10-04-2025, 01:37 AM
He moved softly over ash-slick concrete, crunching once on broken glass, but he didn’t slow. When Kaelan asked for his name, he gave no response, only adjusted the pouch in his coat and continued on. At one point, he made a sound. Not quite a hum, not quite a sigh. As if dismissing a thought before it could form. When the tower loomed ahead, he paused briefly under its dark frame and tilted his head to one side, listening.
Then he murmured to himself, “Shayka’s awake.”
He stepped through the threshold of a former residential building and into the stairwell without looking back. His hand brushed the rusted banister once, then recoiled. He climbed in silence. On the fourth floor, he opened a warped door with both hands and stepped aside so Kaelan could enter. Inside the walls were covered in layered fabric, some strips dyed faintly with plant pigment, others sheer and unraveling. A threadbare couch with no legs sat low against the wall, propped on stones. Bones of rodents were arranged like delicate trophies along an old bookcase beside brightly painted stones in rows of six.
Nazariy crossed the room and set the specimen pouch carefully on a flat tin tray beside the painted rocks.
“You’re loud,” he said finally. “With your words. You woke Shayka.”
He moved a crooked chair from the wall, then gestured.
“Sit.” He waited a moment before repeating himself more firmly than before: "Sit."
He walked to the window and pulled the curtain closed. Then stood still for a moment, head bowed “She’s walking close tonight.”
He turned.
“I’ll show you the black in the morning,” he said, voice distant. “After Shayka goes quiet again.”
Nazariy sat cross-legged on the floor beside the rocks and picked one up, twirled it, then held it to his ear. After a moment, he whispered to it.
Then he stared at Kaelan again, but said nothing.
Then he murmured to himself, “Shayka’s awake.”
He stepped through the threshold of a former residential building and into the stairwell without looking back. His hand brushed the rusted banister once, then recoiled. He climbed in silence. On the fourth floor, he opened a warped door with both hands and stepped aside so Kaelan could enter. Inside the walls were covered in layered fabric, some strips dyed faintly with plant pigment, others sheer and unraveling. A threadbare couch with no legs sat low against the wall, propped on stones. Bones of rodents were arranged like delicate trophies along an old bookcase beside brightly painted stones in rows of six.
Nazariy crossed the room and set the specimen pouch carefully on a flat tin tray beside the painted rocks.
“You’re loud,” he said finally. “With your words. You woke Shayka.”
He moved a crooked chair from the wall, then gestured.
“Sit.” He waited a moment before repeating himself more firmly than before: "Sit."
He walked to the window and pulled the curtain closed. Then stood still for a moment, head bowed “She’s walking close tonight.”
He turned.
“I’ll show you the black in the morning,” he said, voice distant. “After Shayka goes quiet again.”
Nazariy sat cross-legged on the floor beside the rocks and picked one up, twirled it, then held it to his ear. After a moment, he whispered to it.
Then he stared at Kaelan again, but said nothing.