Parallel to Bozo, Rosalyn watched the cityscape from her dorm window. She watched as dusk wrapped the metropolis’ skyscrapers and the streets below in its slow darkness, the last orange-pink glow of the setting sun a fragile line along the horizon.

  She watched as night took over, its stars glinting against steel and glass, streetlamps mirrored faintly on the polished floor tiles. She watched as the distant bridge’s suspension cables burned in neon, and the Dream Factory shouted from the suburbs, flamboyant colors spiking toward the sky.

  She watched it all, yet saw nothing. Still she kept gazing ahead. She did notice two of the Four Great Trees shimmer slightly in the distance. She remembered very clearly what they had discovered this afternoon in the Academic Archives: that the Four Great Trees were not truly alive, but constructs. An unthinkable truth that somehow aligned with Arctar’s reality.

  The group had parted abruptly soon after slipping the needle-key back into David’s office undetected. Victor did everything incredibly fast, inhumanly so even, if one overlooked the fact that already holding the needle-key alone should have damaged his skin heavily, yet didn’t. Rosalyn had barely turned when he was back, all done. That was it. It was over. They had gotten away with the break-in.

  Then Victor had left without a word, without looking back, his stride fast and heavy, brows furrowed, fists clenched, thoughts dark and distant. Elisabeth, on the other hand, walked away with the ancient book in hand, all smiles of triumph and pride, her mind full of future glory and prestige.

  And so Rosalyn found herself alone at a crossroads. Frankly she didn’t mind. She too needed space to process everything.

  She hadn’t even bothered to turn on the lights as she entered her dorm room. She just walked to the window. And stared.

  The discovery was striking. But it wasn’t what occupied her mind right now. It was the figure she had seen: the man with the chrysolite eyes. LV. LV. She was certain those were his initials. They had been embossed on the cover of the book he was holding, the same book he had let fall to the floor just before vanishing, the moment Elisabeth appeared in the aisle. It was as if he wanted them to find it.

  So… who was he, truly? A vision? A ghost? If the book belonged to him, if he had written those words, could he have been the constructor? Did he live five hundred years ago?

  And those eyes…not green, not gold...that impossible, rare chrysolite color… She had seen them only once before, in her first dream. The blurred image of a man in white, tortured, bloodied, torn. The horror of the scene had left her in shock. And then suddenly his eyes were shown. Clear chrysolite but extinct, killed, devoid of life… She remembered the incomprehensible longing she had felt for him then.

  The second dream let her hear his voice, feel his warmth. She hadn’t seen his face, only white wide sleeves embroidered with silver vines at the edges. And again, the same longing had struck only sharper, almost painful.

  That’s when she knew they were the same man.

  Now she had seen him in person, no longer a dream, no longer a blur. She recognized his eyes. Alive. Not hollow. Not dead.

  But he wasn’t real. He couldn’t be. People didn’t vanish into thin air. They didn’t appear in dreams. Rosalyn was reflective, melancholic at times, but not a romantic, not a sentimentalist. She was grounded. This feeling, this yearning, wasn’t ordinary. It wasn’t natural and it wasn’t exaggerated either.

  Why was he showing himself to her? Why, when he did, did he always seem so… tender? In her second dream, his voice, the way he called her, his touch. And in the Archives, those piercing yet gentle eyes. Rosalyn was certain that if Elisabeth hadn’t appeared at that exact moment, he would have stayed. He would have let her come closer.

  Rosalyn's heart quickened. What would he have done had she come closer? She shivered at the thought, not from fear but from giddiness.

  She began pacing across her room.

  “This is crazy…” she whispered.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Her eyes drifted to the digital clock on her bedside table. It was past nine.

  Without hesitation, she grabbed her bag and headed out. She needed air and maybe some grounding words. At times like this, there was only one person she could think of: Rodderick. His practical, humorous advice had pulled her back to earth more than once. They had known each other for years; he was like an uncle to her. He cared in his own rugged way, gruff but warm, as if she were his own daughter.

  Rodderick’s bar wasn’t far from her dorm. She hoped it wouldn’t be too crowded tonight. She wasn’t in the mood for noise. She just wanted a bit of calm.

  Luckily, there were only a few patrons tonight. The Dream Factory had recently launched a new piece of merch: the Motivation Chair. A chair that complimented anyone who sat in it nonstop, in Sir Vu’s voice. Users could choose between modes: joyous Vu, solemn Vu, singing Vu, flirty Vu, DJ Vu, shouting Vu… and thirteen more. Many had apparently opted to try it at home instead of coming to the bar.

  Rodderick stood behind the counter, wiping already-clean glasses as usual, humming to himself. His booming voice filled the room when he spotted Rosalyn.

  “Aye, lass! It’s been a while!”

  “Hey, Rodderick,” she said, smiling as she settled onto a high stool.

  “Glad to see you! I’m guessin’ you didn’t go buy that contraption everyone’s been ravin’ about: the Dream Chair or somethin’. An overexcited gnome tried to sell me one for half the price already, since in his rush, he’d bought five in one go from the store. That’s four too many, even for a gnome. Solemn Vu's makin’ people weep, flirty Vu's makin’ ’em blush… don’t even wanna know what shoutin’ Vu does.”

  Rosalyn laughed as he handed her the usual peach iced tea. Then he returned to wiping glasses, satisfied.

  “Rodderick… I have a question…” she asked after a pause, hesitating.

  “Shoot!”

  “Did you ever… long for someone?”

  “Aye, I did. Was engaged once. She died before we could wed. Stayed faithful to her soul though. Still am. Still have her photo in my wallet.”

  “Do you think longing means… love?”

  “What else could it mean? I don’t long for rain or turkey.”

  “What if it can’t be love? But it’s like a… a yearning?”

  “Yearnin’? What in blazes is that? Sounds like love’s cousin who never got invited to dinner.”

  She chuckled despite herself. Rodderick narrowed his eyes and leaned on the counter, arms crossed.

  “Rosalyn, did somethin’ happen to you? You tell me if some lad needs a good boot, aye?”

  “No, no, no!” she stammered, her face warming. “It’s nothing! Just… hypothetical!”

  Rodderick eyed her with comical suspicion but let it go, changing the subject.

  “The Memorial’s in three weeks. You goin’?”

  “Yes. I go every year. It’s the least I can do. I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like—for people to have their bodies decay while still alive… The only thing I can do for them now is pray for their souls and remember them.”

  “Aye… rottin’ alive is a torment no fire or blade can match. Those end. This one grows inside you, hollows you out from within. My folks told me one of my ancestors had half his body fall apart from the rot. He was one of those hit by the first wave. Ended up seekin’ death, pleaded for a revolver…”

  He paused, setting the glass aside, eyes dimming for a moment.

  “I’m a retired officer. We were trained to face pain but that -no…”

  Rosalyn nodded softly.

  “The Collapse happened only five centuries ago,” Rodderick went on. “Five centuries ain’t much, lass. Just five generations. It’s like lining up five people who each lived a hundred years and havin’ them pass the baton one to another.”

  “Do you go to the Memorial every year too?”

  “Aye, ever since I was a brat. My folks took me, and later, when I joined the military and started trainin’ recruits, I kept the tradition. Dragged them with me too. Attendin’ used to be mandatory in the garrison. To remember the Collapse and its horrors, and never let it happen again. We even had an oath: to defend people against maniacs like Morter.”

  “I feel dread whenever I hear his name…”

  “No worries, lass, the lad’s long rotted himself! But aye, the way he vanished sure was strange. He was at his peak power when he just -poof- disappeared from the planet. No body, no trace, nothin’. Not that our ancestors minded much. Half of us were wiped out, rotted by his waves. Had he kept goin’, we wouldn’t be here to talk about it.”

  Rosalyn paused, pensive. Suddenly, the ambient jazz in the bar cut out, replaced by a shrill voice from the radio:

  “TWELVE O’CLOCK! GO HOME, YOU SLEEP-DEPRIVED CREATURES!”

  She nearly spilled her tea, then laughed heartily.

  “Aye, the Hour Gnome,” Rodderick said. “Every station’s got one, tryin’ to make folks sleep better… by screaming at them to go to bed early!”

  “It’s midnight already?! I should go!” Rosalyn said standing up in a hurry.

  “Wait. Could be dangerous out there at this hour. I’ll walk you.”

  “But your bar…”

  “Empty as you see. Might as well close early tonight. Can’t compete with Sir Vu’s Motivational Chair anyway,” he said with a grin.

  Rosalyn chuckled again, shaking her head.