1874 - Somewhere in the Empire.


    It’s raining.


    A downpour.


    I stepped into a shop with a sign on the door: "Closing Soon." I decided to enter and saw the owner, looking worn down, clutching the shillings in his pocket. He took a second before telling me the price, as if afraid it would be too expensive.


    He told me it cost about two shillings. I don’t know why it was so cheap. Maybe because I looked drenched (I must have looked like a vagabond, soaked by the rain), or because of my face when I asked about the price. Either way, I paid, leaving me with a miserable three shillings. Before stepping out, I opened my umbrella—it had a black-and-white striped pattern.


    I sighed and stepped into the cold night streets.


    As I walked, a rain-soaked poster peeled off the wall and landed at my feet.


    "Our Leader is our Future. One Nation, One Will."


    I ignored it and kept walking.


    I passed by the locals—a butcher shop, a place promising cheap medicine, a restaurant, a clothing store, and finally, a bookstore. It was well-known in the southern district, not for its prices or selection, but for the habit of throwing out unsold books into the street. Something I appreciated. After all, with everything I read during university, I had developed a taste for books.


    At the street corner, I glanced left. Nothing unusual, except for the distant sight of the walls. The Capital stood on the left side, with all those noble mansions—parasites living off the state, if you ask me. And then, the Tower.


    An Obelisk of Silence.


    Black. Pure.


    Its silhouette loomed over the city like a watchful specter. Something about it was observing you, even though it had no eyes. The light at its peak shone at night, sweeping across the streets as if searching for someone.


    I never understood the others… How do they not see it?


    There’s something in that thing, something that shouldn’t be there.


    It was erected in less than a year. Maybe with slave labor. Maybe just as a monument to power.


    But no one questions it.


    It is the symbol of the dictatorship, a reminder of who is in charge.


    In the distance, down a parallel street, a scream rang out.


    It didn’t call for help. It didn’t beg.


    It just screamed.


    As if knowing it wouldn’t make a difference.


    I stopped for a moment, feeling a knot in my stomach. I shouldn’t look. I shouldn’t listen.


    "It’s best to stay quiet."


    Here, a careless comment is enough to make you disappear.


    As I reached my doorway, I found my landlord staring at me.


    My hand tensed in my pocket, gripping the three shillings as if that would change anything.


    "Ethan, when do you plan to pay the rent? Your brother hasn’t arrived yet, and I’m not letting you go another week without paying."


    His expression was pure resignation, directed entirely at me.


    "Yeah, yeah, stop torturing me. We’ll pay on Sunday. It’s only Thursday, and you’re already starting."


    Gordon, the landlord, scoffed.


    "If you paid more regularly, I wouldn’t have to remind you. But I suppose you’re not worse than Jane."This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Jane, the neighbor in the room next to mine, was number five. I was number four. If I wasn’t mistaken, she lived alone. I had never spoken to her, though I was sure I had heard Paul talking to her before.


    "Gordon, we’ll pay by Sunday at the latest. Now, can you let me in? I’m standing here getting soaked like an idiot."


    "Fine, go in already. I’m off to speak with the ever-mysterious and good-for-nothing Jane."


    I climbed the stairs and inserted the key—an ordinary-looking key with a copper color and a small number four stuck onto it.


    "I open the door. My apartment is… humble. A living room two meters wide and four meters long, a kitchen in the left corner, and a coat rack right at the entrance."


    "Looks like Paul isn’t back yet..."


    To the right, there was a door leading to a bedroom with a bunk bed. Ten shillings a month. Not cheap, but not expensive either. I couldn’t complain, considering where we could have ended up—the western district was far worse than the southern one.


    I put my things away and left my umbrella by the entrance to avoid dripping water inside. Checking my pockets, I took out my shillings and stored them in a small box above the wardrobe. Initially, we used it to hide our money in case of theft, but it had turned into a tradition left behind by Emma.


    I thought about her.


    I wondered how our family’s life would have turned out if Father had lived a little longer.


    Or if we hadn’t fought.


    After all, we were three siblings.


    Shaking off the moment of reflection, I stepped into the kitchen and started making "soup."


    I chopped some potatoes, carrots, and sweet potatoes and left them to boil in water. We had no gas, but Paul and I had found a solution—using the steam pipes that led to Gordon’s doorway. They were always radiating heat, enough to burn your hand.


    I placed the pot close enough for the heat to do its work. After a bit of time, I tossed in some spices.


    No meat.


    Or rather, I wasn’t about to waste money on it.


    We weren’t that luxurious.


    After waiting about ten minutes, the soup was ready.


    "Looks like Paul won’t be back in time."


    Lately, Paul’s shifts had been getting later and later.


    I wondered what would happen next.


    Would he start spending nights at the factory?


    I couldn’t blame him.


    I should blame myself.


    He quit his studies so I could finish mine.


    A mechanical engineer.


    And now?


    I ended up as a watchmaker.


    I ate, then left my luxury suite to use the public restroom.


    I washed my hands and brushed my teeth with water. Looking into the mirror, there was nothing remarkable—a 21-year-old, recently graduated, working at a watch shop.


    Handsome—though only I told myself that.


    Black hair.


    Brown eyes.


    Painfully common, but it was my reality.


    I left the restroom and returned to the apartment.


    Climbing into my bunk, I lay down.


    Maybe it was my thoughts, my upbringing, my connections—or God—whatever led me to contemplate my reality.


    But time...


    Time felt like a cruel joke.


    It was pushing me forward into a situation I never chose for myself.


    But I didn’t hate my life.


    It was mine.


    And it had to be lived.


    Even if that meant enduring the lows.


    "A watchmaker and poor. My sad reality. What a waste of time. Ha, ''time.'' Like some wise man said in the Third Epoch—''Never meddle with time.''"


    "He wasn’t wrong, I suppose. But who am I to reflect on the delusions and philosophy of a senile old man from over 1,400 years ago?"


    Paul once burst in laughing and said:


    "Everything arrives in its time."


    But… damn time!


    "Is it crawling on its knees or what?!"


    All because his order of fancy clothes for my graduation was delayed.


    I laughed to myself.


    Time flies by in the blink of an eye… or the flap of a butterfly’s wings.


    But when I want it to run, it crawls.


    As if time knows I’m trapped in it.


    "It hasn’t even been five months since my graduation."


    But fate doesn’t have the habit of leaving me alone.


    Not when someone else is about to make a decision that will change everything.


    Somewhere in the Military Residential Zone


    When I was a child, Mother gave me a gramophone with the song "Thorns in You." It’s a good melody.


    I also remember the first time I fired my revolver.


    At first, I had one that shot corks from bottles.


    But now, it fires gunpowder.


    The first time I pulled the trigger of a real gun, the vibration ran through my arm up to my shoulder.


    They told me that was normal.


    I only thought about how something so small could decide between life and death.


    "Father, the gramophone is broken again."


    A complaint echoed from afar.


    "Call Chris to fix this damn thing already!"


    I approached the telegraph and tried to send him a message in Morse code.


    The telegraph was the invention of the century, created relatively recently by one of our nation’s scientists.


    It was developed during the war. But today, in times of peace, it had become an everyday tool.


    I sent the message to Mr. Chris.


    He was a reserved man but knowledgeable, someone who kept this house from falling apart.


    I wouldn’t know how to listen to all those melodies without him.


    I wondered what his life was like.


    I had only spoken to him twice, exchanging little more than a few words and some money.


    But he agreed to come.


    "Father, I’ve notified him. He said he’ll be here in about ten minutes."


    "Perfect. The money is where it always is. You’re dismissed."


    The money was in my father’s office, inside one of the main drawers—about three pounds and twenty shillings.


    "How the military salary has fallen, huh?"


    I took the usual amount—four shillings for the repair—and walked to the window while waiting for Mr. Chris to arrive.


    From here, I could see the majestic structure—the Tower of Renewal.


    They called it "The Obelisk of Silence," "The Raven’s Nest"… nonsense from insurgents who didn’t understand the importance of order.


    Fortunately, they were a minority.


    And I existed to ensure they remained one.


    "So they never dare to rise again."