《The Problem with Wandering》 The Hermit MASON There is a ringing of the bell hanging above the door, and, almost immediately, the deep reverberating thrum of bass guitars, which had just been the calm notes of cafe music just seconds before, fills the room. Kailyn must have been waiting right by the stereo for the last customer to leave so she could change the music. I¡¯m counting the till for the end of the day, but I break my focus one second to see Kailyn bounding from the stereo to the front door. She pulls the string on the blinds and they fall into place. There is a click as Kailyn engages the deadbolt. Kailyn turns towards me and reclines against the door. She tilts her head and places the back of her hand on her forehead, feigning exhaustion. ¡°Finally, this hellish day is over,¡± she says with more than a bit of flourish. ¡°Be careful. I wouldn¡¯t want you to hurt yourself,¡± I say chuckling. ¡°Besides, you barely did anything but chat with the cute boys that came in. I was the one making all of the drinks!¡± ¡°How dare you,¡± she retorts putting on certain airs. The show that I¡¯m getting tonight proves just how much her acting classes have been paying off. ¡°Even if that¡¯s true, someone has to entertain our guests,¡± she says dropping the pretentious voice and returning to her normal, sultry tone. ¡°Entertainment? Does that happen before or after you ogle them?¡± ¡°Ogle? Never. Evaluate? Of course!¡± While fun, if not cheeky, the exchange made me lose count of my till. I¡¯ll have to start over. As I begin the count again, Kailyn grabs the broom and tackles that task. Kailyn keeps closing the cafe exciting. My other options are lackluster, being Ted, who is a bore, and Brenda, the owner. Kailyn, on the other hand, has a habit of doing more dancing with the broom than actual sweeping. Like I said, she keeps it exciting. ¡°Any fun plans tonight, Masy,¡± she asks using the pet name she gave me the first time we met. At the time, I thought it was weird that she would immediately give me a nickname, but I would come to find out that is how Kailyn is, endearing. If she doesn¡¯t give you a nickname during the first meeting, it probably means she doesn¡¯t like you. ¡°Nah, I don¡¯t think so. Camille will probably be waiting up to make sure I get home okay. She¡¯s pretty busy with her internship, so I don¡¯t want her to stay up too late.¡± ¡°Are you sure? I¡¯ll be heading to O¡¯Rourke¡¯s if you want to join. I think Trina will be there, too!¡± As if Trina being there is meant to be an incentive. The last time I saw her, she ¡°accidentally¡± poured her drink on me. I don¡¯t think there was anything I did to justify Trina pouring her drink on me, at least not that I can remember, rather it¡¯s a matter of us not liking each other at all. Wanting to avoid any potential gin and tonic downfalls tonight, I tell Kailyn I¡¯ll be passing this time. Kailyn pouts as she makes further cursory passes with the broom, which do little to clean the debris on the floor. A few minutes pass and it seems Kailyn¡¯s cleaning efforts are even lower than usual. ¡°Hey, why don¡¯t you head out to O¡¯Rourke¡¯s? I can finish closing up,¡± I say seeing her lack of enthusiasm towards sweeping the floor of the cafe. Kailyn immediately perks up. ¡°Are you sure? I don¡¯t want to leave all of this for you to do.¡± Her question was clearly perfunctory based on the fact that she was already removing her apron as she asked. ¡°Not a problem. I¡¯m almost done with the till, then it¡¯ll just be a matter of finishing sweeping,¡± I say eyeing the floor, which only causes a slight blush on Kailyn¡¯s face, ¡°and mopping,¡± I continue. Luckily, Brenda expects only expects inventory to be done on Saturdays, so I won¡¯t have to do that tonight. ¡°Thank you so, so much, Masy!¡± I hear as Kailyn bombards me with a hug. I should have been expecting this attack as Kailyn isn¡¯t one to hesitate with showing her gratitude, which is in stark contrast to me. I have been slowly getting used to the hug that accompanies the end of a closing shift with Kailyn to the point where I hug back; however, the first few months were me awkwardly standing there as she squeezed me, nearly to death. Kailyn releases me from her vice-like ¡°hug¡± and kisses me on the cheek. ¡°You know I only give those out to the best of my friends, right? Think of it like a good luck charm.¡± She says playfully with a wink. This causes a large laugh to escape from me. ¡°I know, I¡¯m so lucky to be so blessed.¡± I exaggeratedly bow. Only recently has Kailyn begun to leave me with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I can¡¯t say it has brought much luck my way, but has been nice to be able to have this ritual if nothing more than to feel closely with someone. ¡°Everything okay, Masy? You look like you zoned out for a second there.¡± ¡°Yep! Just thinking about all the sweeping that hasn¡¯t been done,¡± I say jokingly and diverting from the actual thoughts running through my head.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. ¡°Okay good,¡± she says smiling. She begins to walk away from me, ¡°I¡¯m going to get changed, then head out,¡± she calls back to me. ¡°Sounds good. Let me know before you go out the back.¡± With that, I¡¯m left to the beating of the music that Kailyn put on. I have to start counting the till a third time, but with the absence of Kailyn¡¯s excited energy, I find that counting is going much more smoothly. Within a couple of minutes, I finish counting the till and pick up the broom. I pick up where Kailyn left off, which is to say, I start sweeping the floor. About ten minutes later and half of the cafe having been swept, Kailyn emerges from the bathroom. Instead of the flannel and jeans that Brenda requires us to wear as a uniform, Kailyn has donned a tight, black blouse, over which she has layered a denim jacket. She also has a long, red skirt flowing behind her as she trots back to the front of the cafe to ask me how she looks. Kailyn rocks this quasi-bohemian look. ¡°Amazing as always,¡± I say. ¡°About to head out?¡± ¡°Uh-huh,¡± she grunts back due to her having the strap of her purse in her mouth as she rummages around in her bag. She pulls out her phone and begins to type aggressively. ¡°Trina is already there, so I have to hurry. Can I help with anything else, Masy?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be such a dad, Masy. It¡¯s not a good look on you.¡± She retorts and sticks her tongue out. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t be if I didn¡¯t have to worry you¡¯d end up like last time!¡± The last time we went out, Kailyn had more than her share and she had ended up becoming very familiar with the toilet at my apartment. ¡°Masy,¡± she drags the ¡°y¡± out for about four syllables. ¡°It was only one time!¡± ¡°One time my ass!¡± I say, which ends with both of us laughing. ¡°Have fun and text me.¡± ¡°Fine.¡± She says grumpily, again drawing upon her acting training. Her tone only belied by the smile beginning to spread. ¡°Let me know when I can cover for you.¡± She begins to walk towards the back and I follow. ¡°Will do,¡± I say as we enter the kitchen in the back, and eventually the back door. Kailyn opens the door and leaves, only turning back briefly to yell bye. I close the door behind her and lock it. I walk back to the front of the cafe and pick up sweeping where I left off. As I continue the strokes, they begin to line up with the beat of the music. It¡¯s not the type of music that I would have picked, but it¡¯ll work. After another ten or so minutes and three songs later, I finish sweeping. I return to the kitchen and place the broom back in its place in the closet. I pull out the mop and its accompanying bucket. I add a splash of the wholesale cleaning solution that Brenda is so fond of¡ªit is apparently half the price of the brand name solutions¡ªand move the bucket to the nearby sink. Pulling the retractable faucet and placing it over the edge of the bucket, I¡¯m about to begin running the hot water when I hear what sounds like knocking on the glass at the front of the cafe. Was it just a figment of my imagination? My attention returns to the handle of the sink when I definitely hear knocking on the window. I can¡¯t see the storefront from the kitchen, so I walk to the doorway leading to the cafe front and stick my head out around to take a peek. I look towards the front window and I see someone with a black hood over their head. I can¡¯t make out if I know the person or not, so I grab the nearest thing I have to me, which is a wood block attached to one of the bathroom keys. Slowly, I make my way to the door trying to see if I can identify who this is. Then, as I am about two feet from the door, the person lifts their head, and I see that it¡¯s Kailyn. Jesus Christ. I unlock the door and let her in. ¡°You scared the shit out of me!¡± ¡°Sorry, sorry, sorry. I forgot my charger and it was quicker just to come to the front of the store.¡± She says quickly. She runs behind the counter and grabs her charger and returns to the door. ¡°Okay, I¡¯m gone for good now, but one more peck before I go,¡± she gives me a second good luck kiss on the cheek. ¡°See you later!¡± ¡°You too!¡± I yell behind her as she runs down the street. I close the front door and lock it again. Recovering from the shock, I take a few deep breaths. Once my breathing returns to normal, I return to the kitchen and begin filling the mop bucket again. The hot water sloshes into the bucket and, almost instantly, the cleaning solution bubbles, threatening to spill over the sides of the bucket. Trying to prevent an overflow, I turn the water down slightly to let the bubbles recede. After about twenty seconds, the mop bucket is full. I steer the bucket from the kitchen to the front of the cafe and dip the mop. After about 30 minutes, the cafe floor looks like new, or at least as new as the floor of a twenty-five-year-old cafe can look when it hasn¡¯t had new floors in its lifetime. Back in the kitchen, I tip the bucket into a basin sitting low to the floor, which drains directly to the alleyway outside the building¡ªit¡¯s unlikely that this is to code, but the building inspector hasn¡¯t cited us for it yet to my knowledge. The, now gray, soapy water slowly swirls down the drain in the basin. This is one of my favorite parts of closing. Discarding the dirty water down the drain feels like I¡¯m able to just have negative emotions wash away from me. It¡¯s stupid, I know, but I can¡¯t help it. As I¡¯m lost in thought, a familiar sound strikes throughout the cafe¡ªthe rapping of knuckles on the window front. Thinking that Kailyn has forgotten something else, I take my time lowering the mop bucket to the floor. Then, I leisurely walk to the front of the store. Looking at the window of the cafe, I expect to see Kailyn huddling in the rain; instead, there was no one. Not a single person standing there and no explanation for the tapping I heard on the glass. Thinking it had been my imagination, I return to the kitchen and finish cleaning. Now that the closing tasks are finished, I go to the register and clock out at 2:00 a.m. I wasn¡¯t expecting this late of a night, but oh well. Out of the corner of my eye, it looks as if a shadow moved in front of the window of the cafe, but when I turn my focus to the window, there doesn¡¯t seem to be anything there. My mind is really getting the better of me tonight. I quickly go to the door and make sure that it is locked. Confirming that it is, I wind my way back through the cafe front to the kitchen, then to the back door. I exit, then turn around to lock the door. I jiggle the handle to ensure that this door is locked as well. Then, I turn toward the end of the alley and begin my way home. I make it to the end of the alley and turn right hearing toward my apartment. Death Releases MASON Walking down the street, the faces of the people making their way past me are illuminated by the lights pouring from the windows of the shops. Even though it is past 2:00 a.m., this is a large city and the street is still bustling with people. While it would normally be even busier, the unexpected downpour has soaked the big city to its core, and those unwilling to trudge through the unexpected weather have sought shelter. The rest of us, I imagine, have been soaked, like the big city, because of the weatherman¡¯s unsurprising failure to predict the fickle fall weather. The sidewalk is slick due to the rain, so I take each step carefully. I should have worn better shoes and I should have brought my umbrella. Water is pooling into puddles in low spots on the street, and a car drives by and sprays the now brown water onto an unlucky pedestrian twenty feet or so in front of me. I see the person throw their arms up and, as futile as it may be, start to shout at the car. Looking around, some of the other people look at the now water-logged person listening to their chain of obscenities, others ignore them altogether. I fall into the latter category knowing that the water-logged person¡¯s shouts aren¡¯t going to get them anywhere. Continuing down the street, I pause every so often to look into one of those windows to see if anything sparks my interest. Unfortunately, it¡¯s more often that nothing does. I walk about a block, and then, I do see one shop that catches my eye. I¡¯ve probably walked past it hundreds of times, but this is the first time that I stop to take a look. Like most of the stores on this street, the store is an older brownstone and connected to the shops on either side. To the left is a pet grooming salon, and to the right a small bakery. The store that has caught my eye has a dark purple banner above the doorway, and there is scrawling silver script displaying just one word, ¡°Genesis.¡± That¡¯s simple; I¡¯ll give them that. Beneath the banner, there are two large windows showing the shop¡¯s wares. Without having to look too hard, I see that it¡¯s a new age shop; the products displayed in the window sit upon violet-colored silk. There are crystals, ranging from opaque white to deep black, and books about finding yourself and learning spiritual laws. Not going to lie, I¡¯m not a big believer in all of that. Despite this, a compulsion keeps my attention directed at the shop¡¯s window. What appears to be a deck of cards captures my attention. It is clearly a deck of tarot cards, but what interests me is that the shop has one specific card from the set on display. The background of the card is a deep, sapphire blue. With the way that the art was drawn, there is a large full moon, which is partially shrouded in clouds in the background. In the foreground, there is an old man. In one outstretched hand, he holds a lantern as if trying to guide his way. In his other hand, which he holds closer to himself, is a long cane on which it appears he is supporting himself. The man has a long, white beard and he is wearing a light gray cloak. Looking at the bottom of the card, flowing gold lettering broadcasts that this man is "The Hermit." I can¡¯t tell what it is, but something about this card resonates with me. As I continue to stare at the card, it¡¯s almost as if the hand holding the lantern is moving. Are my eyes playing a trick on me? The lantern looks almost as if it is about to leap off of the card. Something or someone pushes me from behind, and suddenly, my forehead hits the glass. Drawing myself up and preparing to confront someone, I turn and shout, ¡°Hey, watch it!¡± There isn¡¯t anyone behind me. A few feet down the street there are a few drunk guys staggering along. They collectively cast a glance back at me, but they continue on. One of them must have accidentally bumped into me. I reach up to my forehead and rub the spot where it connected with the glass. It¡¯s not too bad. There will probably be a red mark for a day or two. I turn back towards the window. I hadn¡¯t realized how close I had gotten to it. Turning my attention to ¡°The Hermit,¡± it looks exactly like it did when I first saw it. Not for the first time tonight, my imagination got the better of me. Tearing my attention away from the card, I see that my hard head cracked the glass. I silently swear to myself. When I look at my reflection, the crack is right below my eye. It almost looks like the crack is creating a trail of tears on my reflection. After being jostled by the stranger, the compulsion I had been feeling is broken. Now that the uncanny attraction to the shop window is gone, I should probably continue on my way home. Camille will be waiting up for me though she would never admit that. Camille and I met during our freshman year at college and immediately hit it off. We worked at a retail store that sold apparel from the university that we attend. We¡¯ve been nearly inseparable since we met and after we moved out of the dorms, we decided we¡¯d live together. I know that Camille hates these late-night walks I take, but they are the only things that let me sort myself out. While she will be in her room, I know that Camille won¡¯t allow herself to fall asleep until she knows I am back home. She has been working on a big business deal for her internship as of late, which has left her exhausted, so I start to feel guilty for contributing to that exhaustion. I take one last look at my reflection. The familiar green eyes stare back at me. Dark bags under my eyes lie in stark contrast to the rest of my pale, freckled skin. Maybe Camille isn¡¯t the only exhausted one. I also see my hair, which is auburn and at my standard medium length, is matted down due to the rain. As he often does, the weatherman got the forecast wrong for today, so what was supposed to be a clear, starry night is actually nearing on torrential and, once again, I should have brought my damn umbrella. One backpack strap is slung across my right shoulder. My headphones cover my ears and the cord leads to my phone that I have tucked away in the pocket of my black jacket, which covers my flannel uniform. I look down at my torn jeans and my vision finally trails to the black boots I¡¯m wearing. By all accounts, I¡¯m soaked. That damn weatherman. Having determined that the rain has left me looking like a dog that recently took a dip in a nearby pool, I turn and continue on my way. I¡¯m about five blocks from my apartment. Again, I can¡¯t help but take in my surroundings as I walk on. The drunk guys from before are stopped on the other side of the street. They must have crossed the street while I was assessing my reflection in the shop window. They call out to me, I think. With the music blaring from my headphones, I can¡¯t hear them; they are mouthing things while looking in my direction. Should I stop and hear them out? No, it¡¯s already too late and who knows how long that conversation might last. I turn my attention back in front of me and continue on. Once again, I¡¯m glad that I won¡¯t leave the house without my headphones. They act as my own personal shield against the rest of the world. The music that is thrumming in my ears ensnares my attention. As I listen, I realize that I may have been a little heavy-handed with the bubblegum pop tonight. Oh well. My head rocks with the beat and my mind wanders with the synth as it weaves in and out with the singer¡¯s voice. Coming out of my electro-pop stupor, I¡¯m now about three blocks from my apartment. While I had been absent-mindedly walking the last two blocks, something out of the corner of my eye brings me back to my senses. On the other side of the street, the group of drunk guys must have taken off in another direction because I can¡¯t see them anymore. The closer I get to my apartment, the fewer shops and bars there are. Because of that, there are fewer and fewer people around me. But I do see one person, dressed in all black, which nearly mirrors my own outfit. While there is nothing about this person that is obviously threatening, something in my gut tells me that this person is terrifying. The people and shops, and their lights, are behind me. The fear could be the lack of lights, the time of night, or because I can¡¯t see the person¡¯s face, but I¡¯m not sure. Nothing about this person indicates that they are a threat to me, but that doesn¡¯t stop my mind from conjuring up a thousand different things that this person might do to me. It¡¯s just another person taking a late-night walk; I think to myself in an effort to calm down. It doesn¡¯t work. How many times have I seen someone just like this out my late-night walks? What is it about this person that has sent me over the edge. Now, it¡¯s not just rain wetting my face, but sweat has begun to mix. My breath is catching. Am I about to have a panic attack? If this person is after me, I can¡¯t stop to try and catch my breath. My pace quickens trying to make it to my apartment. But when I quicken, I notice the person keeps pace. Is my mind playing a trick on me? Despite how hard it is, I slow down and confirm that the person does the same. The beating in my ears is keeping time with my heart. The realization slams into me like a wave crashing into shore.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. At this point, my apartment is only a block away. Do I call the police? What would I say? ¡°I think a person is following me?¡± Probably. I look to my left and see that the person is starting to cross the street. My heart begins beating double-time. My hand instinctively reaches for my phone, my body apparently making the decision to call the police before my mind could. The person reaches into their jacket and their hand disappears for a second. When they next reveal their hand, they are holding something that is reflecting the light from the street lamps. It doesn¡¯t take long for it to register with me that the person now has a knife in hand, which is pointed directly at me. Where my body had made the decision to call the police, it now decided that the most appropriate reaction would be to run. Fast. At this point, the only thing I can think is ¡°don¡¯t go home.¡± I can¡¯t let this person know where I live. My mind is reeling. I need to find people. Without thinking about it, screams escape from me. My screams mix with the synth blaring in my ears. Chancing a look behind me, the person hasn¡¯t stopped their pursuit and is running behind me. I pass by my apartment. I keep running. My breath is getting ragged due to the running and the panic. Up on the right, I see light emanating from an intersection. Once I reach the light, I turn towards it hoping this will throw the person off. I turn and continue about ten feet, then, a full stop. Fuck. This is a dead-end alley. The light that was from a single bulb on the back wall of a restaurant over the restaurant¡¯s dumpster. I look back and the person hasn¡¯t caught up with me yet, but if I were to try and go back, I would run right into them. My only chance is to hide behind the dumpster and hope that the person didn¡¯t see me turn. I reach the dumpster and kneel down. I do my best to regulate my breathing. It¡¯s not easy. I reach into my pocket and turn my music off. I strain my ears trying to listen. Did the person follow me down the alley? All there is is a ¡°whoosh¡± of blood rushing in my ears. Focus. I hear it. There are footsteps in the puddles that pooled from the rain. I begin to hold my breath. I slip my backpack off my shoulder; if nothing else, I can throw it at my pursuer as a distraction. I pull the backpack in front of me and get ready to throw it. I see one leg appear in front of me. As fast as I can, I jump up and launch my backpack at the person. ¡°What the fuck?¡± I hear. I¡¯m about to start running, but I see this person isn¡¯t my pursuer, rather someone, likely a busboy, who was taking out the last of the restaurant¡¯s garbage from the day. I quickly glance around, but I don¡¯t see my pursuer. ¡°Hey, uh, I think you dropped this,¡± the busboy¡¯s words bring me back to my senses. I look at him and he¡¯s holding my backpack out to me, clearly wanting me to take it. Looking at him, a mixture of exasperation and frustration stares right back at me. ¡°What were you doing hiding behind that dumpster?¡± He asks without waiting for me to take my bag back. ¡°Yeah, sorry about that.¡± I stutter with a bit of a chuckle, trying to lighten the situation. ¡°I was on my way home when someone started following me. They were dressed in all black, and I could have sworn that they had a hunting knife or something.¡± I spit this all out as I realize that I was beginning to ramble. As I explain the last few minutes of my night, I see the look on his face transition from annoyance to concern. Looking back on it, could I have imagined the whole thing? It was late and didn¡¯t have the easiest day. Maybe it was a trick of my imagination. Having already thrown my backpack at him, I don¡¯t want to be any more of an imposition. ¡°You know what. Maybe it was all just my imagination. It¡¯s pretty late and I¡¯m tired,¡± trying to be as convincing as possible. Based on his facial expressions, I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve succeeded. ¡°Do you want to come inside the restaurant and call someone? We just finished closing up. My manager is still inside and we could wait with you or something.¡± A concerned look still plastered on his face as he says this. This only further cements that my attempts to be reassuring failed. ¡°Thanks for the offer, but really, I should be okay. I only live about two blocks back. In the case that some maniac was trying to off me with a hunting knife, I didn¡¯t want to lead them right to my place.¡± I slap a smile on my face as a second attempt to show that I am fine if not a little paranoid. ¡°If it¡¯s that close, I could walk you back quickly. Let me just tell my manager quickly,¡± he says starting back towards the door. At this point, I¡¯m feeling a little ridiculous. Maybe someone had been chasing me, but it was clear that they weren¡¯t here anymore. Now, I have this guy who probably just wants to finish his shift offering to walk me home. I can start to feel the embarrassment welling up in my stomach. ¡°Honestly, it¡¯s okay. You don¡¯t need to walk me home. I should be able to be back there in less than five minutes,¡± I say. He pauses with the door open about three-quarters of the way. Turning back to me, ¡°You know, it¡¯s not every day that I have a backpack chucked at me and get the chance to rescue a cute guy. So, if I can help, I definitely will.¡± What was concern less than minute ago is now a smile directed right at me. That sinking feeling that I had been feeling in my stomach morphed into a burning flush radiating from my cheeks. ¡°T-thanks,¡± I sputter with the one-word response. ¡°Finally, proof that chivalry isn¡¯t dead. It only took me throwing my backpack to find it.¡± I shoot him a genuine smile. ¡°Well, if I can¡¯t convince you to let me walk you home, can I at least walk you to the end of the alley?¡± He pleads with a downturned face and looking at me with puppy-dog eyes. ¡°I guess that couldn¡¯t hurt,¡± accepting his offer. With that, we turn towards the opening of the alley and begin walking. As we walk, I begin to calm down. We reach the mouth of the alley and the busboy turns towards me. ¡°Since you won¡¯t let me walk you home, can I at least convince you to come see me at the restaurant some time?¡± A hopeful face on full display. ¡°I could definitely see that in the cards.¡± A flush creeping in on my cheeks. With that, his face lights up. ¡°Great! Just ask for Tony,¡± he exclaims with a huge smile. ¡°I guess it¡¯s time for us to part ways,¡± Tony states matter-of-factly, if not a little disappointed. Reluctantly, I agree and Tony walks towards the back door of the restaurant. Once he reaches it, he opens the door and gives me one last look and a wink. He walks into the back of the restaurant and the door shuts with a thud. Because the night is so silent, I can hear the click of a lock engaging. It¡¯s only then that my face begins to cool from the flush. Tony. This could be very interesting. I replace my headphones and start my music again. Taking the short walk back to my apartment shouldn¡¯t be too bad. The interaction with Tony has completely wiped away my earlier fear. This night has been a rollercoaster. When I¡¯m about 30 feet from my building, I look towards the door. Any blush that was still remaining is immediately gone. I stop dead in my tracks. Standing on the first step leading to my door is a familiar figure. Someone dressed in all black. The person is looking right at me and as some sort of macabre wave is swinging the knife in a back-and-forth motion. A dark cold invades the warmth and security I had been feeling from my encounter with Tony. Before I can process this scene, the person jumps off the step and resumes the chase that had been interrupted earlier. I turn on my heel and run back towards the alley. Maybe I can get Tony¡¯s attention by banging on the door. I force myself not to look behind me and focus on moving forward. I take the right down the alleyway and can hear something slice through the air right behind me. I make it to the door and begin hitting the door. Within seconds, the person is behind me. Before I can turn around to confront them, I feel pain in my lower back. My breath catches. As my attacker pulls the knife out, a burning sensation, completely different than the burning in my face earlier, starts to pulse through my body, originating from the wound on my back. Salty, warm tears begin to stream down my face. That familiar pain hits me on my right side about halfway down my ribcage. I start to cough and hold my hand to my mouth. As I draw my hand away from my mouth, it has been tinted crimson red. The burning again as the attacker unsheathes the knife from my body a second time. My legs become weak and I fall to my knees. The only thing supporting me is the cool metal of the back door to the restaurant. I should have went with Kailyn tonight. My brain starts to get fuzzy, almost like white noise. Tears well up and my vision gets fainter. My breathing becomes more laborious. I¡¯m too weak to turn my head and look, but as I¡¯m fading out, it¡¯s almost as if theater curtains are closing to prepare for intermission. Black shrouds the edges of my vision and begin to close. I can no longer smell the humidity on the air that the torrential rain had imbued. I can¡¯t move my arms and longer and I can¡¯t feel the cool metal of the door on my forehead anymore. The only thing left is the splashing of puddles that the stranger trudges through, which sounds like crashing waves in the dead night. The crashing begins to subside, and I hear my attacker whistling a high-pitched tune floating over to me. Then, silence. Another Day Commander stuck me with beat patrol today again. I had been hoping to get a more exciting assignment. What did the Commander say? ¡°You have to work your way up to the better assignments, Greer.¡± Turns out life here isn¡¯t too much different than on the other side. Despite assuming their responsibilities after me, I have seen male rookies ascend the ranks faster than me, but I have been stuck on beat patrol since I decided to join the spirit unit of S.E.R.A.P.H. nearly two years ago. What could I do to prove myself to the Commander? I put these frustrations aside for now and focus on the task at hand. I have to check each of the Wards to make sure they are functioning. I make my way to the first few and they are working just fine. I make my way to the fourth and notice that it is dim and flickering. That one will have to be recharged. I take out the double-sided tiln, a tool that looks like a tuning fork on both ends. Unlike a turning fork, point of the tiln ends in a razor-sharp point. As I walk towards the the dying Ward, I spin my tiln on my finger using the hole I drilled in the center after I completed the academy. Once I¡¯m a few steps away from the Ward, I stop spinning the tiln. I begin running the points on one end of my left forearm and I can almost feel the metal of the tiln wanting to puncture the soft skin on the underside of my forearm. Do I stick with my left arm or switch to my right today? As soon as I close the distance to the Ward, the hair on the nape of my neck begins to stand on end. Goosebumps begin to appear on my arms. The Wards always cause me to have these involuntary reactions. From afar, the posts of the Wards look to be metal, but the closer you are, they are more of a fleshy, organic structure. Overcoming the anxiety induced by the Ward, I stabilize myself by placing my left hand on the post. I can feel the fleshy structure give way, the slightest bit, as I rest my weight on it. I reach back my right hand, which is holding the tiln. Then, with as much force as I can, I bring the tiln forward and stab the post with one end. Mentally, I review my form and can¡¯t help but be proud on how perfectly I executed the maneuver. This move is one of the first that they teach you in the academy. It seems so simple, but a wrong angle can cause disaster, namely the individual could Wither. Withering. The thought brings me back to something I blocked out some time ago. Rather than think about that, I return my focus to the dying Ward in front of me. Knowing that the tiln is firmly implanted in the post, I move my left hand closer to the site and wrap my fingers around the post. Then, I place my left forearm on the other end of the tiln. Once I know the tines are perfectly lined up, I lean forward and allow the tiln to puncture my forearm. The points of the tiln dig deeply into the flesh of my forearm and a searing pain begins to creep up my left arm. I know that if I were to look down, I would see the faint traces of a black line slowly winding its way towards my heart. But I haven¡¯t watched this part of the transference since I was in the academy.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. After a few chilling seconds, I know that the most painful part of the transference will begin. My vision becomes cloudy and I begin to remember him. As much as I tried to displace the memory before, the transference won¡¯t let me forget. He is skipping down the sidewalk in front of me and he¡¯s beckoning me to follow because he wants to show me the latest creature at the riverbank. For mere seconds, I¡¯m back with him and I¡¯m nearly overcome with emotion. Then, without warning, the memory is ripped away and I feel a warmth racing down my left arm. I can finally look down during this part of the transference. Where there would have been an inky black line before, a blazing white line has replaced it. That¡¯s what the transference does. It takes. It strips. After only so long can one person do the beat patrols because eventually they have nothing else to transfer to the Wards. The sacrifice that patrols make is one of S.E.R.A.P.H.¡¯s closely-held secrets. It¡¯s also why most patrols don¡¯t stay as such for very long. Breaking from my reverie, I watch the white energy dart towards the tiln. As the white energy passes through the metal of the tiln, the tiln heats to an almost unbearable temperature. Like the memory, the heat passes quickly. After the burning energy leaves the tiln, it travels to the post. Then, almost mirroring the way it looked in my veins, the energy travels up the post to the Ward at the top. Once the energy hits the Ward, the light flashes; the light is so bright in that instant that it seems like a camera¡¯s flash went off just millimeters from my eyes. After the burst of light, the Ward quickly settles to a normal level of brightness. I give my eyes a minute to adjust and try to blink away the after images. Once my vision is clear again, I pull my left arm away from the tiln and wrap a makeshift bandage around it. Then, I reach out my right hand to the tiln and begin to pry it away from the post of the post. I give the Ward a second glance to ensure that the transference remained successful. When I¡¯m satisfied, I turn away and begin twirling my tiln in my right hand again. Walking away, I really hope that the rest of the Wards in my district are functioning. I don¡¯t think that I would be able to handle remembering or losing too much more today. After all, memories were meant to stay in the past, right? An Uninvited Guest SHAY Walking down the street, I¡¯m still lost in thought. While my thoughts have me somewhat preoccupied, I¡¯m still acutely aware that the street is pretty empty today. Not that the streets are that full normally, but I have not seen another soul today. The Workers must be doing a hell of a job getting people beyond today. Rather than fixating on the lack of people on the street, I turn my attention to the veil. The rippling in the veil can play tricks on the eyes. If I unfocus my eyes just a bit, I can see shapes beginning to form. It reminds me of a memory that has yet to be taken from me. That memory is of the times that we would lie on our backs and stare up the clouds. In those moments, we would both try to compete to see who could find the better object all the way up in the sky. Each time, he would remind me that this was called paira¡­parre¡­pareidolia. That¡¯s it. Pareidolia. He always managed to find the better object, but this was a game I was always willing to let him win. My eyes begin to burn, but this time, it doesn¡¯t have anything to do with the Wards. Just then, the crackling of the Commander¡¯s voice coming through the pin at my collar yanks me back to reality. I am both grateful for and immensely pissed off about the distraction. ¡°Greer¡­Greer, can you hear me okay?¡± The Commander¡¯s tinny voice rings out in the silence of the street. ¡°Hey, Commander, you¡¯re perfectly clear.¡± I lie. ¡°Good, good. How¡­are the¡­Wards¡­day?¡± ¡°Only one in my district was low. Completed the transference, sir, and everything appears to be back to normal now.¡± ¡°Goo¡­to hear Gree¡­Return to headquarters as soon as possib¡­¡± ¡°Will do, Commander.¡± I reply quickly and then cover the pin. It wouldn¡¯t surprise me if wants me back at headquarters to clean up some mess after one of the other patrol officers. Can¡¯t expect the men to pick up after themselves after all, musing to myself, I scoff. Pausing for a second, I try to think of anything besides the dolts back at headquarters or of him. Unfortunately, it¡¯s not that easy to do today. Because I¡¯m so preoccupied with my thoughts, I don¡¯t notice the black-clad figure sneak up on me, then eventually walk in step with me. ¡°How goes it today, Patrolman Greer?¡± The figures asks in a jeeringly way. This is potentially the most unpleasant interruption that could have occurred. ¡°What do you want?¡± ¡°Not a very nice way to greet someone, is that?¡± My uninvited and unwanted guest responds, their tone implying that my words have stung them, but their face remains a sneer. They¡¯re a manipulative twat, so I have to always keep my guard up around them. ¡°I like to keep the pleasantries to people I enjoy being around. Seems you don¡¯t make the list.¡± With that, I quicken my pace trying to leave them behind. ¡°Come now, Greer, won¡¯t you make some time for an old friend?¡± The interloper shouts from behind me. I stop and make an about face. ¡°¡®Friend¡¯ would suggest that I liked you at some point. I can¡¯t say that¡¯s ever been the case.¡± ¡°¡¯Tis a dismal world where such beauty would utter such hateful words,¡± they respond in a dramatic tone while raising their open right hand and placing it over their heart. I could be wrong, but it looks like they have a single tear beginning to form at the corner of their left eye. Before a stream could begin in full, they look me directly in the eyes and begin to laugh. ¡°Did you enjoy the show? I took some pointers from the greats¡­Shakespeare¡­Euripides¡­the list goes on.¡±Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. ¡°Based on that show, I would think the ¡®greats¡¯ would be rolling in their graves if I didn¡¯t already know they had passed beyond.¡± My words have little effect on them. Turning away, I begin to walk again. ¡°Once again, you prove that the world¡¯s most beautiful things do, in fact, have thorns.¡± They have moved on to displaying a look of deep sorrow. Again, if I didn¡¯t know better, I would be hook, line, and sinker for this performance. ¡°Greer, I do have a message. Well, two really.¡± While I was hoping this would be a brief intrusion, I guess I was wrong. Once again, I turn back to them. ¡°Get on with it.¡± ¡°Touchy, touchy, Greer. Don¡¯t shoot the messenger and all that.¡± A twisted smile adorns their face. ¡°My patience is limited and draws thinner by the second. What the hell do you want?¡± ¡°You¡¯re no fun. Did you know that?¡± They shift from side to side. The one good thing about them is that they can¡¯t stay in one place for too long, which seems like it might begin working to my benefit soon. ¡°I¡¯ve just got no time for someone like you.¡± I say tersely. ¡°Look at where we are, Greer. We have nothing but time!¡± They gleefully shout into the air. Involuntarily, I look around. It¡¯s almost like the veil responded to their words. The shapes in the veil begin to shift rapidly. Where I could distinguish shapes before, they begin to blur. I can¡¯t begin to understand why the veil would be reacting to them in this way. ¡°If you don¡¯t get to the point, I swear you¡¯ll become familiar with my blades.¡± Reaching to my sides, my hands find the hilts of each of my curved daggers. For the first time, their face falters. That moment of vulnerability lasted for only a second, however. ¡°Fine.¡± For the first time, their voice, much like my daggers, has a sharp edge. ¡°Our fair leader wanted me to let you know that there will be a meeting tomorrow. 22:00 sharp. Don¡¯t be late.¡± ¡°Was it really that hard to just tell me that from the start?¡± ¡°Greery, oh Greery. You need to loosen up a bit and have some more fun.¡± Apparently, their good mood had returned. ¡°The second message?¡± I ask impatiently with my hands on my hips but no longer on the hilts of my daggers. Now that they had passed on the message, it would only be so long before they left. In response to my question, their smile returned, but now, even wider. ¡°Thank you for the reminder. How could I forget the even more exciting news.¡± The dark tone in their voice belies the flashy smile. ¡°I got you a little gift. It should be back in an alley a few blocks back.¡± They say this waving behind them and, impossibly, their smile grows. ¡°Have fun.¡± Their final remark before they begin to walk away. ¡°Wait! What the hell did you do?¡± I yell after them. Without stopping, they look back to me. ¡°Find out for yourself. See you at the meeting.¡± Their final words before they turn a corner and vanish. For a second, I¡¯m paralyzed in stunned silence. What did they do? Why are they doing this? Why are they so happy about it? Those thoughts and more cloud my mind. Better to rip the bandage off. I begin jogging in the direction that they indicated. As I go, I look down all of the alleyways looking for the ¡°gift.¡± After about four blocks, the only things of note have been a few of the usual suspects hanging around chatting. So far, I have not found anything noteworthy. Then, I come upon an alleyway on the sixth block. I stop in my tracks. The one thing I still haven¡¯t gotten used to is seeing a fresh spirit, especially one who met an untimely death. Death leaves an imprint on the spirit. That imprint takes time to wear off once the spirit makes it here. The burning in my eyes returns, but I¡¯m not lucky enough to be interrupted this time. Streams run down my cheeks. My eyes the bubbling spring from which they originate. The cause? Near the end of the alleyway, a figure is slouched against a door. A large, phantasmal hunting knife juts from the figure¡¯s back. Just then, the figure, using its arms, reaches behind itself almost as if checking for something. The hands pass right through the ghostly blade in his back. Then, the figure tilts its head up and I can now see that the figure is actually a young man. He can¡¯t possibly be older than 25. Knowing I have to do something, I wipe away my tears and throw back my shoulders. ¡°Aye, what are you doing over there?¡± I call down the alleyway. Breaking Through Abrahim The whimpering eventually ceases as the junior Worker begins to calm from the last experiment. Luckily, the walls of the chamber we are in have been soundproofed, not exactly due to the current use of the chamber, however, it benefits me regardless. The walls are bare save for the sigils, which prevent the cries of the junior Worker from being heard by anyone else in the large building. Well, this isn¡¯t working at all. I turn my attention back to the junior Worker who is strapped to the chair in the middle of the chamber. The chamber is lit only by three torches nestled in sconces on the walls. Despite the dim light in the chamber, I see pain and fear swimming in the junior Worker¡¯s eyes. Fresh tears mix with and rehydrate the stale streaks of tears on her face. I lean down and whisper a command in her ear. A command in a language lost to all but the most senior of Workers. She is to forget what happened today, return to her sleeping quarters, and should anyone ask what she had been doing, she is to inform them that we were training. Once her tears have stopped, I confirm that the command has taken hold. I undo the straps and she is able to stand up. She extends her arms and stretches. As if noticing me for the first time, she gives me an admiring look and says a greeting. ¡°Worker, what did you do today?¡± I ask. One last test to ensure the command has set. Almost immediately, ¡°Worker Abrahim, surely you know. We trained all day. We began to study the best methods of helping those move on who died from tragic accidents. Don¡¯t you remember?¡± ¡°Of course. Consider it a small test, Worker. Go on.¡± I wave dismissively towards the door to the chamber. The young Worker gives a small nod of her head and departs from the chamber. As the door opens, I see the dark wood of my walnut desk. The large window behind the desk provides ambient light from the eternal sunset of the Wandering Plane. ¡°Well, did you find out how to break the curse?¡± A strong voice shatters the brief silence that had invaded the room. ¡°Not today, but it was more promising. She was able to endure much longer than the Worker last week. He was nearly broken within the first hour of experiments. She tolerated experimentation for just over two hours. It seems progress is being made.¡± I respond in an analytical tone. ¡°At least there is that, I suppose,¡± he says, but the doubt in his voice is apparent. ¡°I have to figure it out. For me and for you,¡± almost pleading with him to understand. ¡°Abe, you have the opportunity move on. Do not end up like me. You do not have to save me.¡± ¡°You know that I cannot and will not stop. If there is a way to break the chains that bind us, then I will find it. You have my word.¡± I finally look in the direction of the voice. Almost as if he were standing in the chamber with me, I see Zeke. Yet, I know that he cannot physically be here. His physical body is under lock and key. Despite being broken physically, Zeke has become more adept at sending his spirit to speak with me.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. ¡°Do not expend too much energy to be here speaking with me. You need to save your strength.¡± ¡°Calm, Abe. I will be fine. Just as I would be fine if you decided to pass your position on.¡± He looks at me with rueful eyes. ¡°You can move on.¡± ¡°No, I will not. That is the end of it.¡± With that, I stride out of the chamber and leave Zeke behind. I could not let him see me upset about this situation. That would only cause him to lose more hope. I walk over to the desk and place my hands upon it. My head is hanging low. I remain as such, until I hear a knock at the door to the library. ¡°Yes?¡± A meek administrator opens the door and pops her head in. ¡°Worker Abrahim, you have a new case. Frances would like your immediate attention.¡± ¡°Of course she does. Thank you, I will be right out.¡± With the assurance that my attention would be promptly given, the administrator closes the door and retreats. I run a hand through my dark black hair. I realize that I have been holding my breath for a few seconds. I exhale. Until I am able to sever the binds on Zeke and myself, I will have to play the dutiful servant. What is a few more days or weeks after a millennia of service? I stand up and take a few seconds to compose myself. I walk towards the door. Before exiting, I grab the hideous coat befitting Workers, an olive green jacket with bright red accents, from the coat stand to the right of the door. I open the door and exit my library, my refuge. I enter the antechamber that leads to the large room where the crowd of the lost would be waiting. I take the trip slowly, trying to delay the inevitable. Other Workers loaf around in the hallway, which only fuels my desire to avoid my responsibilities. After a minute or so of walking, I come to the dark black door. I stand in front of it, then I take my last opportunity to ready myself. After a few more seconds, I decide that I can no longer delay. I open the door and walk through. Every fiber of my being yearns to be back in my library¡ªto be back in my own dominion. Despite this, I have to keep moving forward as it is my duty. I pledged myself to this duty all those years ago for better or for worse. My mind lingers on this thought only a moment longer. No use regretting past mistakes. I draw out the simple notecard with my subjects name on it. ¡°Mason Behlke, 23 years old, murdered.¡± Not much to it, but the notecard includes a small picture of the subject. Familiarizing myself, I note that there¡¯s nothing too remarkable about this subject. I have had the pleasure of helping some of the living world¡¯s most famous move on in the past. After a few hundred years, with very few exceptions, my work became extremely monotonous. Every once in a while, an anomalous case comes before me, but I would not wager that happens too often. Save for being murdered, nothing about this case screams to me that it will be one of the outliers. Often those who have been murdered do not want to take too much time investigating it; rather, they usually wish to move on the fastest. With my thumb, I rub the notecard to activate the thread connecting it to its sister, which should be in the hand of my subject. The thread appears and weaves in and out of the crowd. I begin to follow it. As I pass through crowds of those seeking to rest, I utter pleasantries and excuse myself. After I have crossed a better half of the large room, I see the thread taking a much more direct route. What is likely 50 feet in front of me, the subject sits. Perhaps, I was wrong about this one because not only is the subject there, but with him is Officer Greer. If she is here, it must mean my subject could not find the will to move on. It has been far too long since I have administered a Retracing. My mood immediately improves and is almost giddy. Now, with a very slight skip to my step, I close the remaining distance between us. As I close in, Officer Greer sees me first. Upon seeing me, her face pales and a mask constituting both anger and fear shields what is normally a beautiful and easy-going facade. Now that I¡¯m within earshot, I can hear her mumble something to him and his response. r. Behlke, I am glad you found your way here, presumably thanks to Officer Greer. I am Worker Abrahim and I will be assisting you today.¡± Just A Number, Pt. 1 MASON The black shrouds at the edges of my vision begin to recede as if preparing for the third act of a macabre play. Trying to clear my vision, I blink my eyes a couple of times. Remembering what just happened, I reach behind my back but don''t feel anything--no blood, no wound. I check my right side, too, and again, nothing. Was that all a dream? The cool metal of a door is pressing against my forehead. I lean back, still on my knees. If it had been a dream, why was I still in the alleyway? I try to think about it again, remembering the burning pain of the knife exiting my body. My first memory of it brings tears to my eyes, but the longer I think about that pain, the harder it becomes to remember. The more I think about my murder and the events surrounding it, the more the memory acts like smoke escaping from my flailing hands. Eventually, even Tony''s kind face is lost to the abyss consuming the memory of my death. Turning my head towards the sky, it no longer appears to be night. Rather, the sky is empty. No sun, no moon, no clouds, no stars. It''s more like dusk when the setting sun casts pink and orange hues, which have spread across the whole expanse of the sky. I have no idea how long I kneel there staring at the sky. I can''t hear any of the familiar noises of the city, instead it''s silent. Usually, silence bothers me, but now, the silence is comforting, almost as if enveloping me in an embrace. The silence is broken when I hear something towards the entrance of the alleyway. "Aye, what are you doing over there?" A gruff voice inquires. The voice shatters the silence and nearly has me on my back from surprise. I look to the mouth of the alleyway and see an individual that appears to be some sort of officer standing with hands on her hips. She wears a black, collared shirt and black, tailored pants. A badge hangs from the pocket right above her left breast. Thick, square-framed glasses sit on the bridge of her nose and the springy curls of her black hair jut freely, perfectly framing her face. Despite missing a proclivity for women, this officer has me in awe. My non-response clearly wasn''t acceptable as she begins to walk towards me. "Do I need to ask again?" Her tone implying that if she does, there will be trouble. "No, uh, sorry." The best response I can muster. As my weak words reach her, there is a noticeable change from the hard-edge officer to an almost matronly concern. "You poor thing. A lost soul." She says matter-of-factly. "By the looks of it, you must have been offed here. And all alone in this alleyway," she glances around mournfully. "No way for a young guy like you to go." Her words infiltrated my mind and began to pulsate deep within me. A pit grew within my stomach as my mind attempted to grasp at a memory long gone. This pang of remembrance almost has me to tears, but I can''t understand why. Then, almost as quickly as her words brought these feelings upon me, they were gone. Like a slate being wiped clean, my mind was back to wondering why the sky looks so odd and who this person speaking to me is. She must have noticed the rapidly shifting emotions ravaging me. Her expression that had ranged from stern to pleasant to neutral now displayed only a deep pity, clearly directed at me. "Poor thing," she repeats as she extends her hand to me. "Watch Shaila Greet. What''s your name, guy?" I accept her outreached hand and she firmly grasps my hand, a warm calm washes over me. She hoists me up with a little too much force and I struggle to balance for a split second once I''m back on my feet. Confusion fogs my thinking, so it''s not until she asks my name again that I realize I have yet to answer. "Sorry, I''m Mason." "No need to apologize to me, Mason." She responds kindly and not so successfully hiding the pity in her voice. "Feel free to call me Shay. I only let friends call me that," she says while winking in a clear effort to lend me comfort. "Thanks, Shay," I respond feeling relieved that she is here to help despite the strange circumstances. "This may be a stupid question, but where are we?" I question looking around. The buildings seem to be the same as I remember, but the sky is off and there seems to be a shimmering veil covering everything like dew clinging to grass on a warm summer morning. Beyond these differences, there are far more streetlights than I remember. Each of these streetlights casts a strong white light that extends farther than it should. Despite the surroundings being familiar, the strange changes that I have noticed have me awestruck and my mouth is agape in amazement. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. Shay''s eyes brighten, clearly glad to leave the discussion of my arrival to this place for now. "This is the Wandering Plane," she says as she waves her arm in a grand gesture. "A place for those who are lost and looking for their way." She continues as she begins to briskly walk towards the mouth of the alleyway. "People get here for a variety of reasons, but there''s only one way out." She is already at the opening to the alley by the time that she finishes this last sentence. I had a hard time keeping up with her, but when I reach the end of the alley, the rest of the Wandering Plane comes into view. If the view of the alley was enough to shock me, the rest of this odd world splayed in front of me has me nearly floored. Underneath the shimmering veil, it almost appeared as if everything was shifting. If I focused on one tree or building, it would stay fixed in place, but the objects on the edges of my vision would continue to morph. "First rule," Shay''s voice snaps me out of my stupor as I was focusing on a park bench, then a car, then a bank... "The Wandering Plane is a double-edged sword. It can help those who are lost find their way beyond, but it can lead the fool-hardy astray. All it takes is for you to focus on where you want to go and the Wandering Plane will get you there. As I''m sure you''ve noticed already, it is very easy to get distracted here." With that, she turns to me and gives me a knowing look. She was right about that. While she was explaining this to me, my attention kept jumping from one thing to another. Trying to listen to Shay''s words, I focus on the bus stop across the street. As soon as I am completely focused on it, my body reacts without me willing it to and begins walking towards the bus stop. Before I can make it three steps, a strong hand grasps my shoulder and pulls me back. "Not so fast, guy." Shay''s words break my concentration and the bus stop, like so many other things here, is lost to the fog of the Wandering Plane. "You''d do best to make sure you don''t focus on the wrong things," Shay says with a slightly chastising tone. "That''s how you get stuck here." This second statement carries more melancholy than warning. I look toward Shay, but her face is turned away from me. After a brief second, she turns back to me and any trace of sadness that had been there has been erased, and now, she is back to the confident smile with which I am familiar. "If you had made it to that bus stop, you''d have been waiting for a bus that was likely to never come." Questions overwhelm me. What happens if you get stuck here? Who is Shay? How was she able to split her focus between me and the bus stop? Where do I need to go? These, among others, swirl inside my head, but I only manage to ask one. "Does everyone who ends up her get a guide like you?" "I''m not really a guide, but that''s a matter for another day." She says lightly. "But no, not everyone who comes to the Wandering Plane needs a guide. People who meet a natural end can usually find their way through the Wandering Plane pretty easily. The more tragic the end, the more likely the individual is to get los here." She casts a quick glance to me, to which the deep pit my stomach tries to respond. Before that feeling can overtake me again, I change the subject of our conversation. "You said that there''s only one way out of here. Where is that?" The pit recedes and it seems for now that I have conquered it. Without noticing the battle raging inside of me, Shay responds. "Great question, guy. We need to head to the Department of Reincarnation, Department or DOR for short. The Workers there will help sort you out and help you leave the Wandering Plane," she says, once again, matter-of-factly. Her explanation only adds to my growing list of questions. Reincarnation is real? What does she mean by "sort me out"? Again, only one question escapes from me. "How long have you been here?" "I don''t want to talk about that," she answers and, for the first time, there is a hard edge to her voice. It was clear that any further questions like that would be unappreciated. "Now, let''s head to DOR, alright?" While technically a question, this was more of a command. Worried that I upset her, I can only manage a nod. Fromt he mouth of the alley, we take a right and begin walking. We walk in silence for a block or two, during which my questions war with my concern that I upset Shay, and both wanting to take precedence. An unlikely question wins out. "Hey, Shay," getting her attention, "you said ''first rule.'' Are there any others?" "Really, only one other one. You see these white lights?" She points to one of teh street lamps. I nod. "Stay as close to these as possible, but do not actually touch one under any circumstances." She says almost as a warning. "Why?" At this point, I am getting exhausted due to the overload of information and this place, so this one word response is all I can muster. "They will help to make sure to get you to where you are going," she says and lifts her hand to her hair and begins twisting a culr. Before I ended up in the Wandering Plane, I made it my business to seek out others'' tells, and I just leanred Shay''s. For the first time since I met her, Shay lies to me. Just A Number, Pt. 2 MASON We continue walking, but I decide not to press Shay on her lie. Until that point, she hadn''t given me any reason not to trust her, so she must have a good reason for not telling me the truth about the white lights. Despite deciding not to ask further about the lights, that didn''t stop my mind from running through all sorts of possibilities for the lights'' use. After another couple of blocks and some more mental gymnastics on my end, Shay stops and announces that we are here. I look and a grand building sits in front of me. It reminds me of one of the buildings that I studied during an ancient Roman architecture course that I took last semester. At that thought, the pit in my stomach makes a quick appearance due to the realization that I won''t be returning to school. Whisking that feeling away as quickly as possible, I study the building. Giant white, marble columns with gilded Corinthian caps supported the pediment of the building. These columns stand like soldiers guarding the interior of the building. On the pediment, there was writing, but like the rest of the Wandering Plane, the writing seems to shift. This time, however, I can tell that the writing is shifting between different languages. Each language says the same thing--"Department of Reincarnation." Shay gives me a few minutes to fully take in the facade of the Department''s building. After I''ve had my fill of the exterior, Shay suggests that we go inside. We ascend the few steps to the portico, then cross the threshold. Given the exterior, Shay I expect that we will enter a large, single room building reminiscent of the temples of old, but the room we enter, to put it frankly, is impossible. Less the temple of a long-forgotten god, and instead, the room more resembles the local Department of Motor Vehicles. On the left, a single counter sits with an older woman who, by all accounts, seems to exude the very essence of a curmudgeon. Rows of seats, which remind me of the folding kind that theaters house, stretch as far as my eye can see. The room is bustling with people, a few of whom are waiting to speak with the woman at the counter, some sit int eh folding chairs, and the rest carry on conversations amongst themselves. I look above the woman at the counter and see a large board that says, "Now Serving Number 76,894." I look at Shay and exclaim, "There are that many people here!" Holding back a laugh, "Likely, many more than that, guy. Think of the Wandering Plane like a hub with tunnels connecting to every place on the living plane. Everyone who passes on the living plan gets funneled here to, eventually, move beyond. Don''t worry, the Worker move through things quickly." For the second time, this building has me in amazement. After what I suspect is a few minutes, Shay knocks me out of my reverie by elbowing me in the side. "Best that you get in line to speak with Frances, don''t want to wait too long. I''ll find a seat nearby. And, have fun with that one," she ends and tilts her head towards Frances. "You don''t want to come with?" I ask in almost a pleading tone, but Shay has already taken off towards a couple of empty seats. I turn back towards the counter and prepare myself to speak with Frances. How bad could it be? Then, my mind involuntarily dredges up old memories of going to the Department of Motor Vehicles, particularly when I had to change my residence, and I''m reminded that it could be terrible.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. I find my place in line and can see that there are only about seven people in front of me. While I wait, I hear snippets of conversations from those in front of me, including things like, "...it was a major heart attack..." and "...just took a tumble down the steps..." The increasingly familiar pit in my stomach tries to latch on to what these people say and bend me to its will. With each attempt, I become more accustomed to it and more able to keep it contained. But Shay was right, the line moves quickly and I''m standing before Frances within minutes. "Name?" A gravelly voice asks without lifting her eyes from what appeared to be a newspaper. Frances'' voice caught me off guard only because it suited her perfectly. I must have taken one second too long admiring the way that Frances'' voice corresponded to her overall personality. She lifts her head towards me and uses a pen to push the cat-eye glasses up the bridge of her nose, likely trying to get a better view fo the person holding up her line. "I said, ''name.''" The gravelly voice now has a tinge of frustration. "Uh, sorry about that. Mason Behlke." I quickly say trying not to upset her any further. Frances'' hand moves to a large and ancient-looking rolodex. Without having to look at it, Frances flips through the cards and pulls out a slip of paper. She takes a look at the slip and a grin replaces what had been, until that moment, pursed lips. She hands me the slip. "You''ll be number 83,891 and Worker Abrahim will be assisting you," her voice this time was sickly-sweet. With that she waves me off. While she may not have been as curmudgeonly as I initially thought, she definitely was not pleasant to deal with. I look down at the sip and it was not too elaborate. The words were those that Frances had said, the only other detail is that the slip includes the method of death, and in my case, one simple word is printed--"Murder." Not again, I think to myself as the pit beckons, but I refuse to answer its call. I stand still for one second, making sure I am in full control. Then, I head back towards Shay. I make my way back and notice that everyone is giving her a wide berth. A few people stare at her, which she seems to not notice. I reach her, "Is there a reason why everyone is avoiding you?" "It''s no big deal. It''s not entirely usual for a Watch to come into the DOR." Her hand reaches up to a curl and, again, she twists. "How did it go with Frances?" She changes the subject before I can delve further into the question of people avoiding her. "I suspect that you know it didn''t go well," I say with a laugh, again choosing to ignore her deception. "It didn''t seem to help that I took longer than she would have liked to answer her question." "If nothing else, Frances is predictable. She likes to move the line like a well-oiled machine, and any cog interrupting that gets the shit-end of the stick," she says with a snort. "Well, let''s take a look at the slip," Shay insists and I hand it over. While she takes a quick glance at it, I look towards the board above Frances and see that the number has already reached 83,853. Again, Shay was right that they move things quickly here. I turn back towards Shay and her face is pale. "What''s wrong?" "My poor boy..." is all that she can get out. A mixture of her motherly concern and fear, apparently for me, masks the friendly face I had been getting used to. "Why do you say that?" I ask, perplexed by her reaction. Before she can answer, a smooth, velvety voice sounds behind me. "Mr. Behlke, I am glad you found your way here, presumably thanks to Office Greer. I am Worker Abrahim and I will be assisting you today."