3.2
Isolde never forgot that day. She tried to, but it lingered, like a bad cough in winter.
A month had passed since then, though it felt like much less, and already people were setting up for the Luminara festival downtown. It was initially supposed to take place by the main bridge in the middle of the city, but the organisers must have changed their minds, because, once again, all the decorations, stalls, and projection rigs were situated along the bustling promenade. She noticed on her afternoon walks with Elysia, because sometimes, when the weather was clear and she didn’t have any errands to run, she liked to take her to the nicer side of the district. It wasn’t as clean as the north by any means, but at the very least it wasn’t rampant with criminals, disease, and vermin.
There was a park nearby. Locals called it The Glade, though visitors knew it purely by the faded metal sign that read Ashbrook Park. It wasn’t large, only spanned about an acre or two, but it was enough. The grass here, though patchy, seemed to grow higher than the rest of the district, and the old trees—tangled, gnarled, and thick with ivy—cast looming shadows over the benches and cracked tarmacadam path. Birds chirped and seagulls mewed along the passing river. It was like music to Isolde’s ears, because in such a bustling cityscape, this was one of the only places where she had the space to think clearly. No interruptions. Just a simple walk, hands crossed behind her back, kicking plastic cups and wrappers, wondering, hoping that whatever cosmic deity was above the clouds would pull her out of this hellish situation—away from her suffering—and give a small woman like her a chance. The truth was that the effects of the government’s planned welfare cuts were already starting to take effect on the market. Each day she saw her bank account dwindling further. Her next payment would suffer the same fate. But what could she do? Who out there would save her?
No one. The only person she could rely on was herself.
Elysia enjoyed coming to The Glade, too. What she loved most were the bunnies. Furballs that hopped between the bushes and across open fields, oblivious to the occasional passersby or the hum of a never-resting city. She’d chase them, laughing softly to herself, her small feet skimming over the grass as she darted like a snow leopard, but it was all in good fun. Isolde had often wondered if they had been placed there deliberately, a small gesture of kindness to people who still saw life and potential in the south. Or maybe it was just that rabbits, like everything else, were a component of the city’s underbelly. Either way, seeing Elysia’s joy as she plodded along the bumps and hollows of the grass made Isolde forget, for just a moment, about the world outside.
On this day, Isolde decided to have a little fun herself. She bounded across the grass with her daughter, arms raised and her face contorted into a buck-toothed rictus, mimicking the rabbits they so jubilantly chased. It was a kind of dance, one where Isolde didn’t know all the steps but found herself guided by the rhythm of her daughter’s laughter, letting the joy of the moment control her as they twirled and leapt together under the open sky. She almost caught one of the buggers; they were so fast. Just when she thought she got the better of them, they were no sooner out of reach. After a while, feeling slightly exhausted, Isolde crawled out of sight and hid behind one of the bushes, waiting for a bunny to approach. Once she saw—and felt—the bunnies scurry under her arm, she listened as Elysia’s pattering footsteps drew closer.
Just a moment now, and...
“Boo!” Isolde sprang up from her hidey-hole and flailed her arms. Elysia bounced back on her bottom, a hint of fear in her eyes, but after a moment it cleared, and what followed was explosive, contagious laughter.
Isolde lunged forward, grabbed her, and kicked back in the grass. “Gotcha,” she said, grinning broadly. “You might be The Bunny Hunter, but I’m the master of the warren!”
Elysia kicked her feet, then relaxed. She was still chuckling to herself. They lay in the grass, beneath the tree shade, relaxing, not caring about those who might be watching. When she was with her daughter and having fun, it was like not even God Himself could put her down.
Isolde let out a sigh of relief. Slowly, she said, almost to herself, “You’re beautiful, you know that?” She glanced at her daughter, who shrugged with a faint, unwavering smile. “Nothing will ever separate us, ’kay?” she added, her voice tinged with glee. She could tell Elysia understood.
A bunny scurried past. Elysia looked up, reaching for it.
“Okaaaaay.” Isolde let go of her, and she took off after the rabbit.
She stood up, wiped herself off, and made her way over to one of the benches along the tarmac path. She needed a breather, especially after all that exercise. She took a seat, soaking in the sun, then reached into her pocket. She’d brought a book with her today, A Calamity in the Coil by Arthur J. Spinx, a novel she’d been meaning to read for months but hadn’t yet found the time to finish. It wasn’t a work of fiction, though one could certainly draw that conclusion given Spinx’s controversial theories, but rather a dense exploration of human augmentation and the evolving relationship between the mind and technology. His most controversial belief was that a society failing to fully harness human potential by merging biology with machinery was destined for inevitable collapse. She found that funny, because everywhere she looked, with people rigged up to their skulls and down to their toes, she saw social collapse, not growth. But the author also discussed the potential of a new kind of society, where the boundaries between artificial and organic were blurred, and control could be redefined in ways that made the old system obsolete. Isolde didn’t believe it was possible, not with today’s technology. The problem lay in the effects of neural augmentations on the human brain: there was simply no way to stop people from going manic. Rhyce’s proposed ‘Ghostfire’ was like many other failed products that promised a long-term fix but would eventually devolve into a dopamine booster that made people ill, not healthy—weak, not strong. It was yet another cheap lie.
The only way to fix the problem of cyberpsychopathy was to remove augmentations altogether. That would fix everything... well, would have. Looking around her now, it was clearly too late.
She flipped a page, looking up from the book. Other children ran along the path, racing each other. A boy and a girl, no more than eight years old from the look of them. They were a good distance away, and behind them a taller lady, perhaps their mother, perhaps their nanny, yelled in a squeaky voice, “Be careful children. You’ll ruin your outfits, and we can’t have that, can we? Look at those trousers—go easy on the grass please!”
But the children kept running, chortling as children do. A bunny jumped out onto the path, and Elysia came out after it. The boy, who had been in the lead, didn’t notice. When he did, he tried to stop but inadvertently skidded to the side. Down he went, like a tower of Jenga blocks, crashing to the ground with a startled yelp.
Isolde closed her book, stuffed it in the pocket of her winter coat, and approached the child. “Are you okay?” she asked, offering a hand.
“Don’t touch him!” a voice shrieked out. It was the lady. She marched towards them, high-heeled hooves clacking on the tarmac, a heavy scowl drooping down her face.
Isolde backed away and approached Elysia, who was still trying to catch the bunny; she’d lost sight of it in the foliage.
“Control your child, please,” the woman said, picking up the boy.
Isolde turned towards her. She breathed a singular laugh out of her nose. “Whatever you say. Come on, Elysia. That’s enough play.”
“Shouldn’t you be at work, at this hour?” the woman asked.
More reserved laughter. Isolde shrugged. “Shouldn’t you?”
The woman held her head high, keeping her back straight. She certainly dressed the part of a pompous ass—her expensive, perfectly pressed suit gleaming in the afternoon light, as if she’d just stepped out of a shooting for the next 101 Dalmatians reimagining. Her perfectly coiled hair was a few shades too blonde, her makeup doing more to ravage the intricacies of her wrinkled skin than enhance them, thick layers of foundation caked in a way that only accentuated the lines around her eyes and mouth. The sharpness of her cheekbones, once natural, now seemed sculpted by years of too many cosmetic procedures. There was something unsettling about the artificial perfection she wore, like a mask that had become too tight for its own good.
“This is a job,” the lady said. “Nannying spoilt brats. Not to mention, my husband owns a construction facility.”
“Oh, wow, so your husband makes all the money while you nanny? Great job. You must be so successful.” Isolde took Elysia’s hand and guided her back along the tracks. “Bit strange that, you know, you have to earn money on the side if your husband owns a business. Must be failing.”
“Better than being unemployed, isn’t it?” the lady said, chuckling in that annoying, brusque way.
Isolde turned, fake-smiling. “Wow, you’re nasty, aren’t you? Isn’t she nasty, kids?” They said nothing. “See? Even they don’t like you. Say what you will, but you’re obviously not very good at your job. Now how about you scurry along and leave people be, yeah? Thanks.”
“Why are you letting your daughter run around in filth, anyway?” the nanny said in disgust. “You’re definitely a southsider. Isn’t that right?”
“Wow,” Isolde exclaimed. “I’m going to say yes. Sure. Copy all that! Who woulda thought you’d find southsiders on the south side? Now I understand why you’re the nanny and your husband is the factory owner. Tryin’ to hold on to any little bit of youth you have left with all that makeup to make him happy? Hoping he won’t ditch you once he realises how ugly and downright disgusting you are?”
People passed. No one seemed to care.
The lady bent down towards Elysia and said, “See, Mommy is what we northsiders call a ‘bum’. A leech, feeding off me and my husband’s money. Don’t be like Mommy when you’re older, mmmmkay?”
Isolde moved Elysia around to her opposite shoulder, away from the wrinkled witch. “Don’t talk to my daughter like that. You have no idea who I am.” Her face went red, but not with embarrassment. “Just buzz off, lady. Out of all the places you could have brought these kids, you decided to bring them here. Don’t act like you don’t know what sort of situation people are in.” Her lips moved slowly over each word, as if they pained her.
The lady scoffed, pointing to herself. “The parents are only visiting here temporarily, and they asked me to keep them busy—”
“Yeah? Then why don’t you go do that, you—” —bitch, she wanted to say but stopped herself. She looked back at Elysia. Her smile was gone, replaced with a shivering frown. Watering eyes. Curled brows. Isolde sighed. “Come on,” she said.
“Off to the dole office, are you?” the lady called.
“Look, you don’t know if I have a job or not,” Isolde said, skating up to the edge of the lie but not quite over it. “And you’re upsetting my daughter. I don’t appreciate that.”
“And I don’t appreciate what you people are doing for our community.”
Isolde scoffed. “Us people?”
The lady waved a dismissive hand and rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t act like you don’t know.” The last few words came out low and threatening. “You cost the city billions in taxes and yet what do you do with it? Spend your afternoons frolicking about? Sitting in parks we built, that we organised, that we funded?”
Isolde couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The fact that this lady thought the government was doing the southsiders a favour was downright ludicrous. If they were doing them a favour, they wouldn’t be cutting their welfare so much. But the argument simply wasn’t worth it; this witch wouldn’t understand. She was brought up in a rich family, clearly.
Isolde turned to leave, keeping Elysia close at her side, but paused to deliver some parting words: “You shouldn’t look down on people you barely know—especially those who are struggling. One day, it could be you on the streets.” She didn’t sound upset anymore, just disappointed. With that, she walked away, her hand gently rubbing her daughter’s shoulder—not so much to comfort Elysia, but to steady her own nerves.
The lady yelled, “Run along now. Back to your rut.”
Isolde didn’t look back; instead, she raised her hand and gave her the finger.
It wasn’t the first time she’d met someone like that, but it was the first time she’d met someone that direct and personal in their disdain. Usually, the northsiders preferred a subtler brand of cruelty, one that came in the form of quiet glances, passive-aggressive charity events, or complaints to the media about “those people” on the south side. Not all were bad, though. There were those who genuinely believed in bridging the gap between the districts, people who supported funding for the south and spoke earnestly about fostering a sense of community between the classes. But they were the exceptions, not the rule. And even their well-meaning words often felt hollow when weighed against the daily struggles of the poor, whose lives were shaped by the very inequities those same northsiders rarely experienced firsthand.
On the way home, she told her daughter to ignore people like that, that some grew up without ever developing any suitable manners for day-to-day life. And even though the situation was over, it left a hollow pit in her stomach.
They retraced their steps along the promenade, intending to head back to the apartment, passing out all the busy kiosks preparing for the Luminara festival, when suddenly Elysia stopped.
Isolde looked back at her, about to ask what the problem was, only to see her eyes fixated on something. She turned in the direction she was facing. She had been staring at the pier that stretched out over the sea. It was old, once part of a breakwater, but years of renovations kept it sturdy, with neatly decorated palm trees and those circular peace signs. They each contained the same stencil: a hand holding up two fingers with the thumb tucked underneath. It wasn’t associated with Luminara, which was a New Year’s celebration, but the older folk liked to stick them along the posts with colourful bunting to establish a tangible sort of peace, and it worked, oddly enough. However, Elysia wasn’t fixated on that; no, she was looking at one of the carnival game kiosks that lined the parapet. The booth stood out against the seabreeze and the chatter of the crowd. It was the brightest of the lot, a mix of rainbow-filtering LEDs, and it had a popcorn and cotton-candy stand out front. Children lined up with their parents for a taste. That wasn’t what Elysia was focused on either. Beyond the stands, lined up in the back row of the kiosk, there were plush prizes, large and bulky, each resembling an animal: monkeys, bears, pandas. Isolde couldn't spot any bunnies—likely hidden by the angle—but, from what she could see, things looked magnificent.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
She patted Elysia’s back, feeling a bit disheartened. She’d made a promise, and it hurt that she couldn’t follow up on it. “Tomorrow,” Isolde said, smiling faintly.
Elysia looked up at her, curious.
It was difficult to explain to a child that sometimes money was a problem. Isolde sighed. “You excited?”
Elysia nodded so rapidly she thought her head might fall off.
Isolde smirked. “Well, okay then.”
They continued on their way back home. When they got to the apartment complex and walked across the busy corners, gyms, shooting ranges, and drugged-up parties settling along the ledges of the squared-in courtyard, Isolde saw the same words, RENT IS DUE, written across her door in red paint, only now it seemed to have sunk into the metal and was beginning to peel off in frayed, jagged edges.
She slammed it with her fist. It hurt a lot. Despite this, the mark was fairly stern on staying; there was nothing she could do to get rid of it, and she hated that with every fibre of her being. Her frustration couldn’t change that bloody outcropping any more than a storm could reshape a mountain beneath it. She had to be strong, but life was making that very difficult. Everywhere she looked was a constant reminder of her inevitable fate: that she, too, would end up on the streets, with these crooks, and her daughter, oh sweet Elysia, would be subjected to the same misery. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t want that for her. No mother did. Hell, Isolde wouldn’t wish it upon that asshole Rhyce or that wicked witch in the park.
She looked back at the walkway leading up to her apartment door, at the people around her. A few were sprawled on the cracked concrete near the steps, their eyes unfocused, faces slack with the dull haze of whatever substances they’d ingested. Others sat by the low, rusted edges, their heads hanging, like disconnected androids, ruddy faces sinking with the same drowsiness that was suffocating this place. And the smell: it never changed: stale sweat and burned rubber, the kind of stench you’d expect from a workshop, only there was neither work nor shop for ten thousand square feet.
She had to get out of here. No, she would get out of here. For her daughter’s sake.
The first thing she did when she headed inside her apartment was check her emails. She hoped she might have gotten a response by now, by some company out there, but looking through the list, all she saw were the same generic automated rejection letters from no-reply domains. She checked her phone for any text messages, or perhaps missed calls with voicemails promising interviews, but there was nothing. Not a single thing. She was used to it at this point; it was routine.
She cooked herself and Elysia some eggs and chicken for dinner, served with two glasses of milk. She let her daughter have a bath first and then, when she was finished, she hopped in after her. She always let her daughter go first because Elysia didn’t like sharing bathwater, and Isolde preferred to cut costs where she could.
After that, she spent the rest of the evening searching for jobs. It seemed like every day there was a new batch of opportunities. The routine was the same: read the job description, customise the resume to match, write a cover letter, and hit ‘Submit’. The process would repeat itself all night long, until Isolde’s head was sagging and her eyes were getting heavy. She’d stayed up particularly late on this night, well past 10 P.M., until a sharp, whistling text snapped her back to focus. She thought this was finally it. A job interview, an opportunity. However, when she picked up the phone, heart pounding, all she saw was a message from Silas Harbor.
She groaned but couldn’t be mad. This was one of the only people who didn’t treat her like garbage.
She opened the text.
‘I have a surprise for u. Swing by the pier tomorrow around 8am. Booth 7 :)’
She was curious enough to ask, but she didn’t. Instead, she smiled, thinking he had likely gotten another batch of books, blankets, or something else she was genuinely grateful for, though it wouldn't exactly resolve her issue. Still, she typed: ‘sure thing :P’ and put her phone down.
She had a whole list of businesses written on a piece of paper; she’d tried calling them about job openings, but every time they told her to apply on the website. She crumpled the paper and tossed it into the wastebasket, then shut the computer down, causing the room to go completely dark.
She noticed, however, light creeping underneath her daughter’s door. It was so late. What was she doing up? It wasn’t like her to stay up much past dark, because she liked to wake up early to work on her drawings. It was funny: God had made up for inability to speak by granting her the sort of artistic rigor that some creators could only dream of, and Isolde had Blu-Tacked her pictures to the fridge, thorough sketches of animals, houses, and gardens. Isolde liked to think the morning time sparked her inner creativity, because that’s when the complex was at its quietest, and she could listen to the dawn chorus guide her small hands.
Isolde pressed the scanner and watched as the door slid open. Elysia was awake alright, perched cross-legged on the narrow cot that served as both a bed and a seat. Her drawings were stacked neatly under the rusted metal desk that dominated one corner of the room. The desk’s surface was scratched and dented, its built-in holo-projector flickering in standby mode.
The room was tiny, something fitting for her daughter’s size, barely wide enough for Isolde to stretch her arms. Pale, glitching light strips ran along the ceiling, their dim glow casting a cold, sterile hue over the scuffed walls. Elysia’s few belongings were crammed into a recessed storage nook by the cot, its sliding cover perpetually stuck half-open. A single vent above her bed hummed, struggling to pump recycled air that carried the faint tang of rust and ozone. A cracked window with reinforced plexiglass overlooked the megacity, but the grime streaking its surface dulled the vibrant glow to a muted haze.
Isolde had offered Elysia to sleep in the foyer with her, and she had tried, but every time she went back to her room. Perhaps it was Isolde’s breathing, perhaps she just didn’t like the company. Isolde had also offered to swap and sleep in the tiny room instead, but Elysia found the size of the foyer to be quite frightening. It was safe to say she had grown accustomed to this little spot. Tonight, however, she buried her head in her arms, pressing against the wall.
“What’s wrong?” Isolde said, her voice tender. She sat next to Elysia, massaging her back.
Elysia looked up at her. She wasn’t crying, didn’t even have any tear marks.
“You’re up so late,” Isolde said.
Elysia shrugged, looking at her feet. She pulled her arms out, revealing the miniature rabbit doll Silas had gotten her. She flapped its arms with her forefingers.
“Is it about today?” Isolde asked. “About that lady?”
Once again, all Elysia could do was shrug.
“If you’re nervous about the festival tomorrow, don’t be. I... I’ll figure things out. This is nothing. Really.”
Nothing now, not even a shrug. That wasn’t it either.
There was only one thing she could do.
Isolde leaned forward, not needing to step off the bed, and grabbed Elysia’s artbook off the desk. She picked one of her pens up off the carpet, opened the artbook to a clear page, and handed it to her. “Write,” she said softly.
Elysia, who hadn’t taken her eyes off the rabbit doll the entire time, grabbed the artbook and pen, scribbling something. Isolde waited; she got a nasty little tickle in her throat that was making her cough. It was nothing, just nerves. Each time she covered her mouth, in the slight chance it was something infectious.
Elysia finished writing and showed it to her mother.
The words, simple yet heavy, read, in her perfect, smooth letters:
I love you
Isolde stared at the writing for what must have been a minute straight. She broke the silence with a single question: “Can I keep this?”
Another shrug.
Isolde tore the paper out, then pulled her daughter into a hug, kissing her on the head, rubbing it gently. “I love you, too, but I need you to go to sleep now, ’kay?”
Elysia nodded and pulled the covers towards her before slipping underneath.
Isolde switched off the light, wished her goodnight, and headed over to the sagging bed in the foyer, sprawling across it. The frame squeaked despite her light weight. She folded the paper and then pulled out her wallet, placing it inside, making it feel heavy and rich in her palm. She tugged the rough, raggedy blanket across her body. It was scratchy and frayed, one of the few Silas had picked up at the market.
It would do.
Isolde slept dreamlessly.
The next day, she woke up bright and early, right at the crack of dawn. She brushed her teeth, had a glass of orange juice, and sprayed on some cheap Vex perfume. It was her favourite, because it smelled like bergamot and pink pepper. She’d been wearing it for the past five years; the bottle was so large that it still had plenty left. After that, she grabbed her coat, told Elysia not to answer the door to anybody, as she often did, and journeyed into the city, heading for the promenade by the seaside. Normally she would have taken the public tram, but that cost fifteen eddies a trip, money she couldn’t spare, so she opted to walk instead. It took longer, but she told herself the exercise was good for her. Besides, the fresh morning air by the seaside was one of the few luxuries she could enjoy for free.
She wasn’t sure how or where the booths were labelled when she got to the early festival preparations. She didn’t have to be, because unlike other vendors, Silas always managed to get the same spot every year. It was on the pier, near the very end, right by The Whale—a large mechanical sculpture that had long since been converted into a stage for the Luminara festivities. Everything from speeches, plays, and firework arts were held here. Its once-sleek, industrial body was now a hulking mass of patchy paintwork and loose screws, a giant, battered beast of twisted steel and corroded plates. Its rusted spine arched into the sky like the bones of an ancient leviathan, bearing a cyclorama that read HAPPY LUMINARA 2086! with balloons scattered from corner to corner. The beast’s hollow eyes acted as stage lights, and while they were turned off for now, she knew they could get bright well past dark, often lighting up the whole pier.
It was a hallmark of the district, often inviting tourists, but lately there was an unsettling stillness in the air, as if The Whale held its breath, waiting for someone to come along, an officer perhaps, and ruin the performance.
Isolde stuffed her hand deep in her pocket, shivering in the icy morning gust, hurrying along the dock, even though she was in no rush. She was right on time according to her phone. Sure enough, she saw Silas laying down books, while all the other vendors hadn’t even shown up.
She slowed down, wanting to surprise him. However, right before she could get the jump on him, he said, without turning, “Bergamot. Like early autumn, like late winter.”
She looked at him dumbly as he turned, not sure what to say. She smiled. “Can’t get anything past you, can I? You getting an early start on the festival?”
He stood up and started placing more books into the smaller, neatly squared-together boxes along the kiosk. It was a series of foldable tables set up to run all the way down to The Whale, with a tarp overhead that hung loosely, protecting the merchandise from the occasional drizzle. There was still so much to fill, and he hadn’t even started on the tools. Those were stacked underneath: makeshift hammers, drills, and a handful of battered spanners. It was the kind of messy only Silas could make sense of.
“I might have overstocked this year,” he said. “But I heard it’s gonna be a busy one, especially given the recent changes.”
“I’m guessing you’ve had to increase your prices, too?”
He shook his head, still piling the books away. “Not yet. The good thing about selling books is bundling. I can buy a bunch for reduced prices and resell them at normal, if not slightly lower, rates and still make some profit. Though, heh, sometimes the kids swing by and nick a comic. You know the sort. Kids will be kids.”
“Not even just kids,” she said. “It’s the adults you have to worry about.”
He chuckled. “Have a run-in?”
Isolde folded her arms and clicked her teeth. “Just some bitch at the park, nothing new.”
Another chuckle. He picked up another set of books and organised them into a box. He read the author names, matching them up. “Just remember somethin’.”
“What’s that?” Isolde asked.
“No matter how much people try to put you down,” he said, “remember you’re a good person. God knows this city could use more of those. Eventually, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, the good will be respected, and the bad will be tossed out on their asses with the rest of the rats. I know it doesn’t seem that way, but my gut tells me it’ll happen. Know that?”
“You’re a hopeful man,” Isolde said cheeringly.
“People like us, all we can really do is hope, right? Anyway, enough about that. How’re you holdin’ up, Isolde?”
She let out a long, chilly breath. “Hangin’ on, dear friend. Hangin’ on as hard as I bloody well can. But what’s this about? The text you sent me near midnight?”
He smiled warmly, filling up another box. He clapped his hands together and walked around the kiosk. He reached under one of the tables, pulled out a drawer, and grabbed something. It was an envelope. He strode over to Isolde with his chin held high, like he was proud, only she didn’t understand what he was so proud of. He handed her the envelope, and she noticed it was addressed to her name.
She got a bad feeling. Her eyes flicked to meet his. “Silas, if this is money, then—”
He raised a finger to his lips, shushing her. “Just open it,” he said quietly, and then returned to his books.
Confused, but curious, she opened the letter slowly, feeling her heart begin to beat faster. What could it be? Who could it be from? As she unfolded the paper, revealing the handwritten address at the top in blue ink—107 Crevalle Est.—her eyes drifted to the bottom, and a sharp laugh escaped her lips. But this humorous sensation didn’t last very long. Oh no. As she stared at the paper, her eyes watered, her lips quivered, and a warmth began to spread across her skin, replacing the coldness that had taken hold for so long.... Then the tears broke free. No, they didn’t just break—they swept down her cheeks with all the gush of a busted runnel, while thin globs of snot slipped from her nostrils, as if she was a child scraping her knee in a school playground, but she was a grown woman, and although she felt something sharp, it certainly was not pain.
At the bottom of the letter, the words, so elegant and freeing, read:
You start Monday, 9am.
Best hopes and dreams,
Your boss Lucian.
Silas dropped all his books and stepped forward, pulling her into a hug. It didn’t take any coercion whatsoever; she sank into his arms, holding on tight, crying into his shoulder and not saying a word.
“I thought it would be better to show you in person,” he said, “but you’re starting to make me feel bad.” He patted her back; she felt so fragile in his grasp, as if she might break.
“I promise you,” Isolde said, her voice muffled against his shoulder, “I will never forget this.”
He broke the hug, reached around the back of his kiosk, and pulled out a handful of tissues. He handed them to her and she wiped her eyes and nose. “Made some phone calls, talked to some old friends. One thing led to another. The only catch is that this is a kitchen porter position in the north.”
She shook, not giving a damn. “I don’t care if it was on Mars! This changes everything. You have no idea how much this means to me. You’ve saved me, Silas, and I’m forever in your debt.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” he said. “I’m just glad I can help out where I can. But... there is one thing I’d like you to do for me.”
Her eyes flew wide. “Yes, anything. What is it?”
He placed a hand on her shoulder, leaning against the table with the other. “When you show up at the festival tonight, I don’t want you to worry about that damn landlord or those damn budget cuts or those damn rising prices. I want you and your daughter to have fun. This is a new year, a new you, and, hopefully, a new life. That fair?”
She grinned, pulling him into another hug. “You have my word,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Above them, a flock of crows took to the sky, their dark shapes cutting across the horizon as they soared over the endless sealine, fading into the golden light of the rising sun.