Eventually, around midday, Father Sleep visited me that day and I was able to sleep relatively calmly. I took my time to go back to the station to hand in the spare set of clothes and the shoes and since then I haven't heard from the station. I wasn't mad about the fact that no one called me in for a whole week. I guess Thomas handled the talking how he always did. I met him 4 days ago – he's doing fine. That counts for something.

I haven't had trouble sleeping, but I did visit the doctor the next day, just to make sure everything was alright and probably to put his mind at ease. I know he worries about everyone; he may not show or even tell but he cares way too much 24/7. So the least I could do was to pay him a visit, get a check-up, assess my emotional state, and get some sleep medication I didn't use in the end.

Yesterday we were locked inside again by the black fog, but this time we knew it was coming. After the one last week, the body collectors were busy for two days straight, this time the streets were cleared within hours. It puts things into perspective… The number of deaths due to a sudden approach of the fog versus the number of deaths when the forecast gives us enough time to prepare properly.

So many lives could be spared if our technology and magic were more advanced. We're doing alright compared to other cities but sometimes it still feels like it's not enough. I put the newspaper down and sip on my cup of coffee, looking at the blue blossom on my small kitchen table.

I thought about throwing it away, but I can't. It's far too beautiful and somehow precious. It brings me solace and peace, regardless of who it came from. I couldn’t care less about the Shadow. I appreciate this delicate thing for what it is, not because he gifted it to me. And standing here on the kitchen table with the curtains wide open, it catches the cold afternoon sun, throwing specks of blue lights onto the table and the walls like broken glass shards.

The petals feel like petals, I think. The flower can bend and the petals can crumple – smaller dents and creases will vanish if taken care of and straightened out, but the plant could still be damaged beyond repair. It's not as delicate as normal flowers, but it isn't as robust as its glass-like appearance makes it seem either. I think if something was to hit my cactus it was more likely to just heal and survive than this artificial thing.

I shake my head to pull myself away from this mesmerizing sight. I have a job to do today, and it was about time. I didn't mind having a few days off of work but one day more and I had lost it. I can't sit idle for so long with nothing to do. Recovery and everything is important, I know, but being busy takes my mind off stupid things.

I make sure all the windows are locked and close the curtains, turn off the lights in every single room, and make sure to lock my apartment door behind me. Days ago I put a note on my bedroom door, with a simple "get the fuck out" written on it. Who knows when this idiot of a thief decides to just walk into my apartment again. I don't feel too uneasy about it anymore, I had time to get to terms with it.

For the moment, he means me no harm, and if he enters when I'm gone there isn't much he can learn about me. Not more than he already knows anyway. Not that I like the thought of having him sneak through my stuff, but it is what it is. I can accept it or stress myself out about it. I decided to accept it. Kind of. I wish he wouldn't do what he does, but I'm also kind of relieved it's just him doing what he does and not someone else doing what they do. Pf, you're a poet, Eon.

The streets are busy. It's market day and I made sure to get everything I needed in the morning. This city may only have around 300'000 inhabitants in total but it always feels like half of them are loitering in this district whenever the market hall opens.

I always wonder: Is this what it felt like back in the days when the city was still true to its name? When it was still housing around two million inhabitants? When long since destroyed and abandoned parts were still intact and operating? On days like this, I feel like I'm close to envisioning how the past may have looked light. It's probably still far off, but it's something.

I try to avoid the busy crowd as good as possible. The market hall only opens once every month and offers almost everything. It used to be a stadium or something, at least that's what the faded letters on the building allude to. They built a new stadium decades ago, closer to the wealthy district. Because who else would go watch some weird games or horse races?

So this one here is open to the public once a month. People from all over the city gather at the hall in hopes to sell and buy. And who keeps them safe? The Bear. Praised be the Bear to keep us vulnerable folks safe so we can get our monthly groceries done. It's not like we can't get our things at shops, but the market is the one place people will do anything to sell their things. Were the prices any lower shit would be free. And let's not forget about the many other ways one could pay.

I was lucky not to run into Thayer this morning, though he can't do much in an open, public space. But still, I have avoided him for a whole week and I wouldn't mind another one. Maybe I can set a new record? My body would thank me once in a while.

I turn a corner and leave the busy street behind me. It would be faster keeping to the main street but it is so packed full with people and their carts that the alleyways are probably the faster route. And even if they aren't I just feel safer with fewer people around me. Poor, poor Thomas, living right next to the stadium must be hell around this time of the month.

These alleys are narrow and the deeper they go the dirtier they become. The black fog is a messy enemy, covering every surface in a black tar-like substance. Even when washed off it tints the stone and bricks of the walls.

The streetcleaners do their best but it is a hard job that has to be done fast, so they skip smaller alleys and deeper-rooted backstreets. They still get eventually cleaned but are by no means a priority.

There's just not enough time and streetcleaners to get everything cleaned up before the next fog hits – but if we ignore it, it will make everything so much worse. The toxicity level of this tar is relatively low, but if enough of it accumulates it can still become a health concern and we really don't need more of these. It can also be sticky. Unless it's not. I'm no alchemist, I don't know the properties of the fog tar, its chemical components, and why it sometimes does or does not stick.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

But I know what a lung looks like after getting in contact with the fog. Or how the airways look of someone who has been exposed to the tar's fumes for too long. It's an unsettling sight. The fog causes burns and ugly, oozy blisters, blocking airways when breathed in. And while it's gruesome the tar is a fascinating thing.

It's what makes the fog black, to begin with, and if nothing gets in its way it will keep its mist-like form. But the moment it comes in contact with any surface it latches on and accumulates to a gooey mass. In its initial state it can be breathed in easily but the moment it touches anything it becomes the vilest thing ever. Most people die of asphyxiation long before their lungs are burnt out by the fog.

Maybe that's a blessing. I've seen people who have died due to the pain they went through – Before their airways were fully blocked, and before the fog could destroy their lungs, they just died due to a heart attack.

That's what pain can do to a human being. If we experience too much of it, our body may just shut off and bring it to an end before we perish in the most miserable way. I guess I'd rather suffocate than go through the pain and the experience of burning from the inside. Someone once told me that suffocation – including drowning – is the most beautiful death. As oxygen cuts short the brain releases chemicals that have similar effects to drugs, but the mind, while slipping, is still supposed to be clearer.

It's said a suffocating person sees colors they never saw before, colors beyond our wildest imagination, hears sounds no living being ever heard, and experiences absolute weightlessness. Floating in between realms. Maybe they experience the weave, transcend into its fabric, and are able to see and hear everything that ever was, everything that will ever be. Maybe, in the moment of their death, they experience truth. The truth of the universe, existence, life and its meaning. The truth about everything.

Not that anyone would know. People that occasionally can be brought back from the verge of death don't remember anything. And maybe that's for the better for everyone involved.

I look up at the station's main door, it's wide open. Not unusual, but I dread to think how many people I have to meet to get to my assignment. It's easier when only Miss Amber, Mr. Archer, his mother Dorothy, Thomas, or Mrs. Sinclair are around.

I brace myself, take a deep breath, and walk up the couple of steps to the door, walking straight in.

"Good day, Mr. Moor!"

"Same to you, Mrs. Sinclair." I try my best to smile at the older lady behind the reception booth. She's a nice lady, but she has a way to get upset when people around her seem upset. And her perception of upset is very varied. My resting-bitch-face can't keep up with her unspoken demands to keep her happy, but I try my best.

Just because I don't smile and radiate positivity and energy the way Miss Amber does, doesn't mean that I'm upset 24/7. But Mrs. Sinclair is sensitive, and I can't blame her for that. She's a sweet lady, occasionally brings cake or pastries. She once told me that she bakes when she gets upset, and sometimes she overdoes it, baking more than her whole family can eat. So she brings it to work.

Her cakes and pastries are amazing, it's probably the closest thing we can get to the extravagant stuff with the most expensive ingredients the wealthy get to eat all day long – I used to look forward to the next time she brought something to work, but since I know what it means, her pastries got a sour aftertaste. They make me sad. She's just trying to survive in this city like everybody else. I just wish she could have the calm, peaceful life she deserves after years and years of slaving away her life behind this counter.

"Mr. Morell should arrive with Mr. Ashworth in a minute or two."

I raise an eyebrow. I haven't been here for a week, and I get the feeling I missed something important. She catches on to my suspicious expression.

"My, my there, Mr. Moor. Did you forget that Mr. Morell is to be assigned to every cleaner of this station at least once during his training?"

I sigh, "No, just hoped it wouldn't be my turn in the foreseeable future."

"Well, you avoided him for two months! It had to happen eventually." She sends an apologizing smile my way. She's seen a lot in her life and I get the feeling that she's just as tired of the rookies' bragging as I am. The way he exaggerates things and thinks it's cool is annoying to me, but to Mrs. Sinclair, it can probably feel disrespectful at times.

He'll blow things out of proportion because he thinks it makes him look cool, but there are people who have experienced it for real, and it probably wasn't cool at all. But she looks at him like one would look at a child with a wild imagination. She doesn't seem to judge him, but she probably can't wait for him to grow up either. And to think he's older than I am. Weird world.

One could think that growing up in a city like this – in a society like this – everyone would be worn out early on in life. Dead inside and just trying to exist with little to no perspectives in life. But the thing is, most people aren't like me. Loss is omnipresent, true, but most people within the middle class can grow up pretty sheltered.

Yes, we're used to death and despair but that doesn't mean that everyone plumages down into numbness like I did. The Morell siblings had a pretty stable childhood from what I can tell. Their parents had jobs that earned them enough money to send both their children to the arch.

I mean, I attended the Arch too, but only after growing up in poverty. My mother and I were lucky to have a roof over our heads, solely because the lady owning our apartment had sympathy for a young widow and let her skip on rent many, many times. If it weren't for that I had grown up on the streets. Considering this it could have been worse, but it could have been a lot better too.

The middle class is a weird thing. While the society is split into poverty and wealth, there is a silver lining somewhere. Falling below that silver lining pretty much means that there's no way to ever get back up, not without help. No matter how much someone living on the street is willing to work and slave away their life; they will never make it. They may be able to get a roof over their head but it is hard to keep it. And it's impossible to save up some money.

People like the Morell siblings come from a stable family. Their parents had, and probably still have, enough savings to invest in their future to make sure they can get jobs that will enable them to get some savings to repeat the cycle. And maybe some future offspring will make it past that silver lining and join the wealthy.

I wouldn't be here without the inheritance of my father. Without him, I'd probably be a body collector. They always hire anyone who can stomach the job, but it's a thankless job. People drop in and out of it daily – it's little pay for a lot of heavy lifting and potential trauma.

Or I'd be a streetcleaner, maybe. It pays a little better but it comes with a huge health risk being in close contact with the remains of the black fog almost weekly – there are masks, yes, but they can't keep away everything for a prolonged time. So, pick your poison.

"Lucky me…" I sigh yet again, it's one of these days, "I'll take my seat and wait then." Mrs. Sinclair nods, and I retreat into the room, sitting down on one of the chairs that aligned along the wall. It's a waiting room after all. I hope I don't have to wait too long, we have a schedule to follow after all.