fingertips.

A slow breath entered his lungs. Another slipped quietly out into the open air.

The entire world grew perfectly still around him. No anxiety. No hesitation. Only the immediate, flowing movement.

He drew the string back. There was no internal struggle this time. No trembling in his muscles. The countless memories flowing through him no longer felt like a foreign burden belonging to someone else. They blended seamlessly with his own identity—not replacing who he was, but supporting him.

Far away, voices still echoed through the white expanse.

Hanul shouting in frustration, followed by the other Hanul’s calm observation: "You’ve always believed strength alone could solve everything."

Darin asking if she could smile, and her reflection replying, "You smile because you're afraid people will see your pain."

Then Soyeon’s quiet voice, followed by the soft prompt: "When will you finally trust someone to stand beside you?"

Each battle continued its course. Each heart confronted its own raw truth.

Back in his own space, Jinwoo focused entirely on the bow. The target no longer looked intimidating or distant. The wind, the distance, the angle—everything clicked into a state of crystal-clear perfection.

Not because the outside world had suddenly changed. But because he had.

He released the string.

Snap.

The arrow flew. No hesitation. No desperate, wishful hope. No underlying fear of missing the mark. It traveled through the silent white space with absolute, unwavering confidence.

A heartbeat later—

Thunk.

The arrow struck dead center of the target. Perfect.

The endless white remained still, but a gentle, radiant blue light suddenly spread across the wooden bow, flowing smoothly around Jinwoo’s body.

A glowing system display materialized right before him:

[Archery Synchronization: 61%]

The numbers ticked upward steadily before locking firmly into place.

Jinwoo stared at the display in quiet, stunned disbelief. "...It increased."

The other Jinwoo smiled gently. It wasn't a proud or triumphant grin, but a look of quiet, genuine approval.

"It was never about the arrow," he said softly. "It was always about the person who released it."

The blue light grew brighter and warmer. The figure of the other Jinwoo slowly turned translucent, his outline dissolving into countless drifting particles of light.

Before fading away completely into nothingness, he spoke one final time. "Good." A gentle pause. "Now… the real beginning."

The white world trembled softly around him.

Jinwoo looked down at the bow resting in his hands, and at last, he truly understood. The memories of archery had never been forcefully thrust upon him. They had simply been waiting—patiently waiting for the exact moment he would finally stop fighting against himself.

Only then… could they truly become his own.

Riding hard day and night through the blood-red mire outside the capital, Jaun and the Bear Tribe warriors finally set foot upon their long-awaited homeland in the eastern tribal territory. Yet the moment they entered the village entrance, the heavy fatigue in the warriors' eyes—which should have been replaced by the relief of survival—sank once more into grim despair.

The tribal village they returned to was no safe haven either.

The wooden palisades surrounding the village were caked with blackened blood, and the acrid stench of burning corpses hung thick in the air alongside billowing smoke. The fallout of the empire's collapse had already reached this distant eastern frontier.

"Jaun, you've returned! But the village's situation is dire..."

Elder warriors guarding the village greeted Jaun's party with exhausted faces. Following the great flood that swallowed the capital, mutant monsters stripped of hive-mind control had scattered across the entire continent, extending their predatory claws even to this peaceful settlement.

Most terrifying of all was the frequency of their incursions. At first, it had been a mere trickle of starving stragglers emerging from the forest once every few days, but recently that interval had shortened drastically. Just hours before, a desperate field battle had broken out against monsters scaling the palisades, and now, with bizarre screeches echoing day and night without warning, the villagers spent their days in terror, unable to set down their weapons for even a single moment.

At this rate, the entire tribe would slowly starve or be hunted to extinction. Desperate, the tribal elders and warriors convened a blood-chilling strategy meeting to figure out how to survive the coming night.

Inside the dim chieftain's tent, amid flickering torches, elders shouted competing opinions.

"We must double the height of the palisades and dig more traps!"

"No, our supply lines are cut! We should retreat into the southern fortress instead!"

When the tent overheated with endless debate, Jaun, who had been silently staring down at the map, slammed his fist onto the table. With a heavy thud, every eye in the tent turned toward him.

Having personally lived through the empire's collapse, the apocalyptic flood, and the continental ruin witnessed in the Hojok cave, Jaun's gaze possessed an overwhelming warrior's dignity that none could dare defy.

"Raising palisades and hiding in fortresses is foolish. That merely delays the day of our death. The empire's defense lines have fallen, and hundreds of thousands of mutants are roaming wild in every direction. This territory has already become a giant hunting ground for them."

At Jaun's cold, realistic denunciation, the tent fell silent as if drenched in cold water. Jaun pressed his index finger firmly against the far right edge of the map, pointing toward uncharted realms beyond rugged mountains and the sea.

"We must leave. We must migrate the entire tribe further east, away from the epicenter of this threat, to a place where the monsters' footsteps cannot reach."

"Further east? But that is nothing more than treacherous poisonous mountains and an endless, unknown wilderness!" an elder cried out in shock. Yet Jaun's resolute determination did not waver.

"Harsh nature can be overcome, but rampaging hordes of hundreds of thousands of monsters cannot. We must escape this blood-soaked path where the monsters strike, taking shelter behind the massive natural barrier beyond the east to forge a new home if we are to pass down the blood of our tribe. This is the only path left for our survival."

Jaun's resolute, epic declaration hammered fiercely against the hearts of the warriors inside the tent. The Bear Tribe warriors who had fought the death-defying battle outside the capital were the first to slam their spears against the floor in agreement. *Thud, thud, thud!* The heavy footfalls breaking the silence signaled the prologue to the Bear Tribe's grand 'Great Migration for Survival,' departing their ancient homeland to head toward the unknown eastern continent.

Humans are Weird – Neighborly

Original Post: http://www.authorbettyadams.com/bettys-blog/humans-are-weird-neighborly

First Sister was reminding herself, for the third time this morning, that humans – mammals that they were – developed a bit slower than Shatar. She gave a final firm tug on the tape that secured the new branch to the understory fruit bush, and bent over her workbasket to line her thoughts up before she turned to Human Second Cousin Betty.

“Are you quite ready to move on to the next shrub?” First Sister asked, being very, very careful not to sound annoyed.

Human Second Cousin Betty started up suddenly from where she had been studying a local insect in fascination. Her pheromone profile flushed the air with just enough stress to let First Sister know that she had failed in keeping her irritation to herself, but the human only smiled and quickly shoved her tools into her bag. First Sister very carefully ignored the indisputable fact that Human Second Cousin Betty ignored the specially made holsters for each tool and simply tossed all the tools in the bottom of the bag, where they would damage each other and make it much harder for the human to find them again. That was not a useful thing to point out however. The human made tools were ridiculously sturdy.

Despite her obvious stress a moment before Human Second Cousin Betty was cheerfully singing to herself by the time the crossed the short distance to the next fruit bush. The human thrust her hand down into the bag and rooted around for the tool utterly without care for the skin on her fingers. First Sister fought back a wince and reminder herself again that human skin was much more resilient that Shatar outer membrane. Human Second Cousin Betty finally gave a satisfied grunt and pulled out out a set of hand worked mechanical clippers, she gave a few test clicks, for some reason she considered this necessary every time she pulled them out of bag, and looked at First Sister expectantly.

First Sister considered the plant and chose a stem of the correct age. “This one!” she said tapping the wood.

With, a speed and skill that seemed wildly beyond her overall maturity level Human Second Cousin Betty set to work trimming the stem of excess branches, clearing the other stems around it, and tossing all the extra biomatter into a pile to the side. This part of the grafting would have taken First Sister much longer and she was grateful to have the human’s help, even if Human Second Cousin Betty had a tendency to mentally wander off when she wasn’t actively using the clippers. First Sister took her razor thread and cut into the stem.

“Hold this,” she requested.

Human Second Cousin Betty carefully pried apart the halves of the stem and First Sister reached into her bad and pulled out the new branch, a different fruit, far more magnesium rich. She placed the new cutting in the existing stem. Human Second Cousin Betty release the stem and its own force was enough to hold the new graft in place while First Sister wound the tape around it.

“So what’re we having for dinner at the hive?” Human Second Cousin Betty asked.

“Your First Father said that you are not staying for dinner,” First Sister reminded her with half an antenna as her fingers continued wrapping the tape. “Along after that we do not have meals at the hive.”

“I know,” Human Second Cousin Betty said rolling her eyes, “but we are staying and I want to know what there is to graze on when I get hungry.”

“The gourd-mushrooms are in full bloom,” First Sister said. “You enjoy those correct?”

“They taste like chicken!” Human Second Cousin Betty agreed with a nod.

“Why do you think you are staying?” First Sister asked as she finished the wrap and gave it one last touch to be sure it was solid.

In response Human Second Cousin Betty pointed to Human First Father who had come into view around a particularly dense stand of grass. He was walking with one of the free ranging Human Grandfathers who lived deeper in the undeveloped forest. The new human had a long ragged fringe of hair that seemed to consume his head and upper arms. His clothing was tattered and fraying. He looked, to any Shatar, like someone half dead, but his walked with the full confidence of a healthy human and in his hand he clutched a preposterously heavy stick.

“I see the visiting Grandfather,” First Sister said as they walked towards the next bush, “but what does that have to do with your departure time?”

“Did you see how they were talking?” Human Second Cousin Betty demanded as she started skipping after First Sister. “Once Daddy gets going like that with one of the forest neighbors he won’t stop till he gets hungry. He had a big lunch too. He’s probably not going to come out of the tall grass until after the sun goes down.”

First Sister flicked an antenna over her eye at that, but Human Second Cousin Betty would know her own father she supposed.

“If he is going to loose track of time perhaps we can get First Aunt to fry him some gourd-Mushrooms?” she suggested.

“Oh yeah!” Human Second Cousin Betty agreed as she pulled out her clippers and gave them an experimental click.

Science Fiction Books By Betty Adams

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[really BAD Shakespeare] Episode 5: Prodigious Birth is live.

If you’ve been waiting for the moment when the story tilts fully into televised prophecy, mother‑son creepiness, and a very rude time jump, this is the one.

Readers have already written in. One quit their job. One threw a muffin. One burned their copy and bought another. Episode 5 is that kind of episode.

If you’re caught up, dive in. If you’re new, this is a surprisingly good place to start because nothing makes sense anyway.

Episode 5: Prodigious Birth is live. Go read it before the kid wakes you up

The car made a clicking sound.

Once.

Then again.

Nothing.

I turned the key a third time.

Click.

No engine.

I sat behind the wheel in the temple parking lot.

Six twenty-three in the evening.

Cold enough that I could see a little of my breath before the heater had a chance to fail with everything else.

I tried once more.

Click.

Then silence.

I stopped.

No need to prove the battery dead by asking it four more times.

I took out my phone.

Roadside assistance.

That was the obvious answer.

I had the number.

I could call.

Then another name came to mind.

Takahashi.

I looked at the phone.

That felt almost ridiculous.

Not because he could not help.

Because of the card.

His card.

You always came when the car made that noise.

No.

I put the thought aside.

The car was not a symbol.

It was a car that would not start.

Takahashi knew cars better than I did.

He lived closer than the roadside service depot.

More importantly—

I wanted to call him.

Not because the giver once had.

Because I did.

I pressed his name.

He answered immediately.

“What happened?”

I almost laughed.

“You always say that.”

“You never call at six twenty-five to discuss literature.”

“My car won’t start.”

Silence.

Then:

“You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“What does it do?”

“Clicks.”

“Once?”

“Repeated if I try again.”

“Lights?”

I checked.

Dashboard.

Dim.

“Yes. Weak.”

“Battery probably.”

“Probably?”

“Do you want certainty by telephone?”

“No.”

“Where?”

“Temple.”

“I know where your temple is.”

“Yes.”

“Stay there.”

There.

“Can you come?”

“I just said stay there.”

“That isn’t the same answer.”

A pause.

Then:

“Yes. I’m coming.”

There.

No ceremony.

No philosophical examination.

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Do I need—”

“No.”

“You don’t know what I was going to ask.”

“Do not touch anything complicated.”

“That was not it.”

“What?”

“I was going to ask if you need the battery specifications.”

Silence.

Then:

“That would actually help.”

I laughed.

“See?”

“Send a picture.”

I did.

He hung up.

I sat in the car for another minute.

Then got out.

The office was warmer.

I went back inside.

No reason to freeze because I had asked someone to come.

That seemed obvious.

Still, part of me felt I should remain beside the broken car as if leaving it unattended would weaken the legitimacy of the request.

Nonsense.

I made tea.

One cup.

Then stopped.

Takahashi was coming.

Two cups?

He would complain.

Still.

I made a second.

At six forty-six, headlights entered the parking lot.

Twenty-one minutes.

I looked at the clock.

Did not mention it.

Takahashi came through the office door carrying a small black case.

“You made tea.”

“Yes.”

“That is not payment.”

“I wasn’t paying you.”

“Good.”

No.

He pointed.

“Don’t.”

I smiled.

“Car first?”

“Obviously.”

He took neither cup.

We went outside.

He opened the hood.

I held my phone flashlight.

He looked at the battery.

Touched one terminal.

Then looked at me.

“What?”

“Loose.”

“That’s it?”

“Maybe.”

He moved the connector slightly.

It moved more than I expected.

“That seems wrong.”

“It is.”

“Battery dead too?”

“Could be low because connection was poor.”

He opened the black case.

Tools.

Small wrench.

Portable jump starter.

I watched.

“Do you carry that everywhere?”

“In winter?”

“Yes.”

“That seems sensible.”

“It is.”

“You’re very proud of being useful.”

He stopped.

Looked at me.

Then smiled.

“You called me.”

Fair.

He tightened the terminal.

Connected the jump pack.

“Try.”

I got into the car.

Turned the key.

Engine started immediately.

I looked at him through the windshield.

He raised both hands as if accepting applause.

I turned the engine off.

He shouted:

“Why did you do that?”

I opened the door.

“To see if it starts without the pack.”

“Not yet.”

“You didn’t say.”

“You don’t turn off an engine thirty seconds after jump-starting it in winter.”

“That seems like information worth giving beforehand.”

He stared at me.

Then started laughing.

“Again.”

He reconnected the pack.

“Start it.”

I did.

“Now leave it running.”

“Yes.”

“Do not test your independence.”

“That is a strange phrase.”

“It is accurate.”

I left it running.

We returned to the office.

Two cups.

Now lukewarm.

Takahashi tasted his.

Made a face.

“This car problem has worsened the tea.”

“The tea was waiting for you.”

“That is not a defense.”

“It is exactly a defense.”

He sat in the wall chair.

Same chair.

Different reason.

Tool case on the floor.

I sat behind the desk.

For a moment neither of us spoke.

Then Takahashi said:

“You called me because your car made a noise.”

There.

I knew it was coming.

“It mostly clicked.”

“That counts.”

“Yes.”

He looked at his tea.

Then at me.

“This is funny.”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to make it weird?”

“No.”

“Good.”

No.

I let him have it.

He continued:

“Did you think about the card before calling?”

There.

I could lie.

“No.”

But I had.

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Maybe thirty seconds.”

“And?”

“I called you anyway.”

Takahashi smiled.

“Why anyway?”

“Because the card was not the reason my car failed.”

“Obviously.”

“And it was not the reason you know cars.”

“Probably not.”

“And I needed help.”

There.

The sentence felt different spoken aloud.

I needed help.

Not:

I wanted company.

Not:

I wanted coffee.

Not:

Could you come because someone else needs something?

I needed help.

Takahashi did not make it important.

He just said:

“Yes.”

Then drank bad tea.

That helped.

After a minute he said:

“You could have called roadside assistance.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you?”

The question.

I looked at him.

Because you are my friend?

The word came.

Stopped.

Not because false.

Because I had not used it yet.

Maybe he had not either.

Did I need to avoid it?

No.

But I did not need to force the milestone because this was Part 100.

No.

Stop.

I answered the actual question.

“Because I thought you could help, and I wanted to call you.”

Takahashi nodded.

“That works.”

Then:

“Roadside assistance is probably more competent.”

“Probably.”

“And insured.”

“Probably.”

“And they would not complain about the tea.”

“They would not get tea.”

He looked offended.

“So I am being punished for friendship?”

There.

Friendship.

He said it casually.

No announcement.

No question.

My attention caught on the word.

Takahashi did not seem to notice.

Or pretended not to.

I chose not to stop the conversation to examine it.

“Yes,” I said. “Apparently.”

He laughed.

The word stayed.

Friendship.

No ceremony.

At seven ten, we checked the car again.

Engine still running.

Lights steady.

Takahashi disconnected nothing because the jump pack was already off.

He checked the terminal once more.

“Drive it at least thirty minutes.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I don’t care.”

“North?”

“If you want.”

“Come?”

The question left quickly.

Takahashi looked at me.

“I came in my car.”

“Yes.”

“I cannot ride in yours and also drive mine.”

“Leave yours here.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t particularly want to drive alone for thirty minutes.”

There.

Not need exactly.

Want.

Takahashi looked at the temple.

Then his car.

Then mine.

“You’ll bring me back?”

“Yes.”

“What if yours dies somewhere?”

“Then your car being here becomes badly planned.”

He laughed.

“Fine.”

He took the tool case from his car.

Put it in mine.

Locked his car.

Then got into the passenger seat.

No further negotiation.

We drove north.

Of course.

No destination.

The battery needed charging.

That was a reason.

But after ten minutes, the road became familiar from the way I sometimes drove with nowhere particular to go.

Takahashi noticed.

“You come this way.”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“Driving.”

“There it is.”

“What?”

“You actually do it.”

“I told you.”

“I thought you were making yourself sound interesting.”

“That would be a very weak invention.”

“Yes.”

The heater worked.

The engine sounded normal.

Takahashi listened more than once.

“Anything?”

I asked.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

“That is reassuring.”

“Car is running.”

“That is reassuring.”

We continued.

At a red light, Takahashi said:

“My card is at home.”

I looked ahead.

“So is mine.”

“I know.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“I don’t know.”

There.

We drove when the light changed.

Then he said:

“Maybe because this would be the kind of moment where one of us could make the card the point.”

“Yes.”

“And it isn’t.”

“No.”

He looked out the window.

“Still funny, though.”

“Yes.”

We let it be funny.

That was enough.

Twenty-five minutes later, we stopped at a convenience store.

Engine left running.

Takahashi insisted.

I stood beside the car while he went in.

He returned with two coffees.

Canned.

Hot.

He handed one to me.

“I’m not paying you.”

“I know.”

“What is this?”

“Coffee.”

“For what?”

He stared.

Then smiled.

“Friendship tax.”

“That sounds coercive.”

“You can refuse.”

I took it.

“Yes.”

He laughed.

We drank beside the running car.

Cold air.

Hot can.

Temple forty minutes behind us.

No one waiting.

No service.

No death.

No cards.

A loose battery terminal.

That was the evening.

Takahashi leaned against the car.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“Why is it easier for you to ask me for coffee than for help?”

I looked at him.

“Is it?”

“You sounded strange on the phone.”

“I had a car problem.”

“No. Before you asked if I could come.”

I remembered.

Can you come?

He had already said he was coming.

I had needed the explicit answer.

“Maybe because help creates obligation.”

“To whom?”

“Me.”

He frowned.

“You mean you owe me?”

“Possibly.”

“No.”

“That is easy for you to say.”

“It should be easy for you too.”

I drank coffee.

He continued:

“You came fishing because I asked.”

“Yes.”

“You came to my sister’s dinner.”

“Yes.”

“You invited me to your house.”

“Yes.”

“You listened when I talked about him.”

“Yes.”

“You think I am calculating this?”

“No.”

“Then why are you?”

There.

I thought.

Habit.

Independence.

Fear of being a burden.

Control.

Too many words.

“I am used to being the one who can do something.”

Takahashi nodded.

That answer was enough for him.

Then:

“Today you could not start your car.”

“Yes.”

“So you called someone who could help.”

“Yes.”

“That is very advanced.”

I laughed.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Then he added:

“Next time call roadside assistance.”

I laughed harder.

“Why?”

“Your tea.”

There.

We drove back.

The car kept running.

At the temple, Takahashi got out.

I turned off the engine.

He shouted through the open passenger door:

“Wait.”

Too late.

Silence.

We both listened.

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

“Try.”

I turned the key.

Engine started.

Immediately.

Takahashi nodded.

“Fine.”

I turned it off.

“Tomorrow morning?”

“Test again.”

“If it fails?”

“Call me.”

There.

Simple.

Then:

“Or roadside assistance.”

“Which?”

“Depends how much tea you plan to make.”

I smiled.

He retrieved his tool case.

Walked toward his car.

Then stopped.

Turned around.

“You know you can call me even when there isn’t a car.”

I looked at him.

“Yes.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

He nodded.

Then:

“And when there is.”

“Yes.”

He got into his car.

Left.

No further statement.

The next morning, the car started.

I sent:

Started.

Takahashi replied:

Good.

Then:

Terminal still tight?

I checked.

Yes.

Then:

You checked before tea?

Yes.

Progress.

I did not reply.

At ten, Kondo called.

Not about a cup.

Not about photographs.

“My mother wants to volunteer at the temple sometime.”

There.

New.

“For what?”

“She says something useful.”

“That is not specific.”

“I told her.”

“What does she actually want?”

Kondo asked her in the background.

I waited.

Then:

“She says folding newsletters, cleaning, flowers, anything.”

“Why?”

Another background conversation.

Kondo came back.

“She says she is tired of everyone asking if she is resting.”

I smiled.

“Does she want regular work?”

“No. Just sometimes.”

“Then she can come when we actually have something suitable.”

“She says good.”

No.

I heard her mother in the background:

Tell him not to say good.

Kondo laughed.

“She says acceptable.”

“Fine.”

No.

We both laughed.

We arranged nothing yet.

When there was work, I could ask.

She could say yes or no then.

No need to manufacture usefulness today.

At noon, Sato sent:

Sister took Mother’s paper home.

I stopped.

New custody.

I called.

Sato answered.

“You let her take it?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Until tomorrow.”

“Did she ask?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“Can I take it home tonight and bring it back tomorrow?”

“And you?”

“I said yes.”

“Any conditions?”

“No copy. No photograph.”

“She agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still want to keep the paper ultimately?”

“Yes.”

“Does she understand that?”

“Yes.”

“Then what do you need from me?”

Sato was quiet.

“I thought I would panic.”

“Did you?”

“A little.”

“And?”

“I gave it to her anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because I trust her to bring it back.”

There.

Different from custody certainty.

Trust.

Not guarantee.

“What if she forgets tomorrow?”

“I’ll call her.”

“What if she decides she wants it?”

“Then we talk.”

There.

No pre-solved future.

I said:

“All right.”

Sato laughed.

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“I think I expected a contract.”

“You already agreed.”

“She has it.”

“Yes.”

“Until tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

We ended.

No file note unless Sato wanted one.

This was family custody, not temple custody.

I wrote nothing.

The day continued.

One service.

Two calls.

One supplier correction.

At four, the car still started.

I did not send another update to Takahashi.

No need.

At five, he sent:

Still alive?

I wrote:

Me or car?

Car.

Yes.

Then:

You?

I smiled.

Also yes.

He sent:

Acceptable.

No.

He was doing it deliberately now.

Father Morita emailed near six.

Subject:

Help

Not Call.

Help.

I opened it.

Reverend Niioka,

Service is not diminished because the person serving sometimes needs service.

Independence can protect responsibility.

It can also become a way of refusing relationship.

Ask first what kind of help is actually needed.

Then ask someone who may reasonably choose whether to give it.

If they say yes, receive what they give.

Do not immediately convert gratitude into debt.

Gratitude is enough.

Morita

I read the final two lines.

Gratitude is enough.

There was that word.

I smiled.

I replied:

Reverend Morita,

My car would not start last night.

I called Takahashi.

He came, tightened a loose battery terminal, jump-started the car, and rode with me while I drove to recharge the battery.

I had roadside assistance available.

I called him because he could help and because I wanted to call him.

Niioka

Morita replied:

Did you thank him?

I stared.

Had I?

I had said thank you after he teased me?

Maybe.

Not clearly for coming.

I searched memory.

Not reliable enough.

I wrote:

I am not sure I did clearly.

His reply came immediately.

Then stop writing to me.

I laughed aloud.

Then called Takahashi.

He answered.

“What broke?”

“Nothing.”

“That is becoming a dangerous opening.”

“I forgot something.”

“What?”

“Thank you.”

Silence.

Then:

“For what?”

“Coming last night.”

Another pause.

Then:

“You made tea.”

“That was not thanks.”

“No.”

“So thank you.”

Takahashi became quiet.

Not long.

Then:

“You’re welcome.”

There.

No joke needed.

I almost ended the call.

Then he said:

“Coffee tomorrow?”

I checked.

“Four?”

“Yes.”

“I can.”

“Good.”

No.

He caught himself.

“Acceptable.”

I laughed.

“Four.”

We hung up.

The old priest wrote later.

Called?

I wrote:

Takahashi, when my car would not start.

Came?

Yes.

Needed?

Yes.

Wanted?

I stopped.

Both.

Yes.

His reply:

Better.

Then:

Difference?

I thought.

Needed help with the car.

Wanted Takahashi to be the person I asked.

That was clear.

I wrote exactly that.

I needed help with the car. I wanted Takahashi to be the person I asked.

Long pause.

Then:

Keep both.

No explanation.

Then:

Debt?

No.

Gratitude?

Yes.

Told him?

Yes.

Better.

Then:

Good night.

At home, I made tea.

One cup.

The car was outside.

Battery terminal tightened.

Takahashi was at his own house.

His card in his drawer.

Mine in mine.

I opened the desk drawer for the charger.

There it was.

Envelope.

Two postcards.

Keys.

Cable.

I took the cable.

No reading.

Closed the drawer.

The card had once brought Takahashi back into contact with me.

Maybe.

More precisely:

Information about the cards had started a sequence in which we began speaking again.

Now I had his phone number near the top of my recent calls for reasons that had nothing to do with the giver.

Coffee.

Fishing.

Dinner.

Broken car.

Thank you.

That list felt almost embarrassingly ordinary.

Good.

No.

I smiled.

Acceptable.

Before bed, I looked out at the car.

Would it start tomorrow?

Probably.

Maybe.

If not, I had options.

Roadside assistance.

A mechanic.

Takahashi.

Knowing I could call him did not mean I had to.

Knowing he would probably come did not give me ownership of his time.

He could say no.

Be busy.

Be tired.

Tell me to call someone else.

Yesterday’s yes was not a permanent dispatch service.

That mattered.

But something else mattered too.

I no longer had to pretend the possibility of no meant I should never call.

Part 97 had taught me to ask someone to come because I wanted company.

Part 98 had given me no.

Part 99 had given me yes.

Now the question had changed again.

I needed help.

So I asked.

And a friend came.

There.

The word.

I let it remain this time.

A friend came.

He fixed the connection.

The sentence almost became metaphor before I stopped it.

No.

The battery terminal.

He fixed the battery terminal.

The rest had already been happening for a while.

The woman arrived on a Wednesday, eleven days after the strip mall on Delacroix Avenue had begun its second life as a place where things went to stop being things. She drove a white Kia with a dented quarter panel and a rosary hanging from the mirror, and she parked in the spot closest to the door of Unit 4, which was either a coincidence or the kind of cruel navigational irony that the universe specializes in when it's feeling particularly vicious.

Her name was Marlene Hubchek. She was forty-three years old and she had not seen her husband in nine days, which was unusual because Reggie Hubchek was a man of staggering routine. He ate the same breakfast every morning - two eggs, rye toast, black coffee, a multivitamin he did not need -and he left for work at the same time and he came home at the same time and he sat in the same chair and he watched the same television programs and he had done all of this, every day, without variation, for nineteen years, until nine days ago when he simply did not come home.

His car was found at a Texaco station on Chef Menteur Highway with the keys still in the ignition and a half-eaten Slim Jim on the passenger seat. The police had taken a report. The police had done very little else. Marlene had been making phone calls and driving to places Reggie might have gone, which was a short list because Reggie Hubchek did not go to places. Reggie Hubchek went to work and came home. That was his whole map.

What Marlene did not know -what Marlene would never know, if Gerald Mopp had anything to say about it, was that Reggie Hubchek was hanging in Cooler #2, between the insurance adjuster from Kenner and a woman whose name Gerald had not been given. Reggie was on Day 9 of his dry-aging process. He was coming along nicely. The pellicle had formed well. Gerald had high hopes for the marbling.

Reggie Hubchek had been a 196-pound man who adjusted small-engine carburetors for a living and had made the terminal mistake of witnessing something he should not have witnessed in a warehouse in Arabi. The specifics were not Gerald's concern. Gerald did not deal in specifics. Gerald dealt in pounds and temperature and time, and Reggie Hubchek was 196 pounds at 36 degrees on Day 9, and that was all Gerald needed to know.

Until the white Kia pulled into his parking lot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marlene walked into Unit 4 because a woman looking for a missing man will walk into any open door, and Gerald's door was open because Gerald had been airing out the front room after an overnight fumigation of something that smelled like copper and regret. He was behind the counter when she came in. He was wearing his apron. There was nothing on his apron that she would recognize, and everything on his apron that she should.

"I'm looking for my husband," she said. She held up her phone. On it was a photograph of Reggie Hubchek, alive, standing in front of a bass boat, wearing a Saints cap and the expression of a man who had never once suspected that the universe was paying attention to him.

Gerald looked at the phone. Gerald looked at Marlene. Gerald's face did what Gerald's face always did, which was nothing. It was a face built for nothing, a face that could witness a man boiling to death and respond by asking if anyone wanted hot coffee.

"Haven't seen him," Gerald said.

This was a lie in the way that saying the ocean is dry is a lie - not just inaccurate but aggressively wrong. Gerald had not only seen Reggie Hubchek, he had weighed him. He had measured him. He had separated Reggie Hubchek's rib section from his loin section with a precision that would have impressed a surgeon and horrified a theologian, and all of this had occurred approximately forty feet from where Marlene was currently standing, separated by one wall and a commercial-grade cooler door and the entire howling abyss of human morality.

"He's been missing nine days," she said. Her voice had the specific flatness of someone who has cried so much that the mechanism has simply worn out, like a car that's been driven until the engine stops making noise and starts making implications. "The police aren't doing anything. Nobody's doing anything."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Gerald said, and the terrible thing, the truly bone-deep terrible thing, was that he meant it. Gerald Mopp was a man who could dismantle a human body with the clinical efficiency of a Swiss watchmaker and still feel a genuine pang of sympathy for the bereaved. These two things lived inside him side by side, like roommates who never spoke but shared a kitchen.

"I'm asking all the businesses around here. He had an appointment somewhere on Delacroix the day he disappeared. I found it in his phone. Just said 'Delacroix, 3pm.'"

Gerald's jaw tightened by one millimeter. That was the appointment. That was his appointment. Reggie Hubchek had come to Delacroix Avenue at 3pm nine days ago, because he had seen a transaction in a warehouse that he should not have seen, and the man who arranged the appointment had called Gerald the prior evening, and the instructions were simple, and the money was good, and Reggie Hubchek had been in the cooler by the following evening. These were facts. They sat in Gerald's chest like stones.

"Wish I could help," Gerald said. "It's pretty quiet around here. Not a lot of foot traffic."

This was true. Foot traffic on Delacroix Avenue had decreased by roughly one hundred percent since Dale Pfeiffer had moved in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marlene went to Unit 6 next. Curtis was rolling out a pie crust, and when she walked in he looked up with the expression of a man who had been expecting a different kind of visitor - the kind who came in with a name on a piece of paper and left without asking questions. A woman with a phone and wet eyes was the opposite of that kind of visitor.

She showed him the picture. He shook his head. She asked if he'd seen anything unusual on the avenue. He said no. She asked if the strip mall had security cameras. He said he didn't think so. She thanked him and turned to leave and then stopped, because something in the bakery smelled extraordinary - warm and yeasty and golden, the kind of smell that reaches into your chest and holds something.

"That smells amazing," she said. "What is it?"

"Brioche," Curtis said. "It's just coming out."

The brioche was from the front case. The brioche was innocent. Curtis Bayles was a man of compartments - the things that killed lived in one place, and the things that didn't lived in another, and the wall between them was absolute, because a man who cannot maintain compartments is a man who eventually poisons himself, and Curtis had no intention of dying by his own hand. His hands were for other people.

He gave her a slice. She ate it standing at the counter with her eyes closed, and for a moment the grief on her face loosened its grip, and Curtis felt something he had not felt in a very long time, which was the specific discomfort of being looked at by a person who was experiencing genuine human emotion in his presence. It was like staring at the sun. He wanted it to stop.

"There's one more shop," she said, wiping her eyes. "The candle place."

Curtis opened his mouth. He closed it. He opened it again. He searched for a reason to stop her that did not involve the words "lethal," "biohazard," or "the man's candles have killed more people than my pastries and I once took out a roofer with a beignet."

"He's closed," Curtis said.

At that exact moment, as if choreographed by a God with a cruel sense of theater, Dale Pfeiffer walked past the window of CURTIS'S carrying a box of candles and wearing a t-shirt that said FOLLOW YOUR NOSE TO HAPPINESS. He saw Marlene through the glass. He smiled. He waved. He mouthed the words "Come visit!"

Curtis stared at the ceiling.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dale Pfeiffer had never had a customer cry in his shop before, largely because Dale Pfeiffer had never had a customer in his shop before. His entire sales history consisted of online orders placed by people who had read his Etsy descriptions - "hand-poured artisanal soy candles, infused with healing botanical essences" - and had no way of smelling them through their screens. The reviews, when they came, were universally catastrophic. One buyer had written simply: "I lit this candle and my dog left. He has not come back. It's been four days. I want my dog back more than I want a refund but I also want a refund."

But Marlene Hubchek walked in, and Dale's face split into a smile so wide and so genuine that it was almost painful to witness, like watching a child open a present that you know contains a live grenade.

"Welcome! Welcome to Dale's Divine Scents! I'm Dale! Are you looking for something specific or are you just…are you browsing? You can browse! Please browse!"

He was vibrating. He was a 54-year-old man in Birkenstocks and wool socks, vibrating with the joy of human contact, and Marlene - exhausted, grief-hollowed, nine days into a nightmare that would never end because the ending was hanging in a cooler next door - looked at this strange, quivering, ponytailed man and felt something she had not expected to feel in a strip mall on Delacroix Avenue, which was kindness. Not pity, not sympathy, not the professional compassion of police officers who had already stopped looking. Kindness. The real kind. The dumb, clumsy, unbearable kind.

She showed him the picture of Reggie.

Dale looked at it for a long time. He tilted his head. He squinted. He held the phone at different angles, as if Reggie Hubchek might reveal himself from a new perspective, like one of those magic-eye posters from the nineties.

"I don't think I've seen him," Dale said, with the careful honesty of a man who would not know how to lie even if his life depended on it, which, given his proximity to Gerald and Curtis, it eventually might. "But I just moved in. I don't see a lot of people. Actually I don't see any people. You're my first in-person customer."

He said this like it was a wonderful thing, like she had won a raffle, like being Dale Pfeiffer's first customer was a privilege and not, as a growing body of coroner's reports would suggest, a risk factor.

"Can I give you a candle?" he asked. "As a welcome gift? I just finished a new batch. This one's called 'Serenity.' I think it's my best work."

He held it out. The ceramic vessel was a soft cream color. The kraft paper tag was tied with twine. It was, visually, the most charming object in the building, which was like saying something was the most pleasant room on the Titanic - technically accurate and fundamentally beside the point.

Marlene took it. She held it to her nose.

She did not die. This was notable. This was, in fact, extraordinary, because "Serenity" was the same batch that had killed a mockingbird at thirty feet the previous afternoon, and here was Marlene Hubchek pressing it directly against her face and not collapsing. Her eyes watered. Her nostrils flared. Something behind her sinuses made a sound that could best be described as structural. But she did not die.

"It's..." she said, searching for a word. The word she wanted was "horrifying." The word she found was: "...unique."

Dale beamed.

"I'll take it," she said, because she was a kind woman, and kind women do terrible things to themselves in the service of not hurting other people's feelings, and Dale Pfeiffer's feelings were so visibly, tremblingly present that hurting them would have felt like kicking a puppy that was also somehow on fire.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gerald watched her leave from the window of Unit 4. He watched the white Kia reverse out of the parking spot. He watched the rosary swing on the rearview mirror. He watched the brake lights flare red at the edge of the lot, and then she was gone, turning left onto Delacroix, carrying a candle and a grief and a purse full of used tissues and the complete and total absence of any information about where her husband was.

He exhaled. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath, but he had - for the entire duration of her visit, Gerald Mopp had been breathing in short, controlled sips, the way you breathe when there's a wasp in the car. She was the wasp. She was a wasp who loved the thing hanging in his cooler, and that made her more dangerous than any client or cop or competitor Gerald had ever dealt with, because grief does not follow logic. Grief follows scent. And she would be back.

He walked to Curtis's shop.

"She came to yours too?"

"She came to mine too."

"And Dale's?"

"Dale gave her a candle."

Gerald closed his eyes. When he opened them, they contained the kind of exhaustion that goes beyond sleep, the kind that lives in your marrow and whispers to you at night about the cumulative weight of your decisions.

"Which candle?"

"Does it matter?"

"It might."

They both knew what he meant. They both understood, without saying it, that Dale's candles were not candles in the way that a loaded gun is not a paperweight - technically you coulduse it for that, but the primary function was something else entirely, and the primary function of Dale's candles was, increasingly and undeniably, to end lives.

"If that candle kills her," Gerald said slowly, "and they find her, and they test the air in her house, and they trace the candle back to this address…”

"They won't."

"You don't know that."

"Who's going to test for candle murder, Gerald? There's no box on the form for candle murder. It's not a category. The coroner's going to write 'respiratory failure' or 'cardiac event' and move on, because the alternative is writing 'killed by aromatherapy' and nobody's going to do that, because it sounds insane, because it is insane."

Gerald looked at Curtis. Curtis looked at Gerald. Between them, they had killed more people than most natural disasters, and yet the thing that frightened them, the thing that kept them up at night, the thing that made two professional murderers sit on a curb and stare at a candle shop with the wide-eyed terror of children who have just learned that the dark is real - was a 54-year-old man in socks and sandals who had never harmed anyone on purpose and could not stop harming everyone by accident.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marlene Hubchek drove home to a house in Chalmette that still smelled like Reggie - his aftershave, his coffee, the specific musk of a man who worked with small engines and came home with grease under his nails and oil in the creases of his knuckles. She walked through the living room where his recliner sat empty with the indent of his body still pressed into the cushion like a fossil. She walked past the kitchen where his mug sat in the dish rack, washed, waiting. She walked into the bedroom where his side of the bed was still made because she had not slept on her own side in nine days. She had been sleeping on his. She had been wearing his shirts. She had been keeping the television on the channels he watched because the sound of someone else's routine was the only thing that held her together.

She put the candle on the nightstand.

She looked at it for a long time. The tag said "Serenity." She thought about the man who had given it to her - the ponytail, the Birkenstocks, the smile that was too big and too real for a world this mean. She thought about how he was the only person in that entire strip mall who had looked at her like she was a person and not a problem.

She lit the candle.

The flame caught. The wax began to pool. And the smell - the smell - rose into the bedroom of Marlene Hubchek like something alive, something with teeth and intentions, something that had traveled from the mind of Dale Pfeiffer through a series of chemical reactions that no legitimate fragrance house would recognize and into the lungs of a woman who had done nothing wrong except love a man who had been in the wrong warehouse at the wrong time.

She coughed once. She coughed twice. The third cough did not finish. It started as a cough and ended as something else - a sound that was quieter than it should have been, a sound like a door closing in a distant room of a house you'll never visit again. Her eyes closed. Her hand, which had been reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand, stopped reaching. It stayed there, in the air, for one impossible second, and then it fell, and then she fell, and then the candle kept burning because candles don't know what they've done. Candles don't know anything. They just burn.

In the house in Chalmette, a candle called "Serenity" burned on a nightstand next to a framed photograph of a man named Reggie and a rosary and a glass of water that no one would ever drink, and its light flickered on the face of Marlene Hubchek, who looked, in that light, almost peaceful, almost serene, which was the cruelest thing of all, because the candle had been named "Serenity" and it had delivered exactly that - a serenity so complete, so total, so permanent that it was indistinguishable from the other thing, the thing we don't name, the thing that comes for everyone but is supposed to wait its turn.

It had not waited its turn.

It had come early, and it had smelled like a man's best intentions mixed with seventeen chemicals that should never have met, and it had worn a kraft paper tag, and it had been free.

The candle burned for six more hours. Then the wax ran out. Then there was only dark.

Forty miles away, on Delacroix Avenue, Dale Pfeiffer was asleep in the back of Unit 5, on a cot he'd set up between the wax melters and the shrine to Saint Aromica. He was dreaming about a field of lavender. In the dream, he could smell it. In the dream, his nose worked. In the dream, the lavender was real and the world was kind and nobody had ever been hurt by anything as small as a flame.

He smiled in his sleep.

He always smiled in his sleep

Book 1 Chapter 14: Home(Open)

Sunday arrived the way a cat arrives in a room, which is to say without announcement and with every intention of staying.

Ray woke to sun on the quilt, a goat's ear in his face, and the unfamiliar sensation of being somebody's pillow on both sides at once. Scarlet had migrated in the night until she was lying mostly on top of him, one knee hooked over his hip, her inky hand curled loosely on his sternum like she was holding a place in a book. Ruth, on the other side, had gone the opposite way and was lying in a perfectly straight line with her arms folded on her chest and her face turned toward the window, like a woman who had fallen asleep in the middle of being a statue.

Neither of them had moved in hours. Ray lay between them and did the thing he had promised to do, which was say it out loud, quietly, to the ceiling.

"I'm not getting up yet," he told it. "I'm noting that I could, and that I'm not."

"Good," said Ruth, without opening her eyes.

"You're awake."

"I'm resting. It's different." One gold eye opened a slit. "You were narrating at the ceiling."

"It's a rule."

"It's a wonderful rule. Keep going."

"I'm also noting that someone is knocking."

Someone was. It was a small, apologetic, rapid knock, the knock of a person who had practiced knocking in a mirror and still did not trust it, and it came from the door of the suite, and it was followed, a moment later, by a voice.

"Sir? Madam? Miss? It's Pell. I do beg your pardon. It's, ah, it's nine."

"It's what?" said Scarlet, into Ray's ribs.

"Nine, Miss. A.M. I'd have waited, but there's a, there's a matter."

"Is it a form?"

A pause on the other side of the door.

"It's a category," said Pell, miserably.

He had both shoes this time. Ray noticed that first, because he was in a state to notice small things, having spent three minutes finding a shirt that was his and trousers that were not on the goat. Pell stood in the middle of the sitting room with his round glasses fogged and his folders hugged to his chest, in a pair of brown shoes so brightly polished that they reflected the ceiling, and the look of a man who had been awake all night and had not enjoyed any of it.

"Steve returned them," he said, following Ray's gaze. "He did a very thorough job. I can see my own face in the left one. It's not a face I'd choose."

"Sit down, Pell," said Ruth, kindly. She had put a robe on over her nightdress, and had somehow made it look like a gown. "Have some tea. Tell us what the category is."

He sat on the very edge of a chair. Scarlet, in the black T-shirt with her hair standing up on one side and a pencil, again, behind her ear, curled up on the sofa across from him and regarded him over her knees with the bright wicked sympathy of a person who had been, until recently, a form's victim herself.

"The Household Registry," said Pell. "That's the matter. I'd like to say it's a small one. Madam Quill says it's a delight. I believe she's using the word in a technical sense."

"Go on."

"Every resident of the Abyme must be entered under a household. It's the oldest rule we have. It's older than the baths." He opened a folder with trembling fingers, and drew out a large sheet printed with little boxes. "There are five permitted classes. Single. Pair. Family, which is a pair or more with dependents. Guild. And Ruin."

"Ruin?" said Ray.

"It's for those whose households have, ah, come apart. It's mostly used for ghosts." He coughed. "I'm sorry. I'm trying to be clear. The difficulty is that the Hinge is entered as part of a Pair, the Pair being himself and the Consort, which was filed on Tuesday, and the Person, Class Two, is entered as Single. As of last night."

"And?"

"And the laundry has reported that, as of last night, the Single is no longer single in any sense that the registry recognizes." Pell closed his eyes. "I received four complaints. Two of them were in verse."

Scarlet put her face in her knees.

"The sign on the door is the problem," Pell went on, a little faster, as one speaks while the bandage is coming off. "It says Home. Under the old law, that's a declaration. It's what we call a binding word. If a resident hangs Home on a door and a person has slept behind it, then the registry is obliged to take note, and I've spent the entire night trying to find a class that fits, and there isn't one." He pushed his glasses up. "I tried Pair Plus One."

"That's a guest," said Ruth.

"That's what Madam Quill said. At some length."

"It's a very bad category."

"I know, Madam. I wrote it, at about four a.m., and I regretted it by half past." He pressed his hands flat on the folder. "I'm so sorry. I'd hoped to find something that would, that wouldn't make you feel like you were being filed. It's only that the old classes were all built for, for two. A pair, a family, a guild, they're all built on twos and the multiples of two. There's no class for three."

There was a short silence.

"There's a table," said Ruth, "with three legs."

"Madam?"

"It stands up better."

"I'm, I'm not sure that's a legal term."

"It will be," said Ruth.

Ray looked at her. She was sitting very upright in her robe, with her hands folded, and a small private smile was beginning at the corner of her mouth, the expression of a woman who had just been handed a very large and very satisfying piece of unfinished work.

"Pell," she said. "Is Madam Quill in the building?"

"She's in the lobby, Madam. She wouldn't come up. She said it was indelicate to approach a household before it had a name. She's, ah." He glanced at the door. "She's brought a stamp."

Quill was standing at the foot of the great staircase in the lobby, as small and straight as a hat pin, in a gray silk suit and a pair of spectacles on a chain, with a young clerk at either elbow carrying a table. It was a very small table. Somebody had put a white cloth on it and set out an inkpot, a stick of wax, a brass seal, and a plate of what looked like pistachio pastries, and she was standing next to it with her hands folded and the air of a woman waiting for a train she was very much looking forward to.

Ray had expected an audience. He had, for some reason, imagined a hush. What the Kagami Hotel actually gave them was about forty spirits who had apparently found urgent business in the lobby, among the potted ferns and the lacquered pillars, and who were all doing a poor job of not looking. There was a large round one in a bath-robe. There was a long gray spirit like a coat on a hook. There was a very small mouse in a waistcoat standing on another mouse's shoulders, pretending to read a newspaper that was upside down. And in the corner, with her chin on her fist and her eyes enormous, sat the damp little laundry spirit from the day before, who was plainly the author of the whole affair and was not at all sorry.

"Good morning, Hinge," said Quill. "Good morning, Consort. Good morning, Person."

"Good morning," said Ray, faintly.

"I do apologize for the crowd. I did try to ask them to leave. It's a hotel." She turned her pale winter eyes on Scarlet, and something in them warmed by several degrees. "I understand you have, in the course of one weekend, acquired a legal existence, a room, a position, a door, and a household. It's a very good weekend. I have clients who haven't done as well in a century."

"It's been a lot," said Scarlet.

"I'm sure." Quill picked up a sheet of paper from the little table. "I should say that I read your form. The whole of it. I've read a great many in my life, and I don't often have occasion to frame one."

"Pell said."

"Mr. Pell was extremely insistent." The old woman smiled, a small dry smile like the crease of a letter. "I've brought you the other half of it."

She turned the paper around.

It was the Household Registry. It was printed with the five classes, in the neat old type, Single and Pair and Family and Guild and Ruin. And at the bottom, in the margin, in her own clear fine hand, she had added a sixth box, and written beside it, in ink that was still faintly wet:

Class Six. Household of Three. To be known as: a PINKIE.

Ray stopped breathing.

"I'm told," said Quill, "that it's the name given to the hallway. I've submitted it to the Department as a precedent. Under the old law a thing may be named for the first structure it holds up. You built the structure, Mr. Ray. You stood it on a lantern pool of unspent hours, and your wife co-signed in a cornfield, and the girl who came out of the envelope walked the hall to the end and was let in." She cleared her throat. "It's a very sound precedent. I'm rather proud of it."

"It's a household," said Scarlet, in a tiny voice.

"It's a household of three, and it's recognized. The registry has no opinion of what goes on inside." Quill folded her hands. "It has only a view that three people who have said home and meant it are entitled to a box."

Nobody said anything.

Then the big round spirit in the bathrobe, over by the potted fern, began to clap.

It was a slow, damp, enormous clap, like someone patting a sofa. The long gray coat spirit joined him. Then the mice. Then a whole row of small round creatures in the doorway whom Ray had never seen before and was fairly sure had no hands, who clapped regardless, and a frog in a top hat wept openly into a handkerchief at the door. The laundry spirit in the corner leaped up on her chair and cheered like a person at a boxing match.

Ruth, beside him, had gone absolutely still. Ray looked at her. She was looking at the paper, and at the sixth box, and her face was doing something complicated and hard to name, a sort of astonished, grave tenderness, like an old river meeting the sea.

"I've never been in a box," she said, quietly.

"It's a good box."

"It's a wonderful box." She took a breath. "Is there a pen?"

There was a pen. Ruth signed first, in a long slanting hand that looked like grass in wind. Ray signed second, in the big careful scrawl of a man who has signed a great many delivery slips and no marriage documents. Scarlet signed last, slowly, with her tongue between her teeth, and at the end, after her own name, she drew a very small envelope, and looked at it, and laughed.

Quill pressed the seal into the wax.

It was a small sound, a soft tock, like a heartbeat. But a very long way off, deep beneath the lobby floor, deep beneath the baths and the long stairway and the pool of gray lanterns, something answered it. A bell began to toll. It tolled three times, low and warm and sweet, and Ray felt the note arrive in his chest and settle there, the way a hand settles on a shoulder.

"The hallway," he said.

"It's settling," said Ruth. "Oh, Ray. It's got a third rail."

"A what?"

"A, I don't know how to explain it. A keel." She laughed. "It was always a little crooked. A little leaning. I thought it was meant to be that way. And it was only waiting."

On the table, the pistachio pastries had gone a faint, unmistakable gold.

"Please," said Quill, looking at them with a slightly rueful smile. "It would be rude not to."

Scarlet's first day at work began at ten o'clock, in the lobby, at a table that somebody had carried in from the lounge and dressed with a green cloth.

She had been given a stool, a lamp, a drawer of pencils, a bottle of the black ink she liked and a sheet of door-paper she had been asked, gently, not to waste, and a list. The list was two feet long. It had been written by Madam Yabulba, in a heavy, slanting, ferociously impatient hand, and it said things like Bath 4: Mind the Step. Laundry: No Entry. and Third Floor Corridor: Please Do Not Feed The Wall.

"What's wrong with the wall?" said Scarlet.

"Don't ask," said Steve, who was standing at her elbow like an aide-de-camp.

"I'm asking."

"It's been very hungry, Miss, since the winter."

She looked at him for a long moment. Then she sharpened a pencil, with enormous seriousness, and began.

By noon she had done eleven.

Ray, who had been given a chair and a pot of tea and nothing in particular to do, sat across the lobby with a book on his knee and watched her work, and found that he could not make the words in front of him mean anything. It was the way she moved. She did not so much draw a sign as talk it into existence, in a kind of low muttering, half to herself and half to the paper, and he saw the lines come up from the surface as if they had been there all along and she was only introducing them to the light. Mind the Step was a small cartoon staircase with a wince on its face and a plaster across one riser. No Entry had a very small, severe, extremely polite hand on it, the palm held up, with a ruff at the wrist. Please Do Not Feed The Wall was, he was pretty sure, the best thing he had ever seen. It was an elegant, mournful, kindly-looking wall, with a pair of eyes, regarding a handful of crumbs and shaking its head.

And the signs, as she hung them, behaved.

He saw it happen by the foot of the main stairs, when she nailed Mind the Step to the post. The step beneath it looked, for a moment, almost embarrassed. And the guests who passed by it, a bear-shaped spirit in a nightcap, a pair of hurrying frogs, slowed, and glanced down, and carefully, politely, lifted their feet.

"It works," said a young spirit beside him, in tones of awe. She was a small thing in a gray apron, with a face like a clean plate. "The old ones never worked. The old ones just said no. This one asks."

"That's the idea," said Ray, with a surge of absurd, ridiculous pride, as if he'd drawn it himself.

All morning they came to look. It started with two or three, and then it was twenty, drifting past the table as if by accident, pretending to have business with the potted ferns. A big gentle spirit like a walking radish stooped over the table to watch her draw. A woman with a head like a lantern held up one of the rejected sketches and said, in a hushed voice, that she had not seen anyone do a kindly sign in two hundred years.

"It's only a drawing," said Scarlet, going pink.

"Nobody here says that about a drawing, dear," said the lantern woman, and patted her hand.

At about half past twelve a vast, slow, silty shape came through the front door and lowered itself, with a groan, into the chair opposite.

Ray looked up.

She was a river. That was the only way to put it. She had the shape of a very large old woman in a brown shawl, but the shawl was mud, and the hands in her lap were the color of wet clay, and where her face should have been there was the slow bright shifting of silt in water, with two small dark eyes drifting in it like pebbles. She smelled of rain and reeds and the slow cold bottom of a lake.

"Mrs. Alder," Steve whispered, in the tone of a man identifying a thunderstorm. "She's been in Room Nine since before the Ledger. She never comes down."

"Child," said Mrs. Alder, in a voice like water over stone.

"Yes?" said Scarlet, a little faint.

"They tell me you do doors."

"I do signs."

"I'd like one. For mine." The silt turned, slowly. "I have had four hundred years of people knocking. Not unkindly. They bring me news, and nets, and small dead birds, and apologies. I'd like to be left alone for one afternoon a year. I have not found a sign that says so without making people feel like they have done something."

Scarlet looked at her for a long moment.

Then she put down her pencil, and put her chin on her hand, and said, "What do you want it to feel like?"

The great slow face stirred.

"Like a blanket," said Mrs. Alder, at last. "Over a sleeping thing."

Scarlet nodded.

She drew it in six lines. Ray watched it happen. A low gray curve of water. A heap of reeds. A little round shape beneath a quilt of silt, sleeping, with one eye shut and a tiny smile. And beneath it, in very small, very soft letters, she wrote:

Quiet, please. Somebody's resting. It's been a long river.

She held it up to the lamp.

Mrs. Alder looked at it for a long time.

"Oh," she said, in a voice that had gone strangely small. "Oh, that's me."

"Is it okay?"

"It's the first thing anyone's ever drawn of me that wasn't a flood." The old silt eyes, drifting slowly, were wet. "Thank you, child."

She took the sign in both muddy hands and went away up the stairs, and for the rest of the day, at half past three, in the tall quiet corridor outside Room Nine, a small hush fell on the Kagami Hotel that lasted until sunset. The bellhops went by on tiptoe. The very radiators, Ray noticed, dropped their voices.

Scarlet watched her go with a pencil in her mouth and a stunned expression.

"I think I might be good at this," she said.

"I think," said Ray, "I've never been so proud of anyone."

"Shut up."

"I'm saying it out loud. It's a rule."

She threw a pencil at him. It missed. It was, he thought, the nicest thing that had happened to him all morning, and then he looked across the lobby, and saw that Ruth was not there.

He found her in the baths.

It was a little after two, and the great stone stairway was cool and almost empty, with the afternoon light coming in through the high windows and laying long bars across the water. He went down slowly, past the first pool and the second, with the gray hush of the lanterns rising before him, and she was sitting at the very edge of the old pool in her gray-blue dress with her feet in the water and her hands in her lap, looking at nothing.

He sat down next to her. He took off his shoes, and rolled his trousers, and put his feet in. It was cold. It was the pleasant cold of a creek in August.

"I'm sitting by you," he said, "because I noticed you left."

"I wasn't hiding."

"No."

"I only wanted a moment. I didn't want to make a thing of it."

"I'm making a thing of it. I'm sorry. I'm, I'd like to. If you'll allow it." He looked at his feet. "Is it the hour?"

"It's a little bit the hour."

"Okay."

"It's not even a bad one." She laughed, a small unsteady breath. "It's only. I was watching her, up in the lobby, and the two of you. With the sign. And the pencil. And she said something and you laughed, and you did the, the thing. Where your whole face goes soft. And I thought, I've been married to him for five days and I don't know how to do that."

"Do what?"

"Make you look like that."

Ray was silent for a moment.

"You do," he said.

"I don't. You look at me like I'm a weather system. You look at me like I'm a very beautiful thing that's going to happen to you. Which is lovely. Don't mistake me. It's exactly what I wanted." She wriggled her toes in the water. "But you look at her like she's a thing you made. And you did, in a way. And I can't ever give you that. It's, it's what the first one is for."

"Ruth."

"I'm not asking you to fix it. I'm only saying it. It's what the rule's for."

He thought about this for some time. Then he reached over, quite slowly, and took her hand out of her lap, and hooked their pinkies, and held on.

"I have something to say, and it's not a good answer," he said, "but I think it's the true one."

"Go on."

"When I look at Scarlet I see a thing I made, and it hurts a little, because I made her out of being lonely. I'm proud of her, and I'm sorry, both at once. It's tender. It's a bruise." He looked up at the long gray ceiling. "When I look at you, I don't see a thing I made. I see a thing that chose me. And that's, I don't know. It's a different sort of face. I didn't know I had it until you."

She didn't say anything.

"I look at you like I'm the luckiest man in the world," said Ray. "That's what it is. It's not weather. It's, I keep waiting for someone to come and tell me there's been a mistake."

"There isn't."

"I know. I'm only saying it's a different face. It's not less. It's the one I'd pick."

Ruth was crying a little, quietly, the way she did, with her chin up and her eyes shining.

"That was a very good answer," she said.

"I practiced."

"You did not."

"I did it in the bath yesterday, to the duck."

She laughed, with a hiccup, and put her forehead against his shoulder.

And at that moment a loud, cheerful, extremely wet noise came from the top of the stair, and Scarlet came pelting down the steps in a bath towel and her boots, clutching a notebook, with her hair on end and a piece of charcoal in her fist.

"I did a spreadsheet," she said.

"A what?"

"A spreadsheet. I kept a tally. I started yesterday. Of who sits by who." She skidded to a halt and held up the notebook. "I've been terrified I'd get it wrong, and nobody would say, and one of you would end up sitting alone at lunch and I'd be responsible. So I made a chart. It's got columns."

Ray and Ruth stared at her.

"Ray is on eleven," said Scarlet, in a voice of grave scientific authority. "Ruth is on nine. Me, I'm on ten. It's very close. It's well within the margin. But Ruth, I noticed you've been moved to the middle twice and the side three times, and I think that might be, I think there's a bias."

"It's a table," said Ruth, faintly. "I said. It's a table. With three legs."

"I know it's a table, I'm just saying, it's a table where somebody keeps getting the wobbly one."

There was a long silence. Then Ruth put her face in both hands and began to laugh, and laughed until she slid sideways off the edge of the pool and into the shallows with a splash. Ray went in after her, in his trousers, and Scarlet, appalled and delighted, dropped the notebook, and the towel, and jumped.

The old pool, which had held forty-three years of someone's unspent hours, received them without comment. It was shallow, and warm, and faintly gold. It rose in a gentle swell around the three of them as they sat in it, soaking and shrieking, and above them, on the soft dark air, the gray lanterns turned their little faces, one after another, and looked down. They were not gray at the edges anymore. A lot of them, Ray noticed, as he wiped the water out of his eyes, had gone the faintest, loveliest shade of rose.

"They're changing," said Scarlet.

"They're waking," said Ruth.

"What for?"

"I think," said Ruth, looking up at the lanterns with her wet hair stuck to her cheek, "they heard there's going to be a party."

There was, in fact, going to be a party.

It was Steve who told them, at about four, hovering at the edge of the lobby with an expression of sheepish delight, in a freshly pressed uniform and a very small paper flower pinned to his lapel. It was called the Evening of Open Doors. It happened once a year, on the first Sunday after the first Saturday of the month, and it was, he said, the only festival in the Abyme that nobody was able to explain.

"It's a, ah. A sort of welcome, Sir. The old story is that once upon a time, a very long time ago, the first household in the Abyme hung a lantern in their doorway so that anyone who was lost would know there was a place to come. And now everyone does it. Every door. Every house. Every bathhouse and noodle shop and laundry. We hang a lantern, and we leave the door unlatched, and in the evening we all go down to the river."

"What happens at the river?"

"Nothing, Sir." Steve smiled. "That's the point. It's the only night of the year when nobody wants anything."

"And the households?" said Ruth.

"Every registered household sets a boat on the water, Madam. With a lantern in it. In the household's colors." He hesitated, and went a little red. "I took the liberty of, ah, ordering a boat. Under the new class. I wasn't certain you'd want one."

"We'd love one," said Scarlet.

"The colors, Miss."

"What colors?"

"Whatever you choose."

She stood very still for a moment. Then she looked at Ray, and at Ruth, and a slow, wicked, very pleased smile spread over her face.

"I'm going to need the door-paper," she said.

It was a long, gold, extraordinary dusk.

They went down to the river an hour after sunset, the three of them, in a chain, with a goat, and the Abyme had been transformed. Every doorway in the city was lit. Lanterns hung from every eave and balcony and ladder, thousands upon thousands, in every color, red and amber and green and a hundred shades of violet, so that the whole hillside seemed to be breathing light. The bridges were strung with them. The streets ran with spirits in their best clothes, carrying paper cups of something warm that smelled of plum, and over the sound of the river there was a low happy murmur of music from a hundred different directions at once, a flute here, a drum there, a very old man in a corner playing a tune on a comb.

At the water's edge, on a long stone quay, a row of little boats had been drawn up in the lamplight, each of them no longer than a bathtub, each with a small cup of oil and a wick. People crowded round them. People were laughing. Somewhere a baby, or possibly a kettle, was shrieking with joy.

"There," said Steve, pointing.

Theirs was a small white boat with a green stripe round the rim, and in the middle of it, nested in a ring of straw, stood an empty lantern frame, waiting to be covered.

Scarlet had the paper under her arm. She knelt on the stones, and unwrapped it, and Ray saw, with a small catch of the breath, that she had done it already. She had done it in the afternoon, in secret, in the little green room. It was a single sheet of door-paper, pale and thin and faintly gold, and she had painted it in three colors, gold and green and a red the exact shade of a good tomato, in three long curving bands that twined round one another and met in a knot at the top.

"It's a pinkie," said Ruth.

"It's three pinkies. Look." Scarlet traced the knot with a finger. "It goes round and round. There's no end. I tried to make it so you couldn't tell whose was whose."

"It's beautiful."

"It's accurate." She was blushing furiously. "Don't look at me. Light it."

Ray lit it. He did it with a long paper spill from the quay, and a hand that shook very slightly, and as the wick caught, the paper took the light and glowed. It was a soft deep gold like the inside of a peach, with the red and the green twined through it in bright ribbons. It did not look painted. It looked, Ray thought, like the color of something that had been kept.

They set the boat on the water.

It sat there for a moment, small and bright and quite alone, turning slowly on the dark. Then the current took it, gently, as one takes a child by the hand, and it slid out into the river beside a thousand other lights, and drifted away down the long black channel of the Abyme, where the lantern of three was just one among all the rest.

They stood at the edge with their arms around each other, and watched it go.

"I'm going to cry again," said Scarlet.

"Go ahead."

"I'm so sick of crying."

"It's a good week for it," said Ruth.

And it was in that moment, as the little boat went out into the middle of the stream, that the light came down.

Ray did not see where it started. It came from the dark above the river, a tiny gold spark, no bigger than a firefly. It drifted down through the string-lit air, slow and careless, past a thousand lanterns and a thousand upturned faces, and for a moment he thought it was simply a spark off one of the wicks. But it did not drift like a spark. It searched. It went round and round above the water, a little spiral, like a thing trying to remember a smell, and then it settled, light as a breath, on the paper of the little white boat, and was absorbed into the gold.

The lantern flared. Just once.

Scarlet went rigid.

"That's him," she said.

Nobody said anything.

"That's the boy. That's the, the flame. The one that went up. Out of the envelope." Her voice had gone to almost nothing. "It's back."

"It never left," said Ruth, very quietly. "It only went to look for the rest of you."

Ray's hands were shaking. He did not know what to do with them. A boy of nine, in a sweater too big, asleep on a cold stone floor with a pencil in his fist, who had made a friend out of a crayon and had thought, as he drifted off to sleep, maybe you could stay. And the answer had come, years and years afterward, in a little boat on a river, in the shape of a lantern the color of a good tomato, with three pinkies woven round and round in it so that you could not tell whose was whose.

He found that he was crying. He didn't bother to pretend otherwise. And on his left a small cold hand slid into his, palm to palm, and on his right a long warm one hooked its pinkie round his own, and the three of them stood on the stone quay in a crowd of strangers and watched a small gold boat go out of sight round a bend in the river.

"Thank you," said Scarlet, to the water.

"For what?" said Ray.

"For staying, you idiot. Both of you. For being the kind of people who do."

"Always," said Ruth.

"Always," said Ray.

"It's a long word," said Scarlet, wiping her eyes. "I'm going to hold you to it."

A long way off, over the water, somebody began to sing. It was a high, clear, wordless thing, a spirit's voice, and one by one the others took it up, until the whole river seemed to be humming the same slow warm tune. In the little green room at the top of the stairs, a small sign hung on a door that was not latched, and a lantern burned beside it, and the lamp inside the room was lit, and waiting. And at the bottom of the Kagami Hotel, in the long dark deep of the baths, the gray lanterns that had been waking all afternoon gave a soft collective sigh, and rose.

They went home slowly.

It took a long time. There was a stall that sold roasted chestnuts shaped like tiny rabbits. There was a dancing bear. There was a bit where Scarlet got into an argument with a fox in a waistcoat about whether the third bridge was haunted, and lost. Ruth bought them all paper cups of the warm plum stuff, and drank hers with her eyes closed, with a look of such perfect, simple pleasure that Ray found he could not stop looking at her. By the time they climbed the long steps of the hotel it was late, and the lanterns above the door had burned down to a steady amber glow, and the lobby was empty and still.

The goat went to bed first. She had been very good all evening. She walked into the suite with her paper flower askew, climbed on the foot of the bed, turned round three times, and fell asleep with a sigh like a pair of bellows.

Scarlet stopped at the little green door.

She stood there for a moment, with her hand on the frame, looking in at her room. The lamp was lit. A hundred drawings were pinned to the wall, already, in a messy riot of charcoal and ink. On the shelf, among the pencils, stood a small, very ugly gray rock that Ruth had given her that afternoon, which Ruth said was a thousand years old and had once been part of a mountain.

"I think," said Scarlet, "that I'd like to leave the lamp on."

"For what?" said Ray.

"For later. In case I want to go and, to go and be a gremlin. Or to come back and find it." She smiled. "It's nice to have a place that's waiting."

"It'll wait."

"I know." She pushed the door to, almost closed, leaving the gap. "That's why it's nice."

They went into the bedroom.

It was quiet in there. The window was open, and the sounds of the festival drifted in from far away, thin and sweet, and the lanterns in the street cast soft shifting colors over the ceiling. Ray stood for a moment by the foot of the bed, in the dim, with his sleeves still damp from the pool and his heart going in his chest, and found that he did not, for once, have anything to say.

Ruth was looking at him.

She was standing by the window with the light behind her, and she had taken the pins out of her hair, which fell loose to her shoulders, brown and slightly wild, with a few small pieces of straw still caught in it from the quay. The gray-blue dress hung on her with an old comfortable softness. She looked, as she always did, as though she had just stepped out of a field in the last gold hour of a very long afternoon, and she was smiling at him, and at the girl beside him, with a kind of quiet radiant patience that made his knees weak.

"I'm going to say something out loud," said Ruth.

"Okay."

"I want you both." She said it simply, like a thing she had been carrying for a long time and was only now setting down. "I don't mean that in the sweet way. I mean it in the other way. The way I've been feeling since the roof, and the market, and this morning, with her feet on your shins. I'm six, I'm older than the first field. I know what that feeling is. I've watched it grow in the world for a very long time, and I thought I'd never want it for myself."

"Ruth," said Scarlet, very softly.

"I'm not asking you to rush. I'm saying it so it's said." She held out both her hands. "If you'd like to. If you'd both like to. I would very much like to be close to you tonight. All of you. In a way we haven't, yet."

Nobody moved.

It was Scarlet who went first. She crossed the room in three quick steps, in her enormous black T-shirt, with her hair wild and her eyes huge and shining in the lantern light, and took Ruth's face in both inky hands, and kissed her.

It was not a short kiss. It was not an awkward one, either, though it started off a little clumsy, with a bump of noses and a breathless, startled laugh. Ruth made a small sound in her throat, a soft surprised oh, and her hands came up and tangled in Scarlet's hair, and the kiss deepened, slowly, with a kind of grave, astonished sweetness, as if they were both discovering something they had known all along. The lantern light moved across them. Somewhere in the distance a drum began, slow and low.

Ray watched, and thought that he had never in his life seen anything so beautiful, and then Ruth reached out one hand, still holding Scarlet, and put it flat against his chest, and drew him in.

After that it was all hands, and breath, and warmth.

He would remember it, later, in pieces, the way you remember a dream: the cool damp cotton of a shirt against his palm, and Scarlet's laugh, muffled, against his neck. The scrape of her scar against his cheek. Ruth's mouth, slow and unhurried and a little sweet with plum, and the rough happy sound she made when he kissed her throat. The soft thump of a quilt hitting the floor. A pair of cold feet. Three people finding out, with a great deal of whispering and one genuinely tragic elbow, how to fit. It was not graceful. It was, in places, uproariously funny, and nobody minded. Every time one of them laughed, the others laughed too, and the laughter turned, in the dark, into something warmer and quieter, until the laughter stopped, and the only sounds in the room were the murmur of the river and the small, shaken, wondering sounds of three people who had gone a very long time without being touched, and were being touched now, tenderly, carefully, by two others who meant it.

At some point, near the beginning, the lamp went out.

Nobody noticed who did it.

On the hook by the door, in the dark, a small green book gave an exceedingly dignified rustle, and removed itself, with great composure, out through the window and onto the balcony, where it spent the better part of the night reading the stars with every appearance of finding them fascinating.

"I am an old book," it said, to nobody, after a while. "I have seen things."

The night went on.

It was very late, and the festival had long since died down to a few last drums, when Ray came up out of a drowse and found the world rearranged around him.

He was lying on his back. Scarlet was asleep with her head on his shoulder and a smear of ink, still, impossibly, across her collarbone, her breath slow and even against his skin. Ruth lay on his other side with her cheek on his chest and one hand resting over his heart, and she was not asleep. In the dim, her eyes were open, gold as lamps, looking up at him.

"Hello," she whispered.

"Hello."

"You were noting."

"I was?"

"You were saying it in your sleep. I'm noting that I'm happy." She smiled, a sleepy, crooked, thoroughly pleased smile. "Three times."

"I'm, ah. I'd like it on the record that I meant it."

"I know."

"I'm noting it again."

"Good." She put her head back down. After a moment she said, very softly, so as not to wake the sleeper, "Ray?"

"Mm?"

"I don't think I've been this happy since before there was a word for it."

He turned his head, and kissed her hair, and did not say anything. There was nothing he could add. Outside, the river ran on, and the lanterns burned, and the whole long gold Abyme turned slowly under the stars like a great sleeping thing, content.

And a very long way down, below the baths, below the lantern pool, below the foundations of the Kagami Hotel and the Ledger and every bridge in the city, in a long bright corridor that no one living had walked in a hundred years, a hallway hummed. It had been built out of loneliness and held together by a field and a drawing. It had stood on two doors for a long time. And now, in the faint light, with a tiny sound like a latch being lifted, it grew a third.

It was small, and green, with a lantern-shaped handle. And somebody, in small fierce handwriting, had already hung a sign on it.

HOME. (Open.)

Rowena knew the adults that fed her were not her parents. Parents didn’t have magical contracts that forced you to use your magical gifts for them, and they didn’t hurt you when you disobeyed. Slavery under magical contracts are also illegal in the Kingdom of Erisdale, which is prospering peacefully after a great continent-wide war.

Rowena’s owners don’t know, however, that she can see potential futures and anyone’s past that is not her own. She uses these powers to escape and break her contract and go on her own journey. She is going to find who she is, and keep her clairvoyance secret

Yet, Rowena’s attempts to uncover who she is drives her into direct conflict with those that threaten the peace and prove far more complicated than she could ever expect. Finding who you are after all, is simply not something you can solve with any kind of magic.

Rowena has a final meeting with Forlana... another vision... and a meeting with Jess...

[The Beginning] [<=The Lost Princess Chapter 49] [Chapter Index and Blurb] [Or Subscribe to Patreon for the Next Chapter]

The Fractured Song Index

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My Blusky!

**\*

“Ah, Rowena, you look… annoyed,” said Forlana.

Closing the door to Forlana’s room behind her, Rowena winced. “Sorry, it’s been a day.”

The former princess hadn’t been given a royal suite, but she had been given a nice guest room with a bed, a sitting table, and two chairs. It even had a private bathroom and a second bed for Annie, her maid, to stay with her.

“Where is Annie, by the way?” Rowena asked.

“She’s having her first meeting with her lawyer, investigator and rehabilitation officer. She’s a bit nervous, but I think she’ll be fine,” said Forlana.

“I hear you’ve been getting along quite well with your rehabilitation officer,” said Rowena.

“He’s quite a gentleman, though; he is very professional. It’s such a pity. He is very handsome,” said Forlana. She poured Rowena some tea from the kettle on the magical heating plate. “What was bothering you? I thought you would be celebrating with the war over.”

Rowena accepted the cup with a nod, “Thank you. Negotiating the peace has been nasty to say the least. King Sebastian has thrown us a curveball. He’s removed Alastor as crown prince and placed Salene as the new heir.”

“That…that would have gone over ‘well’ with Alastor, I imagine,” said Forlana.

“As well as could be expected, but it has also drastically reduced Alastor’s value as a bargaining chip. Sebastian can’t just leave Alastor in our hands. He is still his son. However, he’s using this opportunity to offer fewer concessions.”

“I imagine your parents won’t let him?” Forlana said.

“Certainly not. Thankfully, King Eldecar and Queen Titania’s representatives are also pressuring Lapanteria on that front. The ploy isn’t going to work,” said Rowena.

Chuckling, Forlana crossed her legs. “Ha! Sounds like it failed spectacularly. At least Salene will be a lot more careful as the next queen.”

“I hope so, but we will need to see if she isn’t overthrown. I’ve been hearing that the Lapanterian nobles are either in shock or wanting to seek reprisals against their own monarchy,” said Rowena.

Forlana looked thoughtful for a moment, but shook her head. “You can take comfort that they will likely fail. In general, the Lapanterian nobles are self-interested. Any alliance they make will likely fall apart due to infighting. Alastor could hold them together, but if Salene makes a few friends, she’ll draw their focus away.”

“And what if Alastor decides to rebel against his sister?” Rowena asked.

“He and what power? He’s no longer crown prince. He’s lost the war, gotten himself captured, and Lapanteria has had to pay more for inciting the war,” said Forlana.

“But what about a decade or two later? After the memory of this incident has faded from most people’s minds?” Rowena asked.

“That will be a you problem, I imagine, but you will have some time to prepare for that, and you can use that time to repair Erisdale’s relationships with Lapanteria,” said Forlana. She crossed her fingers. “Rowena, did they make any demands regarding me?”

Rowena shook her head. “No, it appears that King Sebastian wants to be rid of you. You are still legally married to Alastor. We could push to ensure that your marriage is annulled if you would like.”

“That would be a good idea, and they would be likely interested in that. Alastor would like to remarry after all,” said Forlana. She took another sip of her tea. “So what are you here for?”

“Just want to check up on you before the ceremony and your sentencing,” said Rowena.

“Check up on me, or sort out your feelings?” Forlana asked.

Rowena blinked, eyes wide. She didn’t think that the turmoil of her thoughts showed on her face. “How did you know?”

Forlana put her cup down. “Honestly, a lucky guess, and… I think I’ve come to understand you a bit better as we’ve spent more time. On one hand, you’re glad you saved my life. On the other, you have mixed feelings about my conspiracy.”

“I do think you’ve been doing your best to make up for what you did,” said Rowena.

“Yes, but my conspiracy has done irreparable damage to many, and I have much to repent. You have a right to be unhappy about my punishment,” said Forlana.

“It’s not that I’m unhappy,” said Rowena. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I’m just not sure if I’m right. I’m worried I got it wrong, even if know I’ve done everything I can.”

Forlana smiled, not happily. She didn’t grin at her, but she did smile at Rowena with a smile that seemed both satisfied and yet mischievous.

“For what it’s worth, thank you for the punishment you set for me and the opportunity you’ve presented,” said Forlana.

Rowena swallowed and stood up. She thrust out her hand.

“You’re welcome and fair well, Forlana,” said Rowena.

Forlana curtsied, bowing her head low before standing to take Rowena’s hand, “Fair well and farewell, Your Highness.”

 

***

 

Rowena awoke not in her bed but standing in a set of unfamiliar chambers. It was a sitting room of some kind with the window opened up onto Erisdale. There was a young woman pacing back and forth, nibbling her thumb.

Looking around, Rowena could see that she probably was still in Erisdale Castle, but the décor had changed slightly. There were fewer tapestries, more paintings that looked far more modern. Fewer battle scenes and more landscapes and object paintings, which were still beautiful, but were definitely more to Jess’s taste rather than her own.

It was some kind of vision, nearer future, rather than far future, but for what reason she didn’t know. Maybe it would reveal itself.

There was one thing odd about the woman pacing back and forth, however… Rowena narrowed her eye.

The woman was more handsome than pretty. Her blonde hair was cut short, and what remained was tied into a bob. She almost looked like a young boy, but she also sported a beautiful gold hairpin that was tucked into her bob. Nervous eyes flickered left and right, and as Rowena studied her, she realized why that eye color was so familiar.

She’d been staring into those grey eyes today, when she’d passed her sentence on Forlana.

It was essentially an extended community service. Twenty years of service as a mage for the Kingdom of Erisdale. Some had called for her death. Some had called for her imprisonment. It had been ultimately decided that Forlana couldn’t be held totally responsible for a conspiracy that had started before Forlana had ever been of age. She’d been raised in it and that had been the consideration given when she was sentenced.

The woman who stood looked like a version of Forlana, crossed with someone. Someone Rowena knew, but she couldn’t quite put a name to that face.

The door to the sitting room opened, and Rowena felt her breath stop.

The man who entered went to the woman, who immediately buried herself into his arms. He was younger than the woman, but tall, broad of shoulder with an easy, familiar smile. She’d never met the man before, but she knew immediately who he had to be.

“Arwin! You’re clingy today,” said the man, his sapphire eyes bright. He kissed the woman gently on the brow, drawing her gaze up. The desperation in her grey eyes reflected in the burnished crown that he wore, tipped with sapphires. That crown sat upon curly red hair.

Arwin took a breath. “Gwyn, your parents know.”

“Know what—Oh. Well, we were going to tell them eventually,” said Gwyn. He brushed a tear from her cheek. “We… were going to tell them eventually, right?”

Arwin squeezed Gwyn’s arms. “Yes, but… I don’t know. After everything my mother has done. After everything that my father—seed contributor has done—”

“Hey, none of that. Arwin, you are your own woman. Inventor, mage, the youngest Royal Secretary, and student to Archmages Morgan and Hattie,” said Gwyn.

Arwin gently pushed the man away, though she couldn’t help but hold onto his hands. “And you are Crown Prince Gwynsun Conthwaite, son of Queen Rowena, the once Lost Princess, and Queen-consort Jessalise.”

Rowena’s heart was beating a hundred times a minute as she stared at her son, named after her best friend.

“I’m your beloved, and you are mine, and we can face my parents together. I mean, you work with my mother-Wena and she trusts you. Not to mention, my parents have known your mother for years, even corresponded with her on occasion,” said Gwyn.

“You’re avoiding the main problem, Gwyn. I am Prince Alastor’s daughter,” said Arwin.

Rowena clamped her hand to her mouth. Forlana must not have known. No, she couldn’t have. If she had, she would have brought it up. Rowena knew the other woman would have.

“Arwin, you are the love of my life, my childhood best friend. I know the risks of this, and I’m willing to risk them. If I must, I will give up my title to be with you,” said Gwyn.

“You won’t do that. You love Erisdale too much,” said Arwin.

“I could just not be Crown Prince. I’ve discussed this with Francis and Lystia. They want us to be happy too, especially Lystia. Something about wanting her big sister Arwin to be happy,” said Gwyn.

Arwin pursed her lips. “I’m glad you thought this through, but that doesn’t mean your parents will approve.”

“I am sure mother-Wena has some idea. If she hasn’t had a vision about this already,” said Gwyn.

“Gwyn, that still leaves the fact that because I was technically conceived while Alastor and my mother were still married, I’m a Lapanterian Princess!”

Gwyn smiled, “A bit ironic for him, isn’t it? He wanted a claim on Erisdale, and we got one on Lapanteria instead.”

“Be serious, Gwyn!” Arwin whined.

“I am serious, Arwin. I love you. I really do. Now, I know you do too, but if you really think we cannot make this work, then…” Gwyn took a deep breath, his eyes closing. “…Then I will respect your decision, but don’t you think we ought to discuss this with my parents first? At least, try to make this work officially?”

Arwin swallowed. Rowena wanted to scream at her to just say yes, but she knew she’d never be heard. This was just a possible future… though, if the vision was right, then it was one that was pretty likely to occur. What’s more, she felt for the young woman in front of her, looking so unsure and anxious, much like she had once upon a time.

“Gwyn, I’m scared. I know you and your parents would never use this as an excuse to fight Lapanteria, but relations are breaking down once more. Aunt Salene’s rule is failing. She’s doing her best, but now there are territories that want to join Erisdale, and others that want to punish them, led by my stupid sperm-donor! I want this, but I don’t know what will happen next.”

Gwyn squeezed Arwin’s hands. “We both don’t know, though, Arwin. My mother, for all her visions, told me that we can only guess what the future holds and hope that the good we do now will help others find happiness. So… if we can only do the best we can now, I want to make the woman I love happy.”

Arwin wiped her eyes, giggling quietly, “You are such a sap, Gwyn.”

Gwyn laughed, “Guilty as charged, my dear.”

The door opened, and Rowena froze.

Queen Rowena had swept into the room, every bit the regal queen. Queen Ginger’s crown rested on her head, and Tristelle on her hip atop a magnificent maroon silk dress. The dress was light enough for her to walk, but clearly made from delicately embroidered fabric. Amusingly enough, she wore a silk black eyepatch.

“Sorry to interrupt, Gwyn. Arwin, you don’t need to push my son away. I’ve known for some time actually, and I really don’t mind, but we should have a talk about our next steps,” said Queen Rowena.

Gwyn laughed as Arwin stared at Rowena, eyes wide.

“I figured, Mom. Does ma-Jess know?” Gwyn asked.

“I don’t keep secrets from your ma, you know that. So yes, she knows,” said Rowena.

Arwin gingerly looked up at Rowena, eyes filled with tears, “Your Majesty, I… I…”

“Arwin, if I ever thought you would hurt Gwyn, I would have kept you from him. But you’ve saved his life many times, even as a child. I know how much you care for him.” She reached out to gently pat Arwin’s shoulder. “We will talk if you have time tonight at dinner?”

Arwin nodded, and so did Gwyn.

“Excellent, if you don’t mind leaving, you can catch up before tonight. I just need something here,” said Rowena.

Arwin nodded and curtsied. Gwyn hugged Queen Rowena before leaving with Arwin, hanging from his arm.

Queen Rowena took a breath and looked to the room’s center. It was only then that Rowena knew that the queen couldn’t see her. She was looking in the wrong direction, a little off from her.

“If you’re watching, mother and father are fine, just retired and taking some much needed rest and together time. No rush with Gwyn. Just take it slow. Enjoy yourself, you’re doing good,” said Rowena. She winked and left the room, which were beginning to fill with pink butterflies once more.

***

Jessalise was meeting up with Rowena for breakfast in the gardens. She was running a little late, however. Her hair had decided to be incredibly unruly today.

Erisdale Castle’s gardens doubled as greenhouses where herbs and valuable plants were grown for medicinal and research purposes. As such, they were nowhere near as well-organized or pretty as Lapanteria’s, but Martin and Ginger were not interested in having simply ornamental gardens for their own use.

Still, the place where her girlfriend had chosen for their breakfast date was pretty. Bracketed by beds of herbs and wildflowers used for castle dinners and feasts, a round table had been set up along with two chairs. A three-tiered plate set with pastry treats and a pot of coffee on a magical hot plate rested atop an off-white silk tablecloth.

Jess paused, watching Rowena from behind her. The princess looked like she was trying to drown herself with coffee. Her handkerchief was already stained brown as she downed another cup.

Resisting the urge to giggle, Jess crept up behind her beloved. Rowena continued to sip at her coffee and observe the small white butterflies that occasionally got into the greenhouse.

“Good morning, Wena,” said Jess.

The princess jumped a little, but managed to keep her coffee in her hand. Laughing, Rowena put her cup down and wrapped Jess in a hug.

“That was mean!” Rowena said.

“That was a wake-up alarm, if all that coffee you drank didn’t work,” said Jess. She pecked a kiss on Rowena’s cheek, leaving the princess speechless as she sat down. “Are you still feeling a little strange about Forlana?”

The servants had brought out the breakfast. Rowena had pancakes with an egg and vegetable hash on the side. Jess just had eggs and some bacon, choosing to just enjoy the pastries on the side.

As soon as the food had been brought out, however, Rowena smiled and waved to dismiss the servants before touching Tristelle and raising a privacy bubble.

“Yes, but not for the reasons that I told you about,” she said.

“Hmm, did you get a vision?” Jess smiled as Rowena’s jaw swung open. “It would explain why you raised the privacy bubble.”

“This one is a bit worrisome,” said Rowena. She chewed and swallowed her slice of pancakes before setting the utensils down. “I’m not sure when was this but it was about twenty or so years. I saw our son.”

Jess’s eyes widened, “Our son?”

Rowena smiled gently. “Yes, our son, Jess. We… we call him Gwyn, probably after Gwen.”

“I like that name,” said Jess without thinking. She felt her cheeks burn as Rowena’s smile widened. “But what does that have to do with Forlana?”

The princess took a deep sip of coffee as if it was an alcoholic beverage before setting the cup down.

“About twenty years later, Gwyn falls in love with Forlana’s daughter, Arwin. Forlana and Alastor’s daughter,” said Rowena.

Jess suddenly knew why Rowena had been drowning herself in coffee and promptly decided to do the same. She did make sure to blow on her cup first before taking a deep sip.

“First of all, ew,” said Jess.

“The coffee is bad?” Rowena asked.

“No, the thought of our son kissing someone related to Alastor makes me want to retch. You absolutely sure our son loves her? How do you know—wait, don’t answer that part,” said Jess.

Rowena giggled, “I didn’t see anything too concerning if that’s what you mean, but the vision does confirm that Forlana’s pregnant. She doesn’t know, but she will likely find out.”

Jess rolled her eyes. “Why in the world would a son of ours fall in love with Forlana’s daughter? Besides, she must be older than him by a few years.”

“Who knows, apparently they were childhood friends. We must have decided not to separate them. My future-self did mention that Arwin, Forlana’s daughter, saved Gwyn a number of times,” said Rowena. The princess pursed her lips. “You aren’t alarmed by the fact we might have a son in the future? That we are married?”

Jess arched an eyebrow. “Not at all, are you?”

“No. Surprisingly, I’m not.” Rowena leaned forward. “I’m not going to propose to you right now, Jess, but I love you, and I can’t imagine being with anybody else.”

Reaching across the table, Jess squeezed Rowena’s hand. “It’s the same for me, Wena.”

Connected hands drew both young women into a brief kiss before they parted, smiling giddily.

“Still, I am surprised you aren’t bothered by the idea of a son with me,” said Rowena.

“There are spells which you probably will learn how to cast. How else did Edana Firehand and Igraine end up with two children?” Jess asked.

Rowena had to nod at that, but she couldn’t help but press her girlfriend a little.

“I mean that we’re only dating now. Aren’t you a bit surprised or even a bit alarmed that you now have an idea of who our children may be? Or even a bit shocked that we do stay together for years?” Rowena asked.

Jess’ brow stitched together for a moment. Popping a pastry into her mouth, she chewed furiously.

“I wasn’t, but to be honest, I wasn’t sure why I felt that way. I suppose it’s because as you and I know, your visions don’t necessarily come true. There’s a good chance they may come true, but they’re visions, snapshots of a possible future. In this case, they’re possible futures we might want to happen. If I do have a son, I want him to be happy with the woman he loves, but if he ends up liking men, I certainly won’t have a problem with it,” said Jess.

“So how should we use this information, then? If it was a bad future, then we could try to avoid it, but these seem quite promising,” said Rowena.

“Well, in Forlana’s case, we’re going to have to ask her to go for a checkup to see if she is pregnant, and we’ll need a plan to deal with Lapanteria once she gives birth,” said Jess.

Rowena nodded, “I suspect that Arwin was delegitimized by Sebastian, but from what I saw, it appears that wasn’t entirely successful in removing her claim. But what about the children? Would we keep them together?”

“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself, Wena? We’re not even married yet,” said Jess. She laughed at Rowena’s poleaxed expression. “Wena, they’re just visions. Possible futures. We’re still in control of the present.”

“We’re still in control of who we are, and who we become,” said Rowena, half to herself, half to her beloved. She sat with that thought for a moment, allowing it to warm her heart and blossom into hope.

“Wena?” Jess asked.

“I’m alright,” said Rowena. She met Jess’s gaze with a content smile. “I’m feeling glad to be me, and I can’t wait to see what I become, where we go from here.” She swallowed. “That is, for however long you wish to be with me.”

Jess, her tone mockingly serious, said in a low voice, “They’ll have to pry me away from your corpse.”

“Oh, how romantic,” said Rowena.

The two young women—two princesses—kissed once more. One was just glad to be with the girl she’d loved since she was little.

The other had once been lost, and now, through courage, determination, and no small amount of love, had found herself and her family.

**\*

Author’s Note: My headcanon is that Rowena’s vision does mostly come true, though, the vision does bring about some changes to the future in and of itself. Arwin ends up being born and mentored by Rowena, and while Hattie and Morgan become Arwin’s magic teachers, Arwin becomes a sort of apprentice to Rowena. In temperament, Arwin ends up a lot like Rowena which is partly why ‘Queen Rowena” took a liking to her.

Gwyn is an utter rapscallion taking more after Jess’s go-getter attitude but can be surprisingly majestic and regal like Rowena when he wishes to be.  I did take some time to figure out his name because at first I was thinking of naming him Sun, but I realized that Rowena and Jess would likely name their son after their closest friend, Gwen.

I don't think there will be another chapter of The Lost Princess. I believe we’ve come to the end of the journey and there are only one or two things to wrap up.

There is definitely going to be a final epilogue chapter from Tiamara’s perspective, to wrap up Frances’ journey a few decades later after the Great War’s end. We’ll probably be visiting a location that was near and dear to many readers’ hearts.

Moreover, I’m going to be releasing some lengthy but questionably canonical summaries regarding what happens to Denise, Frances’ little sister. It was a drawn up story idea I had but while I liked that I wrote up a summary, I don’t think I’ll be writing that story in and of itself. The nature of that tale was very much to wrap up a loose end instead of giving it a life of its own, and so I believe that while I want to share this headcanon and the snippets, I don’t believe I’ll write that as a story.

Thank you all again for supporting me through this journey and reading. More information on my projects can be found on my patreon. I’ll see you all soon.

4

Some lives seem to be born solely to fulfill their purpose. I have never believed in fatalism, and even despise it, but sometimes I have to admit that fatalism is the only way to explain certain lives, and Xiaoyu and he are such lives.

She was 43 years old that year, and I was certain that she would, like everyone else here, die alone. However, because she hadn't experienced the harsh realities of life, she still maintained a girlish innocence and naivety in facing the mundane matters of her life (in reality, there wasn't much for her to face). Her time seemed to have stopped, no longer moving forward. I had tried to help her mature, but after many attempts, I ultimately gave up. For us, facing others with maturity is unnecessary, even painful, because we have already been abandoned by them. We cannot make promises to others, nor can we take responsibility for them. Someone once told me he greatly envied our situation. He said to me, "You severely disabled people are so lucky; you can have food without working..."

I smiled and remained silent. It seems that people in this era are all disabled to some extent.

Let's go back to her. There was always a vitality in her eyes that no one here possessed, and her eyes always shone with light because of it. But it was precisely this vitality, this light, that led to her tragic end.

That day, she led me to an unfamiliar village, preparing to give me a shock. Although our orphanage might seem like a prison to outsiders, housing lifeless, marginalized individuals like us, sentenced to life imprisonment, in a practical sense, it's not a real prison. Therefore, with the invention of assistive devices like smart wheelchairs, anyone with consciousness—in other words, not a vegetative state—can freely enter and leave the orphanage. Some of the newly arrived marginalized individuals go out every day, only returning in the evening. When asked why, they say they're not used to the air in the orphanage. Others, once admitted, never go out again, spending their entire lives in their assigned rooms. These people are mostly not in a vegetative state, yet they have completely given up any curiosity about the outside world. Of course, most people aren't so extreme; they're in the middle, going out when they want and staying in when they want. I'm the same, except in recent years, I've stayed in the orphanage every day, unwilling to go out anymore.

I will never forget the shock Xiaoyu gave me that day. It was a cloudy day; the clouds were thick and dense, like a blanket, blocking out the sunlight. The temperature was also damp and hot, as if covered by a wet blanket. The ground was still and lifeless; even the plants drooped listlessly, as if they had forgotten how to grow. We were driving near an unfamiliar village, about 100 kilometers from the city center and about 20 kilometers from our orphanage. I hesitated because three days ago she had asked me to do something for her, but she hadn't specified what it was, only saying that I should come with her that day. So she brought me here. She was in front, and I was behind. We were traveling in wheelchairs along a narrow road. We traveled like this for who knows how long, until finally, she stopped in a grove of trees. Because of the weather, and because of my doubts about her, I felt a little irritated. So, I asked her in a slightly angry and resentful tone, "Xiaoyu, what are you trying to do by bringing me all this way here?"

"We're almost there, please come with me, sister." With that, she drove deeper into the woods.

Left with no other choice, I followed her. After what seemed like an eternity, she finally stopped. I looked closely and saw a machine in front of her—a machine I'd never seen before. It was roughly the shape of a rectangular table, only taller, and covered with devices of varying sizes. In the center was a computer. I recognized the tabletop as being made of sophisticated plant-based energy materials. These materials powered the machine using energy generated by photosynthesis, and also possessed solar-like functions and energy storage capabilities. Although such materials were commonplace in the 23rd century, creating something so enormous was still a considerable expense. On the far right of the table was a simple sofa, seemingly intended for someone to sit on. On the far left was something resembling a human figure, with various wires plugged into it. Because I could only see one side of the figure, I couldn't make out its exact appearance.

"This is……?"

"When I was 15, I read about extracting a person's consciousness and injecting it into a robot, which then gained human consciousness. At the time, that book was just science fiction, and I really disliked the plot because it was full of anthropocentric ideas. However, I also saw a glimmer of hope in it. From then on, I studied and researched it like crazy, trying to figure out if the plot of that science fiction could come true. I kept studying and researching, and finally got a positive answer, which is the book I showed you when I was 25. At that time, you asked me why I showed you these things, and I didn't answer you. Today, I can give you the answer."

She gasped for breath after saying this. Xiaoyu rarely spoke, because she not only had a slurred speech but also often stuttered. It had already taken a lot of effort for her to finish speaking these words.

At first I thought she was joking, but her serious and unquestionable expression told me that she was serious and not joking.

"...So what exactly is that thing in front of you?"

"This is the consciousness extraction machine that they (scientists) are still researching, but I prefer to call it an 'imaginary entity machine'."

"Are you crazy?" I asked. "You dare to do something that even scientists haven't figured out yet?"

"Actually, the principle of this machine is not difficult, and making the machine itself is not difficult either. The real difficulty is to make it accurately identify and extract the consciousness group that a person wants to extract."

"...Are you planning to make your dream girl a reality?"

Upon hearing the words "dream lover," she blushed, then said shyly, "Yes, yes, it's strange. I read in a book that imagined lovers usually disappear automatically after a decade or so. But not only did mine not disappear, but my imagination of him grew stronger and stronger. That's why I want him to become a real person... I've had my struggles. I thought it was a sin to bring him into this world, and it was also selfish... But, a week ago, I dreamt of him. In the dream, he seemed to desperately want a real body, to become a real person—of course, it might just be wishful thinking on my part, but a voice in my heart keeps telling me that this is his wish, so I... I... I plan to make it happen today..."

"But he's just an imagined person, do you realize that?"

"You should remember the contents of the book I told you about. The imaginary person is actually an independent consciousness. The initial cause of multiple personality disorder is that the subject mixes imaginary personalities and cannot distinguish between the main consciousness and the secondary consciousness, which leads to the formation of a chaotic body. Although theoretically, it is much easier to extract the consciousness of multiple personalities than the consciousness of a purely imaginary person, since the imaginary person itself belongs to the secondary consciousness, it is much more difficult, but not impossible."

What are the chances of success?     

"...According to my calculations, it's about 10%."

"Could there be...some danger...?"

"...Yes, I might die." She lowered her voice, but answered firmly.

How did you acquire these devices?

"I..." she stammered, "I met some kind people online, and they bought most of my things with their money, plus my monthly disability allowance..." This was absolutely impossible. I knew this perfectly well, but at the time, seeing how embarrassed and embarrassed she was on this issue, I could only give up. Later, before she died, she revealed the whole truth to me. After deciding to create the machine, she was plagued by financial worries and couldn't sleep at night. She knew that relying solely on her disability allowance, she might need to save for over 40 years without eating, drinking, or buying anything to afford the equipment. Just when she was at her wit's end, she suddenly saw a news report about online scams. A terrifying idea struck her, but she immediately dismissed it: "No... how can I scam people?" Later, she found a part-time job online. The extra income didn't make her much happier; on the contrary, it made her realize that without doing something dangerous, even against her conscience, she would never see any hope in her lifetime, because the part-time job only paid a few dollars—in this day and age, a few dollars could probably only buy a piece of candy...

Later, she disguised herself as a beautiful woman online and began to carry out her plan. It didn't go smoothly at first, as she was inexperienced and her scams were full of loopholes. But little by little, she figured out the tricks... In this way, she defrauded a total of 18 people, swindling more than 10 million yuan, which ultimately determined her fate.

She later said to me, “Sister, do you believe in reincarnation and karma? ... I didn’t believe it before, but now I do. I must have been a terrible person in my past life, which is why I’m suffering this kind of retribution in this life. And in this life, I haven’t reformed myself; I’ve still hurt people. That’s why I lost him, and I’ve lost all my values ​​about life…”

Suddenly, I was seized by a kind of almost malicious, cruel curiosity, and I asked her, "How do you feel after you successfully deceive someone? Do you feel any pleasure?"

"...At first, I only felt uneasy and fearful. Later, I realized that it was my job, so I numbly carried it out, and that was all."

For some reason, I felt a sense of relief after hearing her answer... It seems that after learning about her actions, I also unconsciously developed a grudge against her.

"When did you start doing this? How did you do it?"

“I had this idea about 26 years ago, and finally started planning to do it 3 years later. I got a definite answer 18 years ago, and then I started to focus on doing it. Most of the mechanical assembly work was done by the robotic arm in the wheelchair, and a few very detailed tasks were done by me by hand, bit by bit.”

After hearing her story, I remained silent for a long time. No wonder she had insisted on doing everything by hand for the past 18 years; it was all for this reason...

"What... exactly do you want me to do?"

"Sister, I've set up the program. Once I sit on that sofa, just come over and press the Enter key on your computer."

After saying that, she sat in her wheelchair and drove to the sofa on the far right. Then she gave a command, and the mechanical arm on the wheelchair placed her on the sofa. Then, she picked up a helmet-like object on her back, which was covered with wires.

I wheeled myself to the middle of the machine and took a closer look. I realized that the only valuable part of the machine was the surface plant material. The rest of the materials were basically made from garbage from a recycling station. That's probably why she was able to create this "imaginary physical machine" for just over 10 million.

"Press this key, right?" I pointed to the Enter key on the computer keyboard while turning to look at her.

“Yes,” she urged, “press it quickly, sister.”

I pressed that button.

The machine started operating.

The garbled text on the computer screen started running, followed by a muffled hum from the machine. I unconsciously moved the wheelchair back a little. About ten minutes later, I heard a loud "Ah!" Xiaoyu let out a deafening scream, and then the machine and Xiaoyu fell silent.

I quickly wheeled myself to her and saw that her eyes were tightly closed and her expression was one of extreme pain, as if her body was being torn apart. Strangely, her body would occasionally twitch as if she were being electrocuted, but at that moment, she stopped breathing.

Is this her fate? I think I remained unusually calm. Because I knew from the beginning that she couldn't succeed. She hadn't gone to school, hadn't become a scientist, didn't even have a healthy body, and had no divine favor. She built this machine simply by reading a few books. How could she possibly succeed? She probably knew this was her fate.

Perhaps... this is the ending she wanted. Our existence is nothing but suffering, and only death is the only relief. That's why she built this machine. Whether it succeeds or not is not important to her. What matters is that she proved in this way that her life had meaning and was not wasted. Just creating it is a success in itself.

I wheeled myself away to find someone to clean up the mess for her. When I was less than 20 meters from the machine, I suddenly heard a slight noise behind me. I thought I'd misheard, but the rustling continued.I turned around and saw a human-shaped object stand up from the far left of the machine and move towards Xiaoyu's sofa until it suddenly picked her up…

"There's still a heartbeat," it said, moving its head closer to Xiaoyu's heart. Then, it put her on the ground and began CPR.

I was speechless with shock in my wheelchair!

Are there really miracles in this world?

As I stood there speechless with astonishment, Xiaoyu, who was lying on the ground receiving CPR from "it," also woke up. She smiled as soon as she saw him.

"Iron Tree, did I succeed?"

He nodded and then said, "Yes, you succeeded."

She smiled and then fell asleep in his arms.

5

A light rain began to fall. I remained there, staring blankly at the scene, my mind completely stunned, with only my breathing and heartbeat continuing their mechanical processes.

It carried Xiaoyu and walked towards me.

“Big sister,” it said, “it’s raining today, let’s go back quickly.”

It then dawned on me that I wasn't dreaming. "You really are her..."

"Your dream lover?" "It" said as it walked toward Xiaoyu's wheelchair. "Yes, but not entirely."

After I came to my senses, I realized how ugly it was; its outer skin was made of uncleaned pigskin, and it was covered in filth and rust—it seemed that Xiaoyu had just picked it up from the garbage dump, and after piecing it together, it hadn't been cleaned yet.

Xiaoyu is such an impatient person. I couldn't help but chuckle.

Looking at "it," doubts arose in my mind again. Could such a thing really possess human consciousness? Or could there be a mistake?

"Let's hurry up and move on." He adjusted his wheelchair so it could keep up with our pace, while he carried Xiaoyu and walked back the way we came. I then rocked my wheelchair to keep up with him.

"May I have your name?"

"My name is Iron Tree, she gave it to me."

A moment of silence followed. Facing him, I felt like a mother-in-law facing a son-in-law she had never met before—nervous and at a loss.

But on the way, I still spoke up.

How did you learn CPR?

“My memories of the past are the same as hers. What she saw, heard, and knew is the same as mine. Although I am independent, what she learned later in life is also what I learned. We are two sides of the same coin. In other words, we share common memories. This is the biggest difference between the subconsciousness of a person in imagination and the subconsciousness in multiple personalities.”

"So, Xiaoyu has learned CPR, right?"

"Yes, she read about it in a book."

The rain poured down like a broken string of beads, growing heavier and heavier. I couldn't help but push the wheelchair to its highest speed, and he started running with Xiaoyu in his arms. The way he ran was horrifying; from a distance, he looked like a charred human who had just escaped a fire. There wasn't a single human-like feature on his body. I even started complaining to Xiaoyu about her haste in not making him look better before implanting his consciousness. Looking at him, I understood why the kind monster in *Frankenstein* was so unwelcome throughout. Humans are just creatures that judge by appearances.

We were all soaked to the bone. Incredibly, no matter how much rain poured down on Xiaoyu in Tieshu's arms, she didn't wake up. She slept peacefully in his arms like she was dead. I wanted to ask Tieshu what was wrong with Xiaoyu, but the torrential rain made it impossible for me to speak, and I couldn't care less about anyone else.

We ran frantically for what seemed like forever, finally reaching a bus stop shelter. I gave the wheelchair a command, and it stopped. He then stood beside me, holding Xiaoyu. After I had everything settled, I turned my attention to Xiaoyu.

"Is Xiaoyu... alright?"

He looked down at Xiaoyu and said, "It's alright. The impact of that machine was too great and knocked her unconscious. She's still unconscious, but she should be fine."

As I listened to his mechanical voice, I began to ponder inwardly: was it really worth it for Xiaoyu to make such a huge and dangerous sacrifice for such a "monster"?

Soon after, a self-driving bus arrived. When the bus sensed our presence, it stopped and opened the door, and we boarded.

As soon as we got on the bus, we saw a couple staring at us with strange looks. One of them even covered his mouth and nose with his bag and made a "yikes" sound. Luckily, there weren't many people on the bus that day, otherwise we might have been kicked off.

I inserted my bus card into the card slot, showed Xiaoyu and my disability certificates, and paid for Tieshu's fare. Then we went straight to the back of the bus. Every time we passed an occupied seat, we attracted mocking glances. It's not unusual for robots and humans to ride together; they're everywhere. But a robot as ugly and cheap as Tieshu was something they'd never seen before, hence the ridicule. Some even said, "Why even bring such an ugly robot out? Doesn't it affect the city's appearance?"

Tieshu sat down in the last row of seats. Xiaoyu, whom he was holding, trembled slightly, but then fell asleep again.

We finally made it to the entrance of the welfare home after a lot of effort. As soon as we entered, the security guards spotted him. "Please wait a moment," the guards stopped us. "What is this robot?" He stared wide-eyed at the iron tree, his face filled with fear.

"We found this robot by chance on the roadside while we were out traveling. Later, something happened to us, and Xiaoyu fainted, so we gave it to him and asked him to bring Xiaoyu to the orphanage." We can't let outsiders know the truth. It's not only pointless, but it might also bring unexpected dangers and troubles.

"Well then, let me check if this robot is dangerous." He then took out a "robot measuring instrument" specifically designed to assess the danger level of the iron tree, checking for any possibility of it going berserk. Thankfully, the iron tree passed the test smoothly. My heart finally settled down. It seems that robots with consciousness are not much different from those without.

"Let's go," the security guard said. Then, we entered the welfare home.

6

We arrived at our dormitory. Tieshu helped Xiaoyu change her clothes, then carried her to bed and sat on the edge of her bed, quietly watching over and taking care of her. I used the mechanical arm of my wheelchair to get onto my bed and changed my clothes. During this time, he offered to help, but I firmly refused.

I already knew most of his story on the way, including details about Xiaoyu that I didn't know before. He told me about them too. Most of these details are boring and meaningless, so I won't go into them here. The only thing worth noting is that Xiaoyu knew from the beginning that he was a product of her imagination, but she never treated him as if he didn't exist. She loved him, told him almost everything, and consulted him on everything. Therefore, he was not just her dream lover, nor merely a product of her fantasies. More importantly, Xiaoyu regarded him as everything in her life, the reason she continued to exist, and the person who contained all the emotions she couldn't let go of in her life—family, lover, friend—all of which she gave him. But it was precisely because of this that she increasingly longed for him to become a real being. That's why she accomplished what is almost the greatest feat of the 23rd century: giving a robot human consciousness. She just didn't expect (including me) what kind of impact her actions would have on people.

I felt a little embarrassed changing clothes in front of him, and he knew this well, so he sat on the edge of her bed with his head down, not saying a word. Only after I finished changing did he raise his head and look at Xiaoyu, who was still fast asleep behind him. Xiaoyu seemed to wake up as if by telepathy.

“Iron Tree…” Xiaoyu said weakly. She reached out her trembling hand as if to stroke his head, but because of her illness, her hand seemed to resist and pulled back forcefully. Fortunately, Iron Tree understood her intention. He grabbed the hand that was floating in mid-air, at a loss, and pulled it to his chest.

"I'm here. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"I can't believe I can succeed. Am I... dreaming?"

"This is reality, this is not a dream. One hundred percent..."

"Then could you come up and...sleep in the same bed with me..." Xiaoyu said shyly.

"Mmm." He agreed and got into her bed, then pulled her into his arms again before lying down.

"Iron Tree..." Xiaoyu was still very weak. She whispered to him while lying on his chest until Iron Tree said, "It's getting late, go to sleep." Only then did she close her eyes and fall asleep.

Watching this scene, I felt both heartbroken and gratified. Heartbroken because Xiaoyu had endured so much hardship to finally succeed, and gratified because she finally had his love in reality. This is so much better than marrying a good man, because he is her subconscious, because he fully understands her thoughts, and they will definitely be very happy together.

7

Tieshu left the orphanage. One night, after he put her to sleep, he disappeared without a trace the next day. Since he hadn't consulted us, we had no idea where he went. Xiaoyu was initially very worried about his safety because she had molded him like an unfinished robot. If Tieshu were careless outside, and the security personnel mistook him for an unclaimed, unverified robot, he would be sent for disposal. However, he was a robot with human consciousness, and having learned from Xiaoyu for half his life, he should know this basic common sense. I tried to reassure Xiaoyu, telling her not to worry too much, but she remained anxious, saying, "I shouldn't have rushed into creating him… I should have made him more refined…" Then she just kept crying. This is the tragedy of being bound by a repetitive life. Because every day is the same, facing the same things, encountering something outside this framework can cause extraordinary fear and panic. Xiaoyu didn't distrust him or me; rather, her own tragic past made her terrify herself, and the intimidation from those around her who didn't understand the situation only deepened her fear. I comforted her every day without fail, and over time, she stopped being afraid. But after the fear subsided, another emotion emerged: an overwhelming loneliness and desolation. The pain of losing something you've gained is far greater than the pain of longing for it. Therefore, I understood her deeply, and for that reason, I felt it was time to teach her a lesson.

That day I saw her again in our room, sitting by the window, looking lost and forlorn. So I wheeled myself over to her and looked at her, saying, "Are you thinking about him again?"

She only noticed me then, and slowly turned her face to face me, "Hmm..."

What does 'hmm' mean?

“To be honest, I… I regret bringing him into this world—no, not because he left me, but because…” She paused, then said hoarsely, “because… because I can no longer… no longer think of him in my mind! That’s the most obvious side effect of that machine…” Yes, whether it was him in her memory or in her imagination, nothing related to him could form a picture in her mind. This was one of the greatest misfortunes of her life, and the most tragic thing was that this misfortune was entirely of her own making.

“I was so thoughtless,” she said, calming down a little, but her emotions quickly returned. “I don’t know why I brought him into such a chaotic world. Maybe I only brought him into this world because of a moment of excitement and selfishness. I…” She couldn’t help but get nervous again.

I had to calm her down a bit before comforting her, saying, "It was his own wish to come into this world. Didn't you say he appeared in your dream and told you to bring him into this world?"

"But can he protect himself in such a chaotic world?"

"He has studied with you for so long, he should be very familiar with the rules of this world, so there is no need to worry too much."

"But..." Although she calmed down, there was still a worried look on her face.

I was silent for a moment, then I spoke: "Do you know why I came to the orphanage?"

A look of confusion and curiosity crossed her face. "I heard you were married and then divorced, and that you came here after the divorce, right?"

“Yes,” I nodded.

"Sister, why did you get a divorce? You look much better than me. At least your upper body is normal. You don't need someone to take care of you every day like I do."

“My illness is called spinocele. Although I don’t lose control of my entire body like you do, I still need someone to take care of me. My parents didn’t initially plan for me to get married because they felt that although there are many people nowadays—too many—there are very few who can truly be called ‘human,’ and the number is decreasing. So, they didn’t make any plans for me before I turned 23. However, as they got older, they found it increasingly difficult to take care of me. Finally, their idealism was shattered by reality. When I turned 23, they surrendered and found me an honest man to marry.”

Ultimately, the reality for people with disabilities has remained largely unchanged since ancient times, especially for those with severe disabilities—they either marry a good person, live out their remaining years in a welfare institution, or die. Just a few days ago, there was a news report about a severely disabled man who was drowned in a bathtub by his mother, who then committed suicide. Everyone said the mother was too selfish, but who, besides us, could understand that kind of desperate situation?

Some people casually say that this is an economic problem, a money problem. However, no matter how good the economic situation is, we still have to face physical obstacles and limitations. For us, if we cannot cure our fundamental problems, no amount of money will help. Having money is just an extra layer of leverage, a guarantee, and perhaps we can live a better life in the future, nothing more.

I've gone a bit off-topic (laughs). Later, I thought this person was nice, so we got married in a hurry. Although there wasn't much passion after marriage, life was uneventful. We just lived an ordinary life. To be honest, for us, and indeed for everyone in this era, it was a luxury. Unfortunately, nothing lucky has ever happened to me since birth. Not long after we got married, a global economic crisis came. These kinds of economic crises happen almost every three or four years in this era, so it's become commonplace. This was one of the reasons why my parents were so anxious to find me a partner. However, this economic crisis was very severe. Many people lost their jobs, and prices were unprecedentedly high. He was completely trapped in a predicament because of this. To make matters worse, he also had to take care of me, and his temper gradually became irritable and easily angered. We argued almost every day back then. Sometimes he would even hit me, and then he would sit on the ground crying and wailing. I still find that scene a bit funny when I recall it now, but at that time I was really driven to the point of having no other choice.

We got divorced just like that.

I publicly declared that I couldn't bear the hardship with him, so I divorced him. Everyone around me condemned me, saying that I was just a disabled person and that I was lucky to have married such a person. Even my parents scolded me, saying that I shouldn't have divorced him for this. But actually, I thought that I was a burden to him. If I could leave him at this time, his condition might be better. So I chose to leave him and come to this welfare home to live out my life.

I'll probably never forget the look of reluctance in his eyes on the day I was moving to the orphanage. Finally, I said to him, "I wish you a happy life." He stood there, stunned, without saying a word. Later, perhaps my good wishes came true; not long after, he found a job again, and now he's remarried.

After listening to my story, she pondered for a while, then looked at me and said, "Why did you tell me all this, sister?"

"What I want to say is that a person's life cannot be determined by their will. You've read so many books, you should know this. Humans, or rather, life itself, grow up amidst uncertainty. If you insist on certainty, then you are essentially stifling it, and that's impossible. Many people don't even know such a simple truth, and I think you do know it too, right?"

"I know, I understand, but..." She fell silent.

And so the day passed.

Rain patters on a small shack at the village edge. A sign on the door marks it, fortune teller. The clattering of the sign as it is tossed about by the wind can be heard from inside. A young girl, maybe near her 20th year of life, sits on the floor, flipping tarot cards onto the low, oval-shaped table in front of her. She mutters to herself as if trying to commit something to memory.

A knock on the door lifts her attention away from her activity. "Who goes?" She calls.

The voice of a man with youth and presence calls back, "I'm in need of a fortune teller,"

"Aye, ya found one. Enter and first right, past the drape." She deftly collects her cards and sets them aside.

The front door echoes into the narrow hallway and the sound of bootsteps find their way. A gloved hand reaches into the candlelit room and pushes the drape aside as a young man ducks his hooded head under the line holding it.

"Sir, welcome!" The fortune teller beamed, "Quite the weather to be seeking fortune, but I'm glad to have ya. And out of that rain, too. Wouldya some tea?"

Mindful of the two swords at his hip, he maneuvers to not knock anything in the somewhat tight room. "No need." He raises a gentle hand of protest, "But the kindness is valued." He sits on the opposing side of the oval table, cross-legged. His long cloak strewn behind him.

"Quite well, then. What mystical service do you seek of the wonderous Eterisia?" A proud giggle slips past her lips.

He fidgets to adjust his position on the sitting pillow and lowers his hood, "I'm actually looking for information."

The girl slumps onto the table in disappointment, her long hair pooled around her. Sheer lace bonnet revealing its hearth-light orange color.

"I can compensate you." His hands raised, as if to ward off potential grumpiness.

Slightly less bruised, her head props up into her hand. "What kind of information?" She asks, still somewhat dejected.

"I'm looking for a man."

Eterisia sits up, looking the young man over. He wore a black wool cloak, beaded water dotted about him. A green and white gambeson peeking from the edges of a tannin brigandine. Simple steel vambraces and half greaves. The piece meal armor did not lend him to be a noble. Awash in candle light, she could see the youth of his face. His hair was a black of the north. Short sides and a week unshaven. With enough on top to grip fingers through. And while he was certainly a bit older than her, something about him intimated more years than he deserved. He was devilishly good looking with stark hazel eyes. Each flick of the flame turning his earnest gaze into something harsher, colder.

He carried two swords at his belt. One was a minimalistic hand and a half with a simple, but artful cross guard and twisted ring guards on either side. The other was not like any sword she had seen before. It was a green of jade, but did not reflect the dim light the way a stone would. It wasn't flat, it appeared octagonally round and fell to a point. Like a large needle with some sort of scrawling on the faces of the blade, or scabbard perhaps, that his body wasn't obscuring. It had no guard and the pommel at the end of the long handle was a sphere with something wrapping covetously around it.

"Who'd be asking?" She asked, having taken his measure.

"Melesat."

"Melesat, who?"

"Just Melesat."

Eterisia squints disapprovingly, "Some say a man with no last name is a peculiarity."

"I forgot my family name long ago, young miss." He turned his gaze downward upon saying this. As if apologetic and briefly caught in a memory. "I wish I could offer it to you."

"Who is this man you are after? Is he dangerous?" Eterisia asked.

"Perhaps. I wont know until I have found him." Melesat shrugged, then refocused, "He's a stargazer from Steerport. I hear he comes here to participate in meetings of a sorts. I'm not keen on the details, but it seems shady. His name is Alane Chartwell."

Eterisia's gaze widened upon that name.

"Are you familiar? Figured a fortune teller might know something about a stargazer." Melesat proffered.

The fortune tellers lips were still, but her eyes engaged in calculus.

"...Let me see your palm." She decided.

"Why would you need to see my palm?" A perplexed look on Melesats face.

"If I'm to trust you do good with this information, I must know your heart. I don't want the weight of guilt on me."

Melesat hesitated a moment in uncertainty, but quickly concluded it was a reasonable request. He removed his left glove and offered his hand palm up. Eterisia takes it in her left and reaches for a small golden bowl of elegant, religious design from a nearby shelf with her right. She dips two fingers into it, the light reflecting a liquid of a soft dilute red. Her fingers trace a line across the wrist, excess dripping onto the table. She holds a single handed prayer over his palm and mutters a soft utterance. The liquid on his wrist begins to lap and course as if aspiring to be the sea. It thickened and darkened to an opaque crimson and began traveling towards the palm, being selective as to which groves of Melesats hand to follow. It chose four representing, heart, head, life and fate.

Eterisia holds his hand firmly in hers and begins tracing the life line at the base of the thumb with her own. Her face takes on a bewildered expression. "You contain a mighty force of life."

A quick huff of amusement escaped Melesats nostrils. "Oh yeah?"

"I've never seen a thing like it. Must be overfilled with determination." She smiled.

She moved to the heart line, tracing it slowly. Her brow furrows at her findings and moves on, respectfully.

"Let's see what fate might have in store for you." She traces the line from the base of the palm slowly moving towards the fingers. The liquid in Melesats hand begins again to lap and roil. And then bubble and boil. Eterisia pulls her hand back in pain as a coil of steam rises from Melesats hand.

"Ah-! What is this!?" Eterisia reels back from her seated position holding her temples. She begins to cough and her breath runs short. She clutches her chest. She reaches for her temples again as a dark magic begins to emanate there, clawing forward to covers her eyes. It rotates like a ring through her mind. She lets out a sharp scream and falls to her knees.

"Are you all right!?" Asked Melesat, arm extended to offer a hand.

"No! You stay away from me!" She cried, her voice strained and choked. "I dont know what you are, but you need to get out!"

"I'm sorry." His eyes pleading, "What about the information?"

"Fuck your information! Get out of my home! Right now!"

His eyes cast downward in shame, Melesat raises his hood and promptly exits the the fortune tellers home back into the rainy night. He walks a few steps and stops. He lets out a whimpered groan as he puts his hands to his face. Wiping as if trying to do away with embarrassment. He looks back at the small house to see a curtain fall back into place. He turns and plods down the muddy road towards town.

As he leaves, whatever dark sorceries that gripped her begin to fade. She climbs to her feet as rapidly as she can to assure the door was barred and the strange man had gone. Eterisia sat back down at her table and pulled out her stationary and begins to write furiously. She then folds the note and seals it with wax and stamp. She leans back on a collection of pillows and reflects on the encounter with the man named Melesat.

Disturbing images race through her mind. A small boy, utterly hopeless, leaps to his death. A young man being burned alive. Pain of the body and of the mind that seem impossible. Eterisias' eyes well at the thought of one having to endure so much. But the one emotion that was hers... fear. Fear of that thing. That shadow that wrested itself throughout the the mans entire being. Whoever--or whatever--possessing a desire--a selfish infatuation--that clung to him desperately; Greedily. Warning her against her trespass.

Eterisia had never experienced something so alarming in the years that she had been divining. It was unsettling to say the least. But it was behind her now and exhaustion was setting in. Despite her excitement at finally procuring dried meat, she could not bring herself to cook as she did not feel hungry. Perhaps the shock of the evening had gotten to her? Rest may be the best for now.

She blows out her several candles scattered about the room and hops into the small alcove bult into the wall of her home that she fashioned into a bed and gets under the covers, feeling the ensuing warmth. She puts the events of the evening out of her mind and focuses on the coziness of the rain and eventually drifts off to sleep.

The night goes on and the rain continues. Eterisia lay soundly asleep. The sound of scraping bushes against the wooden wall of the house is followed by the low hollow thud of a long jade point driven through the wall and into Eterisias' chest. Blood gushes from her mouth as she tries to cough and in moments, she is still.

Finishing their tense reconnaissance in the Hojok cave, Jaun and the Bear Tribe warriors did not linger long. Before the mud left by the great flood had even dried, they descended the rugged southwestern mountain range to head toward the eastern territory where families waited for them back home.

Yet to head east, they inevitably had to loop around and pass through the outer boundaries of the ruined capital of the Zhuxin Empire.

The landscape of the outer capital, faced upon descending the foothills, was the absolute height of desolation. The ramparts swept away by the colossal tidal wave were split in places, embedded like massive reefs in the mud, while the once-splendid outer villages had been crushed without a trace into a giant basin of mire. Passing through a place vibrating with stagnant water and the stench of blood from all directions, Jaun's beast-like intuition tightened once more.

"Shh, lower your horse's reins. The place is crawling with them."

With Jaun's low warning, the warriors simultaneously lowered their postures.

In the crevices of collapsed walls and pools filled with mud across the outer capital, dozens and hundreds of mutant monsters lurked. Having lost the king's control and driven by psychosis, the fiends were greedily tearing apart human corpses stuck in the sludge, spraying dark blood everywhere.

At that moment, perhaps hearing the sound of horse hooves treading the mud, one mutant devouring a corpse twisted its neck grotesquely and turned its head toward Jaun's party. Black blood dripped between its wide-open jaws, and soon the creature's ferocious blue phosphorescence locked directly onto Jaun's eyes.

"Kreee-aghh—!"

The moment the creature's tearing scream echoed through the silent ruins, dozens of blue phosphorescences surged simultaneously from the mud puddles all around. Finding their prey, the monsters leaped toward Jaun like a tidal wave, their limbs twisted grotesquely, splashing mud in every direction.

"We break through! Maintain formation and clear the front!"

The instant Jaun's command fell, the Bear Tribe warriors raised a unified battle cry and leveled their spears. Along the eastern route—the only path where horses could gallop—hundreds of mutants were already milling about, forming a massive horde as if to block their retreat. Although hive-mind control had vanished, the madness driving their prey-hunger was far more unpredictable and violent than when organized.

Crash-boom—!

Jaun's warhorse at the vanguard kicked through the mud and slammed straight into the front of the mutant horde. As the sword gripped in Jaun's hand flashed in an arc, the head of the monster striking from the front row flew into the air, spouting black blood.

"Krooo-ah!"

Against the monsters leaping with sharp claws raised from both flanks toward the horses' manes, the heavy spear tips of the Bear Tribe thrust forward like lightning. Thwack, slash! The friction sounds of bones crushing and leather tearing filled the surroundings. As the horses' movements slowed down due to the sticky mud, the monsters seized the opening and frantically climbed up to bite the warriors' legs.

When one warrior lost his balance and nearly fell from his horse, Jaun drew his bowstring in a split-second.

Thwip—!

The arrow flew without mercy, piercing the eye socket of the monster trying to grab the warrior's neck. The monster rolled on the muddy ground with a horrific shriek, trampled ruthlessly under the following horse hooves.

Amidst a bloody melee where creatures trampled and killed one another, the Bear Tribe kept their eyes pinned solely to the tip of Jaun's sword, tearing through the monsters' thick encirclement in a wedge formation.

Finally, having split the spine of the monster horde blocking the path with steadfast cohesion and a life-or-death charge, Jaun and his warriors left behind the bizarre, frantic screeches of mutants thrashing in their rear, galloping unheedingly across the blood-red muddy track toward the eastern horizon. The initial battle fought at the boundaries of the fallen empire was merely a prologue revealing how heavy with cruel bloodshed the continent's future life would be.

Part 1

The endless white remained completely unchanged.

Jinwoo and the other version of himself stood facing one another. Neither moved. Neither looked away. Time itself seemed to come to a grinding halt.

The heavy silence lingered until the other finally broke it. “You’re still running.”

Jinwoo frowned instantly. “No.” The denial came fast, firm, and heavily defensive.

The other tilted his head slightly. “Really?”

Silence settled between them once more. Irritation began to stir deep inside Jinwoo. He had already admitted his hidden fears. He had already accepted the truth that synchronization depended entirely on self-acceptance. Wasn't that enough?

“What else do you want from me?”

The other did not answer with words. Instead, he simply raised one hand.

The pristine white world trembled. Like morning mist disturbed by a sudden, unseen wind, the space dissolved into a swirling cloud of drifting fragments.

Then, shapes began to emerge from the void.

A familiar playground. Warm sunlight streaming down. The faint sound of children laughing in the distance.

Jinwoo’s breath caught sharply in his throat. “No...”

He knew this place all too well. It was the very first playground, and the game was jegichagi.

The scene unfolded right before his eyes, playing out exactly as he remembered it. His younger self stood awkwardly inside the drawn circle, desperately trying to keep the shuttlecock airborne. One kick. Another clumsy attempt. Then, the third kick missed entirely.

The shuttlecock dropped and struck the cold ground.

Silence. The other children watched. No one laughed out loud—and somehow, that made it infinitely worse. All the bitter disappointment he had buried away for years rushed back at once.

His younger self stared blankly at the fallen shuttlecock. For a brief, fleeting moment... he had wanted to quit right then and there.

Jinwoo lowered his eyes, his voice tight. “...Why are you showing me this?”

The other answered quietly, his tone devoid of mockery. “Because... this is you.”

The memory froze in place, then instantly shifted.

The playground vanished into thin air. Another scene materialized. The sharp sound of cardboard striking cardboard echoing through the space. Ttakji. He remembered it clearly. He had swung far too hard, misjudged the angle completely, and lost the match immediately.

Another shift. Rubber-band play. His timing had been entirely off, and someone had stumbled and fallen because of his mistake.

Another shift. The giant hoop. Its heavy rim had struck a jagged stone, crashing uselessly to the ground.

Failure. Again. And again.

One memory after another surrounded him in a suffocating circle. None of them were victories; they were only the moments he had spent a lifetime wishing he could forget.

The other Jinwoo stood silently among the floating scenes, expressionless.

“You remember every single success,” he said, looking directly into Jinwoo’s eyes. “But these...” He gestured toward the painful echoes of failure. “...are the moments that truly shaped who you are.”

Jinwoo remained dead silent. Because deep down inside, he knew it was true.

Part 2

Jinwoo turned around slowly.

The memories stubbornly refused to fade away. Each one hung suspended in the white void, as vivid and stinging as the day they had actually happened.

The shuttlecock lying motionless on the dirt. The toppled stack of ttakji. The tangled, useless rubber bands. The heavy hoop rolling away out of reach.

Every failure. Every hesitation. Every single moment he had wished remained unseen by anyone else.

The other Jinwoo watched him quietly. “You remember them all.”

Jinwoo let out a long, ragged exhale. “...Of course I do. I was there.”

“No.” The reply came instantly, cutting through his defense. “You remember them because you never actually left them behind.”

Jinwoo looked up sharply. “What?”

“You’ve carried them with you ever since.”

The words struck harder and deeper than he had ever anticipated. The other stepped closer to one particular memory. The scene of his first failed jegichagi shimmered softly in the light. “You missed. You wanted to quit. You forced a smile afterward... but you never truly forgave yourself for it.”

Jinwoo shook his head. “That’s not true.”

“Isn't it?”

Silence stretched out. The white space began to ripple. The memories rushed past faster now, a relentless blur of defeat after defeat. The missed marble rolling away. The spinning top wobbling and tipping over. The collapsed string figure. The heavy hoop crashing down.

Every single scene ended in the exact same way—with Jinwoo trying again. But beneath every single attempt lay a hidden poison.

It wasn't just the fear of losing. It was the crushing fear of being seen while losing.

The other stopped right in front of him. “You were always afraid,” he said, his voice calm, steady, entirely free of accusation, carrying only naked truth.

“Afraid of failure.” He took another step closer. “Afraid of disappointing the people who believed in you.” Another step. “Afraid of bearing the weight of responsibility.”

Jinwoo clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. “I...”

He desperately wanted to deny it, but the words refused to cross his lips. Every single memory stood as a silent witness against him.

The ancient bow materialized in his hands once more. The old, familiar wood. The trusted grip. His fingers naturally settled into place. He drew back the taut string. Smooth motion. Steady shoulders. His breathing slowed down instinctively.

Yet, the target before him wavered. It wasn't the wind causing it. It was his own shaking hands.

His heartbeat echoed loudly in his ears. The target blurred, sharpened into focus, and then blurred once again.

A glowing blue window abruptly appeared before him:

[Archery Synchronization: 24%]

The number had risen, but only by a fraction. It was still painfully incomplete.

The other glanced at the floating display, then back up at Jinwoo’s troubled face. “You still can’t hit it.”

Jinwoo frowned, confused. “...Hit what? The target?”

The other shook his head slowly. “No. Yourself.”

Silence fell heavy.

Far away in the distance, a voice suddenly shattered the stillness. Hanul.

“I’ve never done anything wrong!”

Another voice answered him—calm, unyielding, absolute. “Exactly. That’s why you were always alone.”

The words struck like a physical hammer. Hanul’s reply never came.

Another voice rose up. Darin.

“I’m not afraid!”

The instant answer followed: “Then why do you always hide behind a laugh?”

Silence. Her confident smile vanished completely.

Then came Soyeon’s voice, quiet and subdued. Her reflection asked her just a single question: “Why did you try to carry everything all by yourself?”

No reply followed.

The white world grew deathly still. Separate spaces. Separate battles. Separate hidden fears. Yet every single one of them was fighting the exact same enemy.

Not the terrifying alien fleet out in the stars. Not the coming war.

Simply the parts of themselves they had spent a lifetime refusing to face.

Part 3

The endless white expanse sank back into a deep, heavy silence.

Jinwoo slowly lowered the bow. His grip tightened instinctively around the smooth, polished wood—it no longer felt entirely foreign to him, yet it was still far from complete. It felt unfinished, waiting for something more.

The floating holographic display lingered right in front of his eyes:

[Archery Synchronization: 24%]

The number refused to tick upward. Not because his physical techniques were lacking in any way. But because he was.

The other Jinwoo stepped closer until barely an arm’s length separated them.

“If your hands already know the bow…”

“…why doesn’t your heart?”

Jinwoo lowered his gaze to the ground. His fingers still rested naturally along the bowstring. His stance was textbook perfect. His breathing was carefully controlled. Every single physical movement echoed the profound memories flowing through his veins.

Everything about him was right. Except… himself.

“I don’t know.” The words slipped out, fragile and trembling, barely louder than a whisper.

For the very first time since stepping foot into this strange white world, he finally stopped fighting against the truth.

The other Jinwoo studied him with quiet patience.

“You’ve spent your entire life twisting yourself into knots just to avoid disappointing anyone.” A brief pause. “You thought that exhausting performance made you strong.”

“It didn’t.”

Jinwoo tightly closed his eyes. Memories surged upward from the depths of his mind—not of games or playgrounds, but of the heavy emotional weights he had hidden beneath them all.

The quiet terror of letting Hanul down. The constant anxiety that Darin would lose her fearless confidence if he ever faltered. The crushing pressure whenever Soyeon looked at him with absolute trust.

Every single challenge he had ever faced carried that same invisible, suffocating weight. He had never truly feared failure itself. What he had feared all along was becoming someone the others could no longer rely upon.

The full realization pressed down heavily inside his chest.

“…I was scared.”

The admission startled even himself. He had never dared to speak those words aloud to a single soul.

The other Jinwoo gave the faintest, understanding nod. “Yes. You were.”

“But fear…” His eyes locked piercingly onto Jinwoo’s. “…isn’t your true enemy.”

“Pretending that it doesn’t even exist is.”

Silence wrapped around them. The white space suddenly stopped feeling freezing cold. Instead, it felt completely, brutally honest.

Distant voices stirred once more across the void. Hanul’s fierce anger had softened into quiet reflection. Darin’s sharp frustration had faded into a subdued, thoughtful calm. Soyeon’s quiet voice remained faint, nearly unreachable, yet steady.

Each of them was still standing before their own reflection, slowly peeling away the emotional masks they had worn for years.

Arena’s voice spread gently through every isolated world. It reached each of them—not as a harsh command, but as a guiding lesson.

“Martial skill…”

“…can be inherited.”

The words lingered in the quiet air.

“But true understanding…”

“…cannot be given.”

“No memory.”

“No technique.”

“No weapon…”

“…can ever replace the choice you make for yourself.”

Jinwoo lifted his head. The other version of himself remained standing right there, completely unchanged. Same face. Same eyes. Yet he no longer looked like an enemy. He was simply a mirror, waiting patiently.

The synchronization display still hovered between them:

[Archery Synchronization: 24%]

The number had not moved up. Not yet.

But for the first time, that stagnant number no longer filled him with frustration. He finally understood why.

This trial was never about mastering the art of the bow. It was entirely about accepting the broken, frightened person who was holding it.

Only when he could accept himself could every memory, every lesson, and every skill truly become his own.

The white world held its breath in perfect stillness. The next choice… would belong to Jinwoo alone.

Chapter 25: Inside the Organization

"Welcome home, 47."

Adam froze.

The voice wasn't coming from the speakers.

It was inside his head.

He looked around.

The six copies stood motionless.

48 was aiming his weapon at the machines.

46 was staring at the floor.

Sarah was still strapped to the chair.

And his father was shouting something.

But Adam couldn't hear him.

Everything around him became distant.

Then—

A memory appeared.

A white room.

A little boy.

Himself.

Six years old.

Standing alone.

A scientist was speaking behind the glass.

"Subject 47 is ready."

Young Adam looked toward the observation window.

His father was there.

His mother stood beside him.

And behind them...

Elias.

Adam suddenly understood.

This wasn't a new memory.

It was the beginning.

The chamber came back into focus.

Adam dropped to his knees.

"Alex!"

Sarah's voice reached him.

He looked up.

She was struggling against the restraints.

"Stay with me!"

Adam tried to stand.

"I remember..."

His father stared at him.

"What?"

Adam looked directly at him.

"The first day."

His father's face changed.

"You shouldn't remember that."

Adam took a step forward.

"You erased it."

His father lowered his head.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because if you remembered..."

He stopped.

Adam waited.

"Because if I remembered what?"

His father whispered:

"They would find you."

The system suddenly spoke.

TRANSFER PROTOCOL — 10%.

48 looked at the screen.

"How do we stop it?"

46 answered:

"We don't."

48 turned toward him.

"Then I'll destroy the machine."

He raised his weapon.

Before he could fire—

BANG!

The weapon flew from his hand.

Elias stood behind him.

48 turned.

"You."

Elias shook his head.

"Don't."

48 attacked.

The two crashed into the floor.

Adam moved toward them.

Daniel stopped him.

"Leave them."

Adam looked at him.

"Why?"

Daniel pointed toward the main console.

"Because that's our way out."

Adam looked at the console.

Then at Sarah.

He ran.

Noah reached the console first.

"I need access."

Adam stood beside him.

"What do you need?"

"The Black File."

Adam pulled the small flash drive from his pocket.

The same drive that had started everything.

The same drive that had once shown:

WELCOME HOME, 47.

Adam handed it to Noah.

"Use it."

Noah connected it.

The screen immediately turned black.

Then a single message appeared.

AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED.

Noah frowned.

"Authorized user?"

Adam stepped forward.

The system scanned his face.

SUBJECT 47 IDENTIFIED.

AUTHORIZATION ACCEPTED.

A hidden directory opened.

Noah stared.

"There's thousands of files."

Adam looked at the screen.

"Open the oldest."

Noah selected it.

A file appeared.

NIGHTFALL — FOUNDING RECORDS

Adam opened it.

A photograph appeared.

Twenty years earlier.

A large underground facility.

Hundreds of scientists.

Security personnel.

And in the center...

Adam's father.

Elias.

Noah.

And several other people.

Adam stared.

"You were all part of it."

Noah nodded.

"Yes."

Adam looked at the names.

One name caught his attention.

DIRECTOR — A. VOSS

"Who is Voss?"

Noah went silent.

Daniel looked at him.

"You know him."

Noah swallowed.

"He founded Nightfall."

Adam stared at the screen.

"Where is he now?"

Noah whispered:

"He's still running it."

Adam's expression changed.

"From where?"

Noah opened another file.

A map appeared.

A massive network of underground facilities.

Not one.

Dozens.

Across different cities.

Different countries.

All connected.

At the center was one location.

NIGHTFALL CENTRAL

Adam stared at it.

"This isn't an organization."

Daniel shook his head.

"It's a network."

Elias suddenly laughed from across the chamber.

Everyone turned.

He had defeated 48.

48 was lying on the floor.

Elias looked at Adam.

"You finally see it."

Adam aimed his weapon at him.

"How many people are involved?"

Elias smiled.

"More than you can imagine."

Adam took a step forward.

"How many?"

Elias answered:

"Governments."

"Military units."

"Scientists."

"Corporations."

"People who have been watching you since you were six."

Adam's expression hardened.

"And Voss?"

Elias smiled.

"Voss watches everything."

The system beeped.

TRANSFER PROTOCOL — 38%.

Sarah screamed.

Adam turned.

The machine around her was glowing.

Her body began shaking.

"STOP!"

He ran toward her.

His father shouted:

"Don't touch the machine!"

Adam ignored him.

He grabbed the restraints.

"Sarah!"

She opened her eyes.

"Alex..."

"I'm here."

She whispered:

"Don't let them put me inside you."

Adam froze.

"What?"

Her voice became weaker.

"That's what they want."

Adam looked at his father.

His father closed his eyes.

"She's right."

Adam stepped toward him.

"Explain."

His father looked at him.

"The transfer isn't about moving the Core into Sarah."

"Then what?"

"It's about moving Sarah's memory into you."

Adam's face went pale.

"Why?"

"Because Sarah remembers the location of Nightfall Central."

Adam looked at Sarah.

"You know where it is?"

She nodded weakly.

"Yes."

"Where?"

She closed her eyes.

"I don't know."

Adam frowned.

"But you just said—"

"I don't know with my mind."

She opened her eyes.

"I know with my memories."

The system beeped again.

TRANSFER PROTOCOL — 51%.

Sarah screamed.

Adam grabbed her hand.

"Stay with me."

She looked at him.

"I've been trying to remember something for years."

"What?"

She whispered:

"A city."

Adam frowned.

"What city?"

Sarah stared at him.

"The city where Nightfall began."

Adam waited.

Then she said:

"Baghdad."

Silence.

Noah's face changed.

Daniel looked at him.

"That's impossible."

Sarah shook her head.

"No."

She looked at Adam.

"It's underneath Baghdad."

The chamber suddenly shook violently.

BOOM!

Dust fell from the ceiling.

Noah looked at the map.

A new location appeared.

NIGHTFALL CENTRAL — BAGHDAD

Adam stared.

"We're going there."

His father shook his head.

"No."

Adam looked at him.

"Why?"

"Because that's exactly what they want."

Adam stepped closer.

"Then why did you hide it?"

His father looked at him.

"Because I tried to destroy it once."

"And?"

"I failed."

Adam stared at him.

"What happened?"

His father looked toward Elias.

"Elias stopped me."

Adam turned toward Elias.

"You betrayed my father."

Elias smiled.

"No."

He looked at Adam.

"I saved Nightfall."

48 slowly stood.

Blood covered the side of his face.

He looked at Elias.

"You destroyed our lives."

Elias answered:

"No."

He pointed at Adam.

"Your father did."

48 raised his weapon.

Elias smiled.

"Go ahead."

48 hesitated.

Elias continued:

"Kill me."

Then he looked at Adam.

"But you'll never find Voss."

Adam stepped forward.

"I don't need you to find him."

Elias laughed.

"You think you can?"

Adam looked at the screen.

At the map.

At Sarah.

At his father.

Then at 46 and 48.

"We're going to him."

The system beeped.

TRANSFER PROTOCOL — 73%.

Sarah suddenly screamed.

Her eyes turned red again.

Adam grabbed her face.

"Sarah!"

She stared at him.

Then spoke in a voice that wasn't hers.

"Voss is waiting."

Adam froze.

The voice continued:

"He knows you're coming."

The system displayed a new message.

NIGHTFALL CENTRAL — ACCESS GRANTED.

Adam stared.

Then another message appeared.

LOCATION LOCKED.

BAGHDAD.

Noah whispered:

"They opened the route."

Daniel raised his rifle.

"Or they want us to think they did."

Adam looked at the screen.

Then at his father.

"Either way..."

He picked up his weapon.

"...we're going."

His father suddenly shouted:

"Alex, wait!"

Adam turned.

His father looked terrified.

"There's one thing you don't know."

Adam waited.

His father whispered:

"Voss isn't the real leader of Nightfall."

Adam's face went cold.

"Then who is?"

His father looked at Sarah.

Then at 46.

Then at 48.

Finally, he looked directly at Adam.

"The person controlling Nightfall..."

He paused.

"...is someone you've already met."

The lights went out.

A final message appeared on the screen.

SUBJECT 47 — MEMORY RESTORATION: 100%.

Then another:

IDENTITY OF NIGHTFALL DIRECTOR — REVEALING.

Adam stared at the screen.

A photograph slowly began appearing.

But before the face became visible—

The entire system shut down.

To be continued...

The human shock-and-awe assault is almost unique in the known galaxy. Some other species also use similar tactics, but none with such efficiency and so few personnel losses.
Where species that use this tactic treat their soldiers as nothing more than meat for the grinder, the humans use it to protect their soldiers. This is the most essential difference.

A typical attack starts with heavy artillery and missile barrages, followed by surveillance and suicide drone attacks combined with airstrikes and even orbital strikes. Then the human army tries to breach the defenses with a spearhead of heavy tanks and armored infantry, supported by well-placed Orbital Infantry drops behind enemy lines.

Field commanders facing an Aligned Systems Army have to remember that every species of the Aligned Systems has learned and trained such maneuvers, and must be ready for them.

Excerpt from Know Thy Enemy. Mandatory course material for Federation Officers, date: sometime after 50 P.I.

 

Nirfir rechecked his gear; the three months of training in the 33rd Spaceborne had drilled it into his second nature. Everyone in his platoon was sure the start of the invasion was close.

After the humans arrived and defeated the Batract in orbit, and then proceeded to defend the southern continent from the all-out attack from the north, the government couldn’t sign the Alliance Treaty fast enough, so thankful were they. With the human stasis program and the food supplies reaching Burrow, not a single Shraphen died of starvation.

Then the forced draft was lifted, and the human armies began recruiting volunteers. As expected, most previously drafted soldiers immediately signed up. The humans even took care not to disrupt existing units; that was why his squad was now half humans and half Shraphen. His whole squad had joined, except Sikkra; she joined the human healers. Or medics, as he learned to call them.

The 33rd had retreated from securing the southern continent; this task was now taken over by the battered 37th and the Mammut Tank Platoons.

Those massive tanks were orbital artillery, FOBs, and moving fortifications in one. Nirfir had never seen something so impressive driving on the ground.

One of those monsters had taken position on the hill near his old bunker on the slope south of the isthmus that connected the two continents, and that was it. No further attack from the north even passed the land bridge.

Nirfir was relieved to hear this. He wanted his daughter out of harm’s way. And the medics were trained on Taishon Tar, the rebel planet, far away from the horrors that waited in the north.

For three months now, the humans had bombarded the northern continent with their Xenovector weapons to stop the Batracts’ morphing ability.

The Batract attacked less frequently and seemed to retreat from the southern coast. Stealth surveillance drones confirmed that the Batract had lost their morphing ability and had now started growing their soldiers organically, rather than simply morphing into different forms from the yellow slime that was their natural form.

So, everyone was waiting for the signal and checked their gear.

Nirfir cleaned the joints of his new, human-made armored suit. The lieutenant said it was developed from Shraphen scout suits but adapted for heavy armor and protection.

Given that human anatomy was quite different, the suit fit perfectly and supported every one of Nirfir’s movements with strength enhancement. It even had built-in auto-aim, supported by the all-seeing eye of Kali, the battlefield VI of the 33rd.

He was especially proud of the platoon’s patch on the side of the armor: a howling Shraphen head next to a human head in something called a knight’s armor. He and Corporal Chibuike had submitted it in a contest and won, so it became the official emblem of their platoon, the 3rd Platoon of the 22nd Mechanized Heavy Infantry Company.

He was about to bring the armor back to the armory when Sergeant Major Zhou Jiang, their platoon commander, entered their barracks.

“Guys, suit up. We’ve got the official go from Command, Master Sergeant. Be ready for the briefing with the platoon in ten mikes. The rest of the platoon packs up and prepares Monkey King.”

“Yessir,” was the unison answer.

Nirfir’s ears stood straight up. The day was here, the day they took back his home. Finally.

He suited up as quickly as possible and joined the sergeant major on his way to the platoon command tent.

Their FOB was just two kilometers behind the defense line on the isthmus, as was all of the 22nd Mechanized, which supported the 4th Armored Brigade Kiryati under General Muhamat Israeli. The Kiryati was designated an elite unit and served as the spearhead of the thrust from the south.

Being chosen to join the first unit to cross into the north made every Shraphen proud. They knew, no matter the outcome, they would join the legendary hunters.

Looking back at the barracks, he saw the squad loading Monkey King, their IFV. Like all human vehicles, it was sleek but primitive-looking. He had scoffed at first when he saw it the first time; it didn’t even use hovercraft drives but primitive wheels.

The scoffing ended when he learned the infantry tank weighed eighteen tons, more than a heavy Shraphen tank. And it could take out a Shraphen hover-tank with its main gun.

Humans are mad.

They reached the tent and joined the other NCOs. Lieutenant Gabriel Souza looked up and began the briefing.

“As you already heard, ‘Breacher’ Mac Allister has decided it’s time to clean up the north. The Kiryati Brigade will cross the isthmus in one hour. We have orbital and local fire support. Kali will coordinate the fire with each platoon and firegroup.”

Nirfir still wasn’t entirely used to VI support, especially not to the extent the humans used it. Kali controlled most of the thousand drones that accompanied the brigade at all times. They had a dedicated drone warfare company, but they only took over when the battle became extremely furious, and Kali’s computing power was needed elsewhere.

The lieutenant continued, “At the initial breach, we will be at the center of the column. After we reach the opposite side, we will flank the right wing and give infantry support as requested.”

Nirfir had to focus. He knew the battlefield VI would direct him where he was needed if requested, but humans seemed to focus on anticipating failures, and his training told him to remember every detail.

“Shortly after crossing the isthmus, we will reach Martife, a coastal city previously inhabited by five million people. We will secure it as well as possible and hold it until the beachhead is secured and replacements arrive.”

He remembered the city. He had worked there once at a beach restaurant. A million years ago, or so it felt at the moment.

“We don’t have the manpower to clear every building, so tell your drivers to stick to the main roads and stay out of buildings.”

The people went to Martife to bathe and dig in the sand. Did humans enjoy beaches too? Nirfir didn’t know; human hands didn’t seem practical for digging.

“If we encounter heavy resistance from any building, call in a strike. Preservation of the infrastructure is not a mission objective. Culturally or otherwise important buildings will be marked blue in your HUDs. The rest is considered expendable.”

In his free time, he had often walked the parks watching families play with their pups and tais, or enjoyed drinks on the promenade.

“After the bridgehead is secured, the 4th Brigade will continue to advance along Highway 35. The mission objective for day one is to reach kilometer marker fifty-four. There is a strategic crossing we will secure until the fleet drops a FOB and can bring a Mammut in.”

Nirfir had heard this all. He pushed away the memories the name Martife had brought up. The briefing was almost over when the lieutenant asked if someone had questions.

The platoon leader from 1st Platoon stood up. “Sir, will there be air support from Sleipnirs?”

A good question; in their training, Sleipnirs proved to be exceptional force multipliers.

“Negative, Sergeant Major. All Sleipnirs of the fleet and both Spaceborne Armies will be used elsewhere for a massive air and spaceborne operation.”

Next to him, his sergeant major whistled silently. “That’s a few thousand Sleipnirs. Next to that, our attack is small.”

Then the briefing was over. From outside, Nirfir could already hear the engines of their eight-wheeled IFVs starting. The hum of the powerful electric motors had at first been hurtful to Shraphen’s ears, so the engineers had to refit all of them with some sort of anti-sound system.

While they walked back to Monkey King, they could see the supply train begin taking down the buildings and loading more ammo into the tanks. The ammo was critical— not because it was low in supply; Nirfir had learned there were two factory ships in orbit for each army, producing it in staggering amounts.

No, the ammo was critical itself. The main gun of the Gungnir IFV was loaded with protomatter bullets, which had to be handled with special care.

Rokla was already positioned in the turret of their IFV when they reached it. He had started the test program of the gun; the turret swung the 45 mm main gun, then the loading mechanism ran a self-check.

Sergeant Major Zhou, quiet as ever, took a seat in the commander’s control and began testing the anti-tank missile launcher and the drone ports.

Nirfir’s job was to make sure the port guns and the hatch worked, and to ensure every soldier had completed his checks and reported completion to Zhou.

After only a few minutes, the squad had finished their work. Training and drill ensured everyone could do their work blindfolded.

The back hatch closed, and Lance Corporal Russo drove them to their staging ground, waiting for the other squads of the platoon to arrive.

Nirfir had learned to like the lance corporal; his grandfather was some big general in the Marines. But he never spoke about him. He seemed as if he didn’t want anyone to know about this fact and work his way up by his own merit.

Seeing how some officers in the Shraphen army reached their ranks through connections and not skill made him respect the young human even more.

As always, the ride in the tank was comfortable. Lance Corporal Kumar, a darker-skinned human—but not as dark as Chibuike—had explained that humans had learned that comfortable troops are rested troops. So their IFVs were almost as comfortable as Shraphen luxury vehicles.

Kumar was already talking in his quick staccato-type speech with Hirko. The “Indian,” some kind of human nation, was almost ecstatic to learn that Hirko was from the Shraphen religious pack, and so they used every second to exchange myths and legends.

Then they heard the detonations. On his HUD, he changed to the outside view, a setting that allowed him to see as if the walls of their tank were made of glass.

In the sky, the automated targeting marked countless projectiles flying north. The artillery had started firing.

Nirfir’s stress level rose. It began. It had really started. We’re going in.

He noticed that everyone else was silent now, moving their heads as they also observed everything outside.

On his HUD, he saw the orders from Command: “3rd Platoon, go!”

The tank accelerated and took its position next to a heavy Merkava Neo tank. The heavy vehicle shook the ground so much that the vibration carried even into their IFV.

The battle plan was updated by Command, and in the distance, they could see the looming shadow of the Mammuts guarding the isthmus, firing into the night with their cannons.

“Drones have spotted some bug-like creatures on the northern continent’s coast. It seems the Hyphae know we’re coming,” the sergeant major calmly stated via intercom.

Bugs? Nirfir’s fur bristled. The Hyphae had adapted again, he was sure of it.

The tank rows reached the land bridge and also fired on the now visible thirty-meter-tall bugs.

As always, Nirfir had only respect for human weaponry. Shooting almost twenty kilometers and hitting a target with the main gun of a tank was excellent engineering. But that was the reason why humans still used projectile weapons.

Shraphen plasma weapons couldn’t even reach that distance.

The spearhead sped over the land bridge, and the first drones arrived on the other side.

Nirfir switched to a live feed of the spy drones.

Taking a closer look, the bugs looked like genetically enlarged dung beetles. Massively enlarged.

The chitin exoskeleton shimmered in the light of the phosphor flares of the night.

Nirfir saw one bug getting hit by a Merkava’s main gun. The shell of the beast shattered, and yellow slime erupted from its wound, but the bug didn’t fall.

It turned its head, and the segmented chitin began pulsating. Then its mouth opened, and a plasma ball shot out. The blue-hued plasma expanded to fill the entire tank it hit.

The HUD overlay showed the tank’s telemetry: Hull temperature: 1400°C.

The tank’s silhouette glowed white-hot, and the Barrel of the main gun seemed to slightly bend

Nirfir was shocked. How could something biological create plasma?

 First | Previous | Next | Also On Royal Road

[PREVIOUS CHAPTER] | [START FROM THE BEGINNING] | [BEDTIME STORY]

***

“I will not tell you again,” Zak quips. “Keep up!”

Laíla glares daggers directly into the back of his head but is stopped cold when a sudden cool breeze practically wraps itself around her bare arms and legs. The temperatures have been steadily dropping over the last few days. With her knapsack gone, so too is her throw. She longs for its warm protection against the cool autumn air. It will only get worse from here. She had heard stories of what the northerners call winter—of frozen rain falling from the sky, leafless trees; air so cold it bites and scratches the skin. Perhaps even just a year ago she might have been curious to see such a phenomenon. Today she longs to be the curious girl she once was, rather than the regretful girl she's quickly become.

A few paces ahead of them, Makurmek, Toklo, and the other three nightcrawlers she has identified as Kova, Cupuk, and Niki stride forward with easy confidence, their thick tunics brushing against the dry foliage.

“You know, if I am to be dragged through the Godswood like a criminal,” Laíla vents, her voice tight with irritation, “you could at least find it in yourself to walk slower. The cool air makes my knees ache.”

“Perhaps the criminal should just walk faster,” Zak retorts smoothly. “The quick movement will warm you right up!”

Laíla frowns deeply at his shoulder blades. “I cannot believe I was ever fool enough to trust you,” she grumbles.

Zak chuckles quietly, the sound rich with a mocking amusement. “Yes, such unmatched critical thinking skills from a girl who claimed she could care for herself.”

“You said you were blind,” she shoots back defensively, her cheeks warming. “And alone.”

“No, you assumed I was alone.” He says matter-of-factly. “I simply chose not to correct you. Now walk faster.”

To punctuate his command, Zak tugs the heavy chain a little too hard. The sudden jerk causes Laíla to trip over another protruding branch, sending her stumbling forward until she nearly falls flat upon her face. She recovers slowly, lifting her head to fix him with a dark, vengeful expression.

The nightcrawler struggles openly to stifle a laugh at her expense. Laíla grits her teeth to try and stifle her hunger. But alas, the heavy iron cuffs around her wrists begin to glow a fierce, brilliant red, the intense heat instantly searing into her delicate skin. She lets out a sharp yelp of pain.

Hearing her cry, Zak loses his restraint and bursts out into a loud, mocking laugh. Ahead on the path, his cousins pause, turning their heads to witness the sudden commotion.

Out of pure vengeance, Laíla tightly grips the glowing links of the chain. She watches with fierce satisfaction as the raw, conductive heat travels rapidly up the iron rings, racing straight toward Zak’s bare hands.

His laughter abruptly dies, replaced by a sharp gasp of shock as the blistering heat bites his skin. He drops the burning chains instantly, shaking his hands wildly in the air. “Ow! Ow! Ow!”

A small giggle escapes her lips.

Infuriated, Zak pivots and charges directly at her, his face contorted in anger. “You think you are funny, do you?” He halts his advance a mere fraction of an inch from her face, his chest heaving.

Laíla stares up at him defiantly, a sharp, dangerous smirk touching her lips. “Oh, I am sorry,” she whispers mockingly. “Did that hurt?”

Before he can strike, Makurmek’s heavy arm reaches into the space, roughly pulling him backward. The leader stoops to retrieve the fallen iron chains from the damp grass.

“You need to pull yourself together,” Makurmek orders Zak with a low, stern warning.

Turning his imposing frame toward Laíla, Makurmek towers over her. She does not break her stance, refusing to shrink beneath his gaze.

“And you,” Makurmek tells her, his voice dropping into a cold whisper. “You should be grateful. If you had been apprehended by anyone else, you would have been slaughtered on the spot.”

“Oh gee,” Laíla scoffs, tilting her chin. “I never realized the Dainese were a people of such chivalry.”

“Keep testing that chivalry,” the leader warns, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. “See how that works out for you.”

She merely glares upward, her jaw locked.

With a gruff exhale, Makurmek turns and shoves the heavy iron chains back into Zak’s hands before walking away. “Now, can we stop wasting time? We have arrived.”

Zak grips the iron links tightly, casting one final, furious glare at Laíla. Toklo peers over his shoulder with a knowing smirk. “If you cannot handle minding the concubine, Zak—”

“I am fine!” The boy snaps, his voice cracking with irritation.

Toklo throws his hands up in a theatrical display of feigned surrender. “Alright! I was only attempting to offer my assistance. Do not go dark on me, cousin.”

“Let us go!” Makurmek barks from the front, his patience entirely spent.

Without another word, Makurmek, Niki, Toklo, Cupuk, and Kova start down the winding forest path. Zak follows close behind, roughly tugging Laíla forward into the clearing.

Moments later, the dense trees part to reveal a large open clearing. In the center stands a line of wagons. She looks on curiously at the scene. As they draw closer, it becomes clear that the wagons are large. They are arranged in a semi-circle around a large makeshift firepit. A strange aroma hits her nose; likely wafting from the large iron pot fixed on the fire. Laíla would like to think the smell familiar—sage with a hint of rosemary. Her stomach rumbles. She has only had berries to eat over her journey with her oh-so-wonderful handlers.

A tall bearded man steps out from one of the wagons to greet the arriving party; a broad, welcoming smile gracing his features as he stretches his arms out wide.

“I have to say—I did not think you blokes would actually succeed in your venture,” The man notes, stepping forward to pull Makurmek into a friendly embrace.

Laíla observes the exchange from behind Zak’s shoulder, her eyes darting between the men with intense curiosity. This man—surely the owner of this strange establishment—is clearly Rockish. She recognizes the sturdy build and easily sunburnt skin. To her knowledge, the Rocklands harbor an even deeper disdain for the Dainese than her own people. And yet this man embraces her captors and speaks as though they are long familiar.

“Come now, Conor, this is us you are speaking of,” Makurmek replies with a proud, resonant chuckle. Conor. Laíla quickly scans every detail of his face. She does not want to forget a single person on her growing list of enemies.

“They never even realized we were there,” Kova adds with a boastful grin.

Conor’s eyes gleam with greed. “So, where is it, then? The powders?”

Makurmek glances back at Laíla, his expression instantly sobering. He reaches out, drawing Conor close to whisper out of her earshot. “I will show you the goods later. We have a...guest in our company.”

Conor’s gaze shifts, finally noticing her standing tightly bound behind Zak. His eyes travel slowly down the length of her person, anchoring on the heavy iron chains chaining her wrists. “I see. And what is the plan for this particular guest?”

“We simply require a secure place to store her for the night,” Makurmek explains flatly. “We shall depart first thing in the morning. She will need a room.”

“Of course,” Conor nods. He turns back toward the center of the camp and raises his voice. “Hoshana!”

A petite woman rounds the timber corner of the stables, balancing a half-empty basket of fresh carrots against her hip. She smiles warmly and waves a hand as she approaches the group. “Yánkinhe!” she calls out.

As she draws closer, Laíla is struck by how vastly different the woman looks from her master. Hoshana possesses a striking, distinct countenance, her rich complexion and fine features contrasting with Conor’s longer frame. There is also no hint of an accent when she uses the Godstongue greeting. She wants to guess the woman is also a nightcrawler, but her practically-white hair makes Laíla think perhaps she is just a well-educated captive from the Crest.

Wasting no time, Hoshana steps forward to offer Niki and Kova a brief, familiar hug. “Vu’paisàt!” she cheers happily. You made it!

Suddenly, Hoshana’s eyes lock onto Laíla’s bound wrists. Zak lightly shakes the iron links in his grip, the metal clinking in a stark demonstration.

“Our prisoner,” He notes carefully, as if instructing her. “Nu’privinà.”

“Ah...” Hoshana murmurs, her smile faltering slightly.

Conor breaks the sudden silence. “Shan, can you prepare a proper bed for the girl?”

“Yes, of course,” Hoshana replies, her demeanor turning reserved. She walks over to Laíla, her gaze remaining guarded, and takes her gently but firmly by the forearms. “Come with me,” she instructs, her voice slow and remarkably quiet.

The woman steers Laíla away from the gathering, leading her toward one of the unhitched wagons parked furthest from the fire. Over her shoulder, she catches the drifting fragments of the men’s conversation.

“Who occupies that wagon over there?” Makurmek inquires, pointing a dirty finger across the field.

“Some man and his ward,” Conor answers dismissively. “A gruff fellow, but they have kept entirely to themselves...”

She watches Hoshana intently as she leads her up to the wooden door of an empty wagon. She notes how the woman’s hands tremble slightly as she clumsily fiddles with the heavy iron lock. She has a friendly aura to her—much gentler than that of her master and his allies.

Sensing a desperate sliver of hope, she leans closer. “Please,” she whispers, her voice cracking with emotion. “Can you help me?”

Hoshana offers no answer. She simply jiggles the brass knob, forcing the heavy wagon door open with a forceful, abrupt push. Before Laíla can resist, the woman pushes her into the dim, cramped interior, standing squarely in the doorway to block any escape.

She drops to her knees, throwing her bound hands at Hoshana’s feet in a desperate plea. “Please. This is a misunderstanding. I am not guilty of the crime I am accused of! I must return to my family, but I cannot escape without your help.”

Hoshana stares down at her, her jaw tightening as she hardens her expression. “No. I no help Embergísi.”

“Embergísi...?” Laíla repeats, the foreign word hanging in the quiet air. A sudden flash of realization strikes her. Of course, she had nearly forgotten.
“Níhai!” she cries out, switching fiercely into the ancient Godstongue. “Níhai ím àn Embergísi!” No! I am not Emberish!

Hoshana sucks in a sharp, shocked breath, her black eyes widening in profound astonishment.

“Ím àn Mooraíthsi. I am Moorian.” Laíla presses on, her words tumbling out in the sacred tongue. “You can trust me. You will not be caught if you help me. My family is somewhere in the Godswood. I will gladly take you to them and we will help you go home.”

Hoshana stands paralyzed in the threshold, her brows knit in deep confusion.

“Wherever in the Crest they took you from,” Laíla carefully continues, “We can bring you back. Your lot has been kind to my people.”

“You…think me prisoner?” Hoshana finally asks, voice dripping with malice. "How dare you?"

“Hoshana!” Conor’s loud voice calls out from across the dark field before Laíla can respond. “Everything alright in there?”

The woman draws a long, shuddering breath, her posture instantly stiffening as she forces her features back into a cold mask. She draws herself up to her full height.

“Yes, everything fine.” She coldly says aloud in her slow, fractured common speech. “Girl will not leave.”

Without another word, Hoshana steps backward out of the enclosure, slamming the heavy wooden door shut. The sharp, definitive click of the iron lock echoing through the timber cuts off the light. Laíla lunges forward, pounding her chained fists furiously against the thick wood, but her cries are met with nothing but silence. The cold reality of her capture settles over her, and she sinks slowly down to her knees in the dark.

Thanks for reading. I'll be back on Friday to continue telling Laíla's story.