Alan stood at the door of his apartment, coat draped over his arm, the letter from Elias folded neatly in his pocket. The hallway behind him was dimly lit, the bulb above flickering faintly, casting shadows that danced without rhythm. His hand hovered over the knob.
"I'll go to the police," he whispered.
He opened the door and stepped outside.
The streets were cold, louder than usual, as if the underground city had something to say but didn't know how to say it properly. The mechanical clatter of wheels against tracks, the hiss of steam from rusted pipes, and the occasional shouts of vendors bled into each other. Alan walked past them, steps deliberate but uneven.
Soon, the looming silhouette of the Midward Police Precinct came into view. It looked like a fortress hammered into the stone, aged from decades of steam and silence.
Alan stopped just across the street from it. He stared.
Would they believe him?
A tentacled shadow, a man who vanished into thin air, and a letter carried by a pigeon?
His gaze drifted to the uniformed officers outside, casually chatting, tired-eyed. One of them laughed, flicking ash off a cigarette.
Alan took a half-step forward… then stopped.
"They'll think I'm mad," he muttered. "And if they're in on it…"
His shoulders tensed. He turned away.
Back through the crowd. This time toward home.
But halfway down Rettle Lane, his pace slowed again. The oily scent of coal in the air, the lanterns burning too low for this early hour, it all blurred into a haze as his thoughts returned to his sisters.
I wonder how they've been doing, from what last heard before they left was, that my eldest sister, Allure found a Job, but they never told me about it.
What will they think if I they heard what happened to me?
"I haven't sent them a letter," he murmured. "They don't know anything yet."
He stopped near a vendor selling boiled roots. A man behind him barked, "Move it, slowpoke!"
Alan blinked and stepped aside silently. The man muttered something else and shoved past.
Alan didn't react. He just stared down the alley ahead, the direction of Dowling Street just a few turns away now.
Then he looked toward the other side of the city, where the upper levels of the residential quarters towered like sleeping tombstones. Home.
He exhaled, a deep, cold breath.
He reached into his pocket and unfolded the letter again, skimming it one last time.
Then, slowly, like a man approaching the edge of a cliff with no rail, he turned toward Dowling Street 53.
But first…
"I'll stop by Ms. Anny's," he decided aloud. "She might know something. Or at least say something that makes sense."
His feet began to move, and this time, they didn't stop.
The street was quiet, too quiet for this time in Beginning Light. Alan's boots scraped lightly against the stone, echoing down Dowling Street. The lanterns on the walls sputtered, not from wind, but from something older and stranger in the air.
As he walked, his eyes caught something to the left, the corner where he first met the man in the brown suit.
That place.
Alan stopped.
The shadows there still felt too deep, like they remembered him. Like something was still watching.
To his right, Ms. Anny's Bakery sat tucked into the wall like a familiar memory, flour-stained bricks, soot-framed windows, and a wooden sign faded by time and ash. Warm, once. Not now.
Alan kept his eyes on that corner, the one where the brown suit had stood before folding into something… unspeakable. Something that wasn't a man.
"If only I didn't ask that person…" he muttered, voice low. "Then I wouldn't be in this situation."
He turned toward the bakery and reached for the doorknob, Cold, Locked.
Alan frowned, glancing toward the side window. A crooked piece of paper was taped from inside.
CLOSED.
He sighed.
Leaning back against the doorframe, he pulled out his cracked pocket watch. The faint hands ticked in their usual stutter, struggling to breathe time into the present.
5:37 B.L.
Wait, it was just 5:30 in the morning? I thought it would be at least 7 in the morning.
"Too early…" he murmured. "I'll take a sit here… wait for her."
He lowered himself to the ground beside the door, knees close to his chest, arms folded over them. The stone was cold, but familiar. Everything was cold down here.
His thoughts spiraled as the minutes crawled.
How are my sisters? Are they safe? Do send a letter to them?
What if Ms. Anny never shows?
What if I go there… and never come back?
He touched the lone silver coin in his pocket. It felt heavier than it should.
The doubts blurred together, slowly, drowsily, until sleep crept up and settled over him like ashfall.
He didn't dream. At least, he thought he didn't.
Then, a scream.
"Wake up!"
Alan jolted awake, heart thudding. He blinked into the shifting blur of morning steam and pale light.
Standing over him was a woman, tall, wrapped in a thick coat, her face half-covered in old stitches and scars, her expression tired but sharp.
"Ms. Anny…" Alan breathed.
She raised an eyebrow. "Sleeping on stone now, are we? You trying to die early, boy?"
Her voice was as rough as burnt bread crust, but there was warmth buried in it.
Alan stood slowly, brushing dust from his coat. "I… was waiting."
"Hmph." She unlocked the door with a twist of her gloved hand. "Well then. Come in. Before the street swallows you next."
And without another word, she walked into the dark of her bakery
Ms. Anny flicked the wall switch. The lamps sparked, then hummed to life, casting a dull amber glow over flour-dusted counters and iron baking trays. The scent of old bread and stale heat still clung to the air.
She didn't even glance at Alan before asking, "Why have you come at such an early time? It's not even your weekly schedule…"
She turned and squinted at the wall clock. "It's barely 6:30 B.L. now. How long have you been sitting out there?"
Alan looked at her. His voice came out soft, almost guilty. "Since around 5:30. I… was looking for you, Ms. Anny."
She sighed and set her basket down with a thud. "Tell me, boy. Why were you looking for me? Something happen? Did your sisters finally visit you from the Capital?"
Alan's shoulders twitched. A flicker of flustered hope passed across his face before fading like breath on glass. "No… Not like that. I just…"
he glanced to the side, voice faltering. "I'm just worried for them. It's been two years since they left. I know they're probably safe, people say the Capital's like a big lantern, right? Light's not their problem."
Ms. Anny watched him with a narrowed gaze. Her expression softened slightly. "Okay… Okay, then tell me, what's really going on? Why were you out there like a stray dog waiting on bread?"
Alan opened his mouth, but his lips trembled. He looked down, not at the floor but into some buried corner of himself. His hands were folded together tightly, fingers clenched white. His brows furrowed. He looked like a boy trying not to cry, or a man afraid of opening a locked door.
"I-I… I got hired," he muttered.
Ms. Anny's right brow arched. "Boy, are you playing with me? Why are you stuttering over that? It's about time you found a job."
Alan tried to smile. It came out crooked. His teeth were clenched, a twitch in his cheek gave him away. "But… it was suspicious," he said, voice catching.
"Everything about it is suspicious."
He could feel it, the weight of the letter in his pocket. The offer.
A sharp whisper of thought cut through him,
If I tell her…
if I tell her, she'll be in danger too.
He stood suddenly.
"Never mind," Alan said quickly.
"Please forget everything I said to you, ma'am."
Ms. Anny blinked. "What?"
Alan had already reached for the door. He twisted the knob and stepped out, closing it with too much force. The sound echoed faintly down the empty street.
He stood there, back against the door, breathing hard.
His hands went to his head, fingers pushing into his scalp as if trying to stop the swirl of thoughts. His jaw was clenched tight. His teeth ground against each other.
Money… or safety?
My safety? Or their involvement?
His hands shook. His knees buckled slightly. The cobblestone beneath him felt like it might fall away.
Then, he let out a small, broken whisper: "Fine…"
He dug into his coat and pulled out the letter, Crumpled, Familiar, Always waiting.
He unfolded it with shaking hands, eyes tracing the offer again.
"Fine…" he muttered again, louder this time. His voice cracked into a shout. "FINE!"
He shoved the letter back into his coat and turned with angry steps, marching toward the Church of the Almighty, where the shadows of its tall bells stretched out like watchful fingers.
He needed to find the bookstore near it.