Василиса Чмелева
The Universal Passenger. Book 2. The Straw City

Prologue

I’m an artist. Some would call me talentless, others—a genius. But truth be told, I drowned whatever talent I had long ago in liquor and dull conversations with strangers.

Until one day, I met a girl. I can’t even remember her name now, but I remember vividly that irresistible urge to read her story, to preserve it on canvas—a memento of the bright emotions she gave me in such a short time.

In those moments, it felt like we had an eternity ahead of us, just the two of us. But clocks tick too fast: blink, and another life has slipped away.

I sought solace in her, but instead, I awakened my deepest fears. And here’s the catch: if a fear has come alive in my mind, then I’m the one who created it. And if you look closer… we’re old friends.

Chapter 1

I surfaced from the cool water and grabbed the edge of the wooden footbridge with four fingers. Caught my breath. I don’t remember ever being a bad swimmer—usually, the water obeyed me. Or so I thought. And for some reason, I couldn’t recall how I’d ended up in the river, let alone twice.

"You gonna splash around there all day?"

I raised my eyes and squinted against the summer sun, peering through barely open lids at a boy of about seven. The kid, with neatly combed chestnut hair swept back, held out a terrycloth towel and grinned, revealing a prominent gap between his front teeth.

Lowering my watering eyes, I noticed his bright yellow rubber boots.

"Afraid of getting your feet wet?"

"Don’t wanna get muddy," the boy snorted, plopping down on the edge of the footbridge.

I hauled myself up with my arms, grateful my workouts hadn’t been for nothing, and sat beside him, dabbing my wet hair with the towel. A couple of strands stubbornly clung to my face, and I flicked them away with an irritated jerk.

Dangling my bare feet in the river’s cool current, I glanced around. It felt like morning, and somewhere in the distance, the cheerful chirping of birds greeted us. My heart felt so light that I had no desire at all to remember why I was here.

The body of water was massive, an elongated oval fringed with reeds and wild grass. On the far shore, gnarled, towering trees stood skeletal and bare. Even now, I’d swear they looked eerie—like twisted, gaunt silhouettes that’d only grow more sinister by evening.

The thought made me uneasy, and I ran the towel over my hair again, trying to distract myself.

For as long as I could remember, anxiety had always gnawed at me. It shifted in intensity and shape—sometimes wrapping around me like a blanket, other times tightening around my temples like barbed wire. But it was always there. Unlike her. "Wait… who is 'her'?"

"You do know fish don’t just catch themselves, right?"

The kid’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. He pointed a stubby finger at a fishing rod lying beside me—one I hadn’t even noticed.

"Who are you?" I finally asked.

"You tell me," the boy laughed and tossed a pebble into the river.

I stared at the ripples fanning out across the still water and thought, What a little brat. I’m not telling him anything.

"Alright, if you’re done muttering to yourself like an old man, let’s go to the house. You need to get dressed," the kid ordered, marching toward a small wooden cabin nestled near the lake, half-hidden behind dry bushes and the same twisted trees that lined the opposite shore.

"What were you doing on the footbridge?" I crossed my arms.

"On the fishing platform," the boy corrected.

"What?"

"What I was doing on the fishing platform," the kid stressed pedantically. "It’s called a platform, not just a footbridge."

"What’s the damn difference?"

"Grandpa said fishing platforms are built for catching fish, but a footbridge just gets you to the other side. Can you cross this? No. So it’s a platform." The boy tapped his temple, either highlighting his own precocious wisdom or my glaring ignorance. "If it were a proper bridge, you could’ve crossed to the other side. But you can’t, can you?"

I didn’t argue. Silently, I trudged after him, trying to avoid sharp pebbles digging into my bare feet—no easy feat, since the path to the cabin was paved with jagged gravel.

As we approached the house, I heard a strange grating noise, like the sound of rusted scrap metal. Looking up, I saw a section of blue slate roofing that seemed determined to take flight with every gust of wind, only to grudgingly settle back into place – until the next attempt a minute later, when it would resume its loud, rhythmic knocking.

"Should've been fixed ages ago," the kid followed my gaze. "But Grandpa never has time."

"You live with your grandpa?" I asked, still staring at the weather-beaten roof.

"Yeah, but he's always traveling, so don't worry. By the time he gets back, you'll actually look human again."

"And I'll finally understand the difference between fishing platforms and footbridges," I couldn't resist sneering as I followed him inside. "So what's wrong with me now?"

"Take a look at yourself – you're the spitting image of a zombie."

The kid led me to a narrow, frameless mirror hanging crookedly on a nail in the hallway. I flinched, not immediately recognizing the face staring back at me.

A gaunt young man with deep shadows under his eyes gazed back. If I hadn't felt completely unlike my reflection, I'd have thought I was seriously ill with only days left. Looking at my pale hands, I gave another nod to the haggard guy in the mirror with his yellowish sclera and emotionless expression.

"Holy shit," I muttered, still not believing what I saw. "How long was I in the water?"

"Must've been a while, given how pale you are. Just don't eat my brains," the kid giggled and kicked an ancient trunk by the door. "Grandpa's stuff. Not new, but he won't need it anytime soon, so pick something and finally get dressed."

After rummaging through the trunk of stretched-out sweaters and worn jeans, I found a black T-shirt and sweatpants. Not much choice, but they fit—good enough.

"Over there," the kid nodded to the corner where hunting boots and sneakers were neatly lined up, "grab some shoes."

Once I'd pulled on the black sneakers, I moved deeper into the house. The next room was a sparsely furnished kitchen: a counter with a cutting board by a small gas stove, a fridge in the corner sporting a noticeable cobweb stretching from the ceiling molding, a rectangular wooden table in the middle, and two stools placed in opposite corners.

"No food in the house," the kid said, dashing my hopes. "But you can cook whatever you find."

I peeked into the refrigerator and grimaced at a block of cheese staring back at me, its surface marbled with greenish mold.

"Got anything less… exotic?" I asked.

The kid just shrugged.

"Whatever," I muttered, slamming the fridge door shut. It let out a menacing creak and wobbled dangerously. "Jesus, is there a single thing in this house that's not broken?"

"Oh yeah? If you're so smart, why don't you fix it yourself!" the kid snapped.

"Like I've got nothing better to do," I shot back, feeling a wave of irritation rising. "And don't get your panties in a twist—it's not like I'm thrilled to be here either."

"Then get lost already! Who's stopping you?" the kid yelled before stomping off loudly into what I assumed was the bedroom.

Muffled curses and childish grumbling drifted out. I think he called me a "dumbass."

Rubbing my sore eyes, I stormed out of the house, shoving what little conscience I had left deep down my throat.

* * *

I was dead set on leaving that wretched little house and the godforsaken lake I’d somehow ended up in.

That insufferable brat. I didn’t sign up to be a babysitter, and I’ve never liked kids anyway.

My goal was to find a bus stop—hopefully one serviced by some rickety local route that could get me out of here. I paused, scanning the surroundings. My gaze lingered on a hill rising in the distance. It wasn’t exactly close; by my estimate, a thirty-minute trek. I wondered what lay beyond it. My mind immediately began painting possibilities. When you don’t know the truth, imagination fills the void with increasingly wild backdrops: maybe a silk factory, or a secluded village, or vast sheep pastures. Or maybe—a bigger lake.

It reminded me of my talisman painting, the one I’d bought with my last savings as a nineteen-year-old dreamer backpacking through Asia, searching for some sacred sign that my chosen path was the right one. I’d tried odd jobs that promised prestige and societal respect, but they only left me with a crushing, perpetual boredom—an urge to flee. Two years (maybe more) of that, and I’d started to think something was wrong with me. Friends and family advised dialing down the "fiery passion" and facing reality: Be like everyone else.

And so, driven half-mad by such advice, I embarked on my first solo journey with what little money I'd scraped together. I remember passing a street artist selling batik paintings. Among the vibrant array of works, one caught my eye—an orange sunset with a single boat moored near a shore where a lone palm tree stood (as solitary as the empty vessel itself). I stood transfixed, drinking in the riot of orange hues and the philosophy of tropical evenings. Without hesitation, I bought it.

From that moment on, I never again doubted what I wanted to do. I had always wanted to paint. And when I returned home, not a single day passed when I abandoned that dream. I became a fanatic of my own craft.

The painting hung in my room, later moving with me to my studio. It became my "safe island"—a touchstone to return to for peace and a reminder of why I did this. On particularly hard days, when sales of my work slumped, I would step closer to it, inhale the scent of paint and fabric, close my eyes, and imagine the sun-weathered artist, his dry hand sketching that boat as if, upon finishing, he could board it and sail into the unknown.

It didn’t matter if it was winter or autumn outside, if rain poured or snow fell. Near that painting, it was always summer. My own little world, carefully built from sensations and emotions. Turns out, orange is the hit of any season.

I shook off the wandering thoughts and returned to searching for a bus stop.

Turning off the highway onto a two-lane speedway, I scanned the area. The midday heat was oppressive, and the lifeless steppes had taken on orange-beige tones. It was strange to think the lake was so close yet there wasn’t a hint of green here.

Across the road, running parallel to the highway, stretched a double wire fence—flimsy as if it could ever stop a speeding car.

Speaking of cars, there were none in sight. Not surprising.

Who’d even come out to this backwater? Maybe picnickers or lost tourists, if that.

A small, gray metal plaque was welded to the side of the bus stop, its surface worn and dusty with age, displaying the faded schedule of routes.

Perfect. At least buses do come here. That means all I have to do is wait for one. Doesn’t matter where it’s headed—just need to get out of here first. And preferably before dark…

I sat on the flimsy bench beneath the shelter’s overhang and strained my ears, hoping to pick out the familiar rattle of an engine amid the sounds of nature. But only the wind hummed along the deserted highway. Nearby, a crumpled, empty soda can rolled by—bright red, the only splash of color in this bleached-out landscape, something for tired eyes to latch onto.

I had no belongings with me. When I’d stormed out of the house (while the kid was still hurling curses from his room), I’d only managed to grab a gray flannel shirt from the trunk to throw over my shoulders—protection against sunburn, if nothing else.

Right then, I wished I had my headphones. Some music would’ve been good—something to drown out the tension of waiting.

I closed my eyes and started humming hoarsely, trying to recall a favorite song:

"I’m hundreds of miles away… And there’s no place I’d rather be…"

I got so lost in my imaginary concert that I didn’t notice the arrival of company.

"Did you always hate waiting, or is that an age thing?"

I startled, instinctively scooting away as I shot the kid a glare. There he was, perched beside me, adjusting a small hiking backpack on his shoulders and flashing that familiar gap-toothed grin.

"And are you always this annoying, like a mosquito?"

"Brought you water," he said, shrugging. "But if you don’t want it…" He stood up and began walking off.

"Where are you going?"

"Home. Since you’re clearly fine here alone."

A pang of guilt hit me. With still no sign of any bus in the distance, I sighed and called after him. "Kid—" I waved him back. "Just… hold up a second."

I grabbed the hem of his brown overalls, tugging lightly.

"What?" he grumbled.

"Sit down. Since you’re already here."

The boy grinned and hopped nimbly onto the bench, dropping his black backpack onto his lap.

"So what’s in there?" I asked, nodding at it.

"Some snacks. Buses only come once an hour here, so we might as well kill time…" The boy rummaged in his backpack and pulled out sandwiches. "With these, for example."

I took one from him and bit off a sizable chunk. Only then did I realize how hungry I'd been as the flavors hit me—thin slices of meat, fresh tomatoes, and crisp lettuce with what tasted like cheese sauce, all neatly stacked between two soft bread slices.

"Chicken. Just how I like it."

"Thought so," the kid nodded, taking a massive bite of his own.

His mouth was so full he could barely chew, cheeks bulging comically. I laughed and handed him a napkin sticking out from the backpack's side pocket.

"You eat like a wild animal, kid. Slow down before you choke."

"I bite exactly as much as I can handle," he mumbled through the food, wiping sauce from his chin with the napkin.

"I'll take your word for it."

Turns out waiting with this little pest is way less boring.

"What's your name, kid?" I asked, realizing I'd never bothered to find out earlier.

"Karl," he answered matter-of-factly, still chewing like a starved raccoon.

"Seriously?" I snorted.

"Well, if you really were a zombie, I'd definitely be Karl," he burst out laughing—then immediately started coughing.

"There we go! Told you you'd choke!" I scolded, thumping the wheezing brat on the back.

When the kid finally stopped making those disgusting choking sounds, he sighed and lightly punched me in the chest. I gave him a suspicious look, checking if he'd wiped his slobbery hand on me after coughing.

Well, can you blame me?

"My name's Oscar," the brat finally introduced himself.

"Then I'll call you Ozzy—like an itch in my crotch," I nodded.

"Hey!" he yelped and punched me again, this time harder, right in the shoulder. "Not funny."

"I think it's hilarious," I grinned, then pointed at his feet. "Hey, do you always wear those rubber boots?"

"Mostly when I go out," he said, finishing the last of his sandwich.

"Aren't you hot in them?"

"Nope. Why?"

"Just saying, kids your age usually prefer something more comfortable. Sneakers, for example."

"Since when are sneakers 'comfortable'?" Oscar scoffed. "Your feet sweat even faster in those. But in my boots? No puddle stands a chance. Watch!"

He ran over to a small stagnant puddle by the roadside and jumped into it with full force. Water splashed everywhere—some of it splattering onto the road, where it immediately began evaporating in the heat, the rest soaking into his brown overalls. The kid just shrugged, as if that had been the plan all along.

"Yeah, yeah," I rolled my eyes. "Point taken."

I glanced around again and noticed a crow. It was flying frantically toward us before landing on the road, one wing held awkwardly close to its body.

Stepping to the edge of the highway, I stood next to the kid to get a better look.

"Poor thing," he murmured. "Must’ve hurt itself mid-flight, or maybe some jerks took a shot at it."

"People are weak and stupid," I said bitterly. "When they can’t be better versions of themselves, all they can do is hurt others—especially those weaker than them."

"Flaws get mistaken for weakness too," the kid shrugged. "When a crow’s wing is hurt, it leaves the flock. Flies alone awkwardly so it doesn’t show vulnerability."

"Hard to live when you’re not like everyone else. When you’re… broken," I said, rubbing the scar running along my wrist.

"Everyone’s got their own idea of what’s broken," Oscar replied. "What happened to your arm?"

"When I was around your age, I played basketball," I said, still watching the crow, its beady blue eyes glinting as if listening. "I was good at it—team player, coach’s favorite. Naturally, not everyone liked that. One day after practice, walking home along a road like this, three guys from the team caught up to me. We fought, and in the scuffle, one of them pulled out a pocketknife. Sliced right through the muscle here."

"Yikes," Oscar grimaced.

"Took forever to heal. Couldn’t play for months. By then, they’d replaced me, and one by one, the team forgot I ever existed," I sighed.

"Didn’t you try to go back to basketball after you healed?" the kid asked.

"No." I shook my head. "I was too angry at everyone back then. Didn’t want anything to do with them. Basketball was over for me—and so was any desire to stand out."

"But you became an artist," the boy pointed out. "That makes you stand out too."

"By then I’d learned not to let anyone smother what I wanted," I said. "That’s the whole point of living, isn’t it?"

The crow let out a loud caw and took off. Its wing seemed fine now as it flew away confidently, still cawing in the distance.

"Guess it wanted to thank you," the kid smiled, watching it go.

"For what?"

"Maybe it just needed someone to believe in it."

"You and your weird theories, kid," I laughed. "It’s just a bird."

"If you say so." He pointed behind me at the bus stop’s covered section. "What do you think was posted there before?"

I glanced at the torn remnants of paper still clinging to the metal frame, fluttering slightly in the breeze.

"No idea. Apartment listings, probably. The usual stuff."

"Zero imagination," Oscar clicked his tongue. "And you call yourself a creative."

"Who cares?" I sat back down on the bench, which creaked ominously under my weight.

"Come on," he persisted. "I always look at those when waiting for the bus. Sometimes there’s something cool."

"Like what?"

"Like… selling vintage dolls or buying up old jewelry," he said.

"And what's so interesting about that?" I crossed my arms.

"Aren't you curious why someone would sell a doll their great-grandmother played with? Or some old ring? There's gotta be a story behind it."

"Kid, you're seriously bored," I shook my head.

We'd been sitting at that stop for over an hour. Nothing had changed—no cars passed, no birds landed. The scenery burned itself into my memory like a dried-up tumbleweed. Leaning back against the sunbaked metal, I picked at a stubborn scrap of paper from some long-gone notice. Then the kid's earlier words echoed in my head:

"And you call yourself a creative."

"How'd you know I'm an artist?" I asked.

"It's pretty obvious you're into art," the kid mused after a pause. "You look at the world like you're sizing it up. Stare at trees forever while most people wouldn't even notice a weird branch. Only two kinds of people do that—clueless dreamers or real-deal artists."

"You're too sharp for your age, kid," I smirked.

Memories flashed through my mind—my early days as an artist. That fall when I first dared show my paintings to the world. Broke as I was, I'd painted mini-versions on flyers and plastered them around the neighborhood, scribbling my address so curious folks could see the real pieces.

People came. Not just the next day, but for weeks after—all sorts. Some just wanted to gawk, others to meet "the artist," a few even bought my work (which, hell, felt good). Later, I had to fork over half those earnings to pay fines for illegal postering. The city called it "aesthetic pollution"—never mind that ugly billboards and overflowing trash bins ruined the view way worse than my art ever could. But who was I to argue with the system?

"What're you thinking about?" The kid snapped me out of it, handing me a water bottle.

"Nothing important," I said, taking a swig. "That bus isn't coming today, is it?"

"It'll come. Definitely," Oscar said, weirdly earnest. "Just gotta be patient."

"Patient…" The word tasted bitter. "Always fucking waiting."

"Yeah, well—that's life. What can you do?" He knocked his rubber boots together with a dull thud.

Suppressing a surge of irritation, I started examining all the torn flyers, searching for at least one intact one. After about ten minutes, I found it.

"PORCELAIN FIGURINES. CUSTOM ORDERS," read a small rectangular card, with neatly handwritten phone number strips dangling below.

"Weird," I muttered.

"What is it?" the kid asked.

"The handwriting… it seems familiar."

"Maybe one of your friends makes figurines? I'd totally go to an exhibit like that."

Yeah, right… Out here in the middle of nowhere, you'd take any exhibit you could get.

I strained to recall if I’d seen that number before, but something else caught my eye—another ad I hadn’t noticed earlier.

"MOTORCYCLE FOR SALE. GOOD CONDITION."

"I remember buying my bike thanks to an ad just like this," I smiled, suddenly picturing my old steel companion. "Never regretted it for a second."

"Your parents must've worried about you," Oscar said. "My grandpa always says bikes are dangerous. That you get addicted to speed without even noticing. Not that I'd know—I've only got a bicycle, but he keeps warning me anyway."

"My grandfather was the same," I replied. "Always cautious when it came to family, but a total daredevil himself."

"When I grow up, I'm getting a motorcycle too," the kid declared proudly. "Then I won’t have to sit at this bus stop forever."

"You know what?" I slapped my knees and stood up. "You're right. Enough waiting around."

"Wait, where are you going?" Oscar scrambled to his feet.

"Back to the house. I'm done with this."

I tore off the phone number and headed toward the cabin, grabbing the kid's backpack on the way.

"Tomorrow I’ll call about the ad and see if the owner can bring the bike here."

"Wait—you actually have money to buy it?" Oscar asked skeptically.

"I’ll figure that out later," I said, scratching my sunburnt forehead. "At the very least, I’ll ask for a taxi number so one can actually come out here. Since this godforsaken place has no internet… Christ, it’s boiling."

"Hey," Oscar bristled, "don’t call my home ‘godforsaken.’"

"Sorry, you know what I mean," I muttered, embarrassed. "What’ve you got in this backpack, bricks?"

"Just the essentials!" he declared.

I smirked at the way he scrunched his nose indignantly, then glanced back one last time at the bus stop—now just a sliver of its roof visible through the reeds.

"Weird," I mused after a moment. "Why so many torn-off ads if this place is so remote? Barely anyone comes through here."

"Who knows?" The kid shrugged. "Maybe this stop was a starting point more often than you’d think."

Chapter 2

The night was restless. I tossed and turned, futilely trying to get comfortable on the stiff mattress I’d dragged out from the storage room—with the kid’s permission, of course. Meanwhile, he slept soundly in his single bed, snoring softly and occasionally smacking his lips. Once or twice, he even muttered something in his sleep, though I couldn’t make out the words.

Probably still eating that sandwich in his dreams, I thought, flipping onto my side for the hundredth time.

Finally admitting defeat, I got up and tiptoed out of the house, trying to stay quiet despite the floorboards creaking their protests.

Outside, the darkness was absolute—no streetlights, no glow of civilization. Without artificial light, the night felt hushed and oddly welcoming, though as a kid, I’d hated the dark. Back then, it always seemed to hide danger, every rustle sharp and hostile in my ears. Especially in the city, where drunken barhoppers lurked around every corner.

Later, I read in some book that this fear was just a leftover from our ancient animal instincts—back when survival meant fending off wild beasts or rival tribes. That explanation actually comforted me so much that, over time, I not only made peace with the dark but even became one of those very same barhoppers stumbling home at dawn.

I pulled out a cigarette from the pack I’d discreetly swiped from the hallway shelf (likely belonging to the kid’s grandfather). Lighting up, I sat down on the porch steps, relieved I didn’t impale myself on a splinter. A cloud of exhaled smoke hung in the air, and without thinking, I inhaled it back. Cue a coughing fit. These cigarettes were brutal, way stronger than I’d expected. Wincing, I stubbed it out on the railing and flicked the butt into the dirt.

What’s even the appeal of these things?

I turned my gaze upward. It was probably around 4 a.m.—still dark enough for a few stubborn stars to linger, but dawn was already bleeding into the edges of the sky.

"Wish I could show you these stars," I said aloud, though I wasn’t sure who I was talking to.

A splash echoed from the lake—like a large fish breaking the surface. Sleep-deprived and driven by idle curiosity, I stood and walked toward the water.

Stepping onto the footbridge, I leaned over the edge and stared at my reflection. Gradually, it split into two, warping into something like a convex TV screen playing a film I didn’t recognize.

A walk through the Pink City, where the air was thick with spices and hope. I was with a girl, resting on concrete slabs stacked like staircases, watching water so still it seemed suspended in midair.

Who is she? Why can’t I see her face?

The stranger leaned her back against my shoulder, gazing elsewhere.

"Since I was a kid, I’ve loved looking at the moon."

It took me a second to recognize my own voice—filtered through my mind like a recording. It sounded alien, mismatched.

"Then," I continued, "years later as an artist, I ran into an acquaintance at a bar. He mentioned the spots on the moon are called ‘Mare Tranquillitatis.’ Know what I thought?" I studied the back of her head, her presence radiating warmth, like she already understood.

"That there’s no actual sea there?" She laughed.

"I thought… I’d like to go there," I said, staring at the sky and reaching up as if to touch something just out of grasp. "Because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt that kind of peace here. But I didn’t say any of that to him. Just went home, sat on the balcony, and kept staring at that silver disc like it’d pull me closer if I looked hard enough."

A pause. The scent of her hair—warm, familiar—drifted over me.

"‘The Illusion of Tranquility’—that’s what I called the next painting. Sold like crazy that year. Guess that’s what everyone was missing."

"Tranquility?" she asked.

"Illusions," I corrected.

* * *

"WE'RE ON FIRE!"

I jerked away from the lake and spun around to see the kid darting frantically along the blazing porch. Flames surged hungrily, devouring the wooden planks.

"Why are you just standing there?!" Oscar shrieked. "DO SOMETHING!"

I lunged toward him—then my foot caught on a rope stretched taut across the footbridge.

Since when was that there—?

The world upended as I crashed into the water like a sack of bricks. Darkness swallowed me instantly. The last thing I saw was Oscar standing at the edge of the footbridge, arms crossed.

Always judging me…

Then the lake pulled me under.

* * *

"Seriously, man," Oscar tapped his yellow boot against the footbridge as I spat out lake water and tried to shake slimy algae off my shoulder. "First you shamelessly steal Grandpa's cigarettes, then you toss a lit butt into dry grass. What the hell were you thinking?"

"Sorry, kid," I wheezed, still catching my breath after my inglorious backflip into the water.

"Say that again?" He cupped a hand to his ear, stepping closer with exaggerated interest.

"I said I'm sorry, okay?!" I snapped. "My bad for screwing up and almost burning your house down."

Then I remembered the fire. I scrambled to my feet—only to find the porch completely intact, no signs of flames anywhere. The world was bright as midday.

"W-what the…?" I stammered. "Where's the fire?"

"Already put out," the kid said, rolling his eyes. "Not like we could count on you. Even a stray dog’s more useful."

"B-but why’s it so light out?"

"While you were busy with your impromptu swim, morning happened," Oscar replied, as if it were the most obvious thing. "Stop gaping and go change. Christ, you’re ruining clothes faster than I can wash them."

I looked down at my soaked outfit and trudged back to the house to raid Grandpa’s trunk—again.

"I need to call about that motorcycle," I told Oscar, pulling on a dry burgundy tee and a beige shirt with the sleeves rolled up. This time, I opted for knee-length jean shorts and cowboy boots, grimacing as I held up my sneakers—still dripping.

"I’ll help," Oscar said. "There’s a roadside diner not far. They’ve got a phone."

"Not far?" I blinked. "Since when is there anything 'not far' out here?"

"Yeah, west of the red cliff."

"And why the hell didn’t you mention this sooner?!" I snapped.

"You never asked," Oscar shrugged.

I was ready to strangle the kid with my bare hands, but then I reminded myself that his grandpa could return any minute—and probably wouldn’t applaud me for throttling his grandson.

Then again, maybe that’s exactly why the old man left…

"Alright, kid," I exhaled, forcing myself to stay calm. "Consider this me asking. Take me there so I can make the damn call."

"Whatever you say."

We left the cabin and circled around to the back, where a narrow path wound through dry thickets.

"How far is it?" I asked, ducking under branches that seemed determined to gouge my eyes out.

"Not too bad. Twenty-five minutes, maybe," Oscar estimated.

"Twenty-five minutes? Yeah, right next door…" I muttered sarcastically.

"What did you expect?" The kid hopped nimbly over a rocky outcrop—which I promptly tripped over. "If I were alone, I’d just grab my bike and be there in no time. But I’m stuck babysitting you, and you’re not exactly the best company."

"Oh really?" I laughed.

Bickering and trading barbs, we barely noticed the time passing until the roadside diner came into view.

"Classy joint," I drawled, eyeing the peeling yellowish walls that hadn’t seen a paint job in decades.

"Stop whining," Oscar clicked his tongue and marched inside.

The interior, surprisingly, was far cozier than the exterior suggested. Red leatherette sofas and checkered tabletops gave the place a retro charm, while the smell of fast food and freshly brewed coffee made my stomach growl on cue.Vintage posters and neon signs added to the diner’s lived-in warmth.

"Care to check out the menu, or do you know what you’d like already?"

A young waitress in a snapback cap leaned over slightly, her freckled face breaking into a grin as she adjusted her pale-yellow apron—emblazoned with a white chicken silhouette—and gave us an expectant look.

"Scrambled eggs with bacon and orange juice!" Oscar chirped, hopping onto a tall stool at the counter like it was nothing.

"And for you, sir?" The waitress turned to me while I gaped at the digital menu screen overhead like a deer in headlights.

How the hell does a place this remote have a digital menu?

"Uh… fries, a chicken burger, and coffee. Black. No sugar," I finally managed.

"Who's paying?" Oscar asked as I slumped onto the stool beside him, marveling at how effortlessly he’d scaled the height.

"I’ve got it," I muttered. "Just give me a minute."

"A minute for what?"

"A minute to figure out what the hell’s even going on here," I said, dunking a fry into ketchup so deep it emerged half-drowned in nuclear-red sauce.

The food arrived suspiciously fast.

"Think something’s off here?" Oscar whispered conspiratorially, sipping his juice.

"Not sure yet," I muttered. "Alright, time to make that call."

I walked over to the wall-mounted phone and picked up the receiver. As the dial tone buzzed in my ear, I patted my pockets for the scrap of paper with the number.

"Damn it!" I slammed the receiver back down hard enough to make the waitress flinch.

"What’s your problem?" Oscar hissed, darting over. "You’ll scare off the regulars—they don’t like loudmouths here."

"Must’ve left the number in my pants pocket," I growled. "Probably soaked through after the lake. The ink’s gone. Perfect."

"Relax! Even if it’s ruined, we’ll just go back to the stop and tear off a fresh one. Easy!" Oscar said, trying to sound upbeat.

"I wanted to sort out the bike today, Oz," I sighed, rubbing my temples. The exhaustion was hitting hard.

"Well, well!"

A lanky blond man sidled up to us, his sharp green eyes glinting with amusement. His features were gaunt—deep-set eyes, a long nose that came to a pointed tip—giving him the look of a smug fox who’d just caught wind of prey.

"What do you want?" I asked unfriendly, in no mood for small talk.

"Don’t take me for a spy, but I happened to overhear you’re looking for a bike."

The guy’s voice was grating, with a shrill, nasal quality. And at the end of every sentence, he spoke louder, like he was trying to puncture my eardrums. His gaunt, bony face reminded me of a cartoon Grinch—every muscle tensed into this smug, mocking expression.

He’s definitely stealing what little patience I have left, I thought, already plotting how to shake him off.

"So, what do you say, friends?" the guy pressed. "Still in the market for a bike?"

"Yeah!" Oscar nodded enthusiastically. "Definitely interested."

"Perfect!" The guy clapped his hands. "I’ve got one parked right outside the diner, and I’m ready to sell."

"Why the sudden urge?" I asked skeptically.

"Been wanting to upgrade for a while now."

The guy leaned against the wall and gazed dreamily through the diner's small window:

"My buddies all traded their worn-out nags for flashy cars. Can you believe it? Meanwhile, I'm still stuck with this old bike—can't even upgrade to a newer model."

"Trying to keep up with the pack?" I remarked sarcastically. "Is it really that important?"

"Damn right it is, my friend," he shot back without hesitation. "See, they're always—always—one step ahead of me. And it's just not fair!"

"Maybe you should get new friends if it bothers you that much," I snorted, amazed by his petty envy.

The guy practically radiated toxic, utterly pointless bitterness.

"That's not the solution, pal," he said, shaking his head. "But if you buy my bike, I can finally get mine."

"Alright, let's take a look at it first," I agreed.

At this point, I'd take anything—even a three-legged horse—just to get out of here.

We stepped outside, and my eyes landed on a perfect retro-styled naked bike. The black steel beast, with its spoke-like alloy wheels, gleamed playfully in the sunlight, completely out of place in this backwater.

"You're joking," I laughed, turning to the guy. "This is a brand-new model—a real speed demon for serious riders."

"There's always a newer model coming out, buddy," the guy drawled blissfully, picking his nose without a hint of shame. "So, whaddya say? Taking it?"

"I'd love to, but I don't have the cash on me right now," I admitted reluctantly, hating to concede defeat. "Maybe you could hold onto it for a bit while I scrape the money together?"

The guy dug around in his nose for another moment, then flicked something (which I decidedly did not want to see) aside before declaring:

"Take it now."

"But I can't pay you right now," I repeated, as if explaining to a particularly slow child.

"I know the boy—well, his grandpa, really. A man of his word, plus he’s into bikes too. You’ll pay me back, no doubt," the guy grinned.

I glanced at Oscar, but he just nodded confidently, looking utterly unfazed.

"Let’s take it?" the kid urged. "I don’t wanna walk back."

"How do I find you?" I asked the guy.

"Everyone around here knows me," he said, tilting his chin up. "Just ask for Kurt—they’ll point you my way."

With that, he sauntered back into the diner. I grabbed the helmet and handed it to Oscar.

"Put it on."

"But it’s too big for me," he whined.

"Safer this way if you're riding with me."

Grumbling, the kid obeyed, clamping his arms around my waist as I fired up the bike. Easing forward, I reminded myself to take it slow—this beast of a machine wasn’t exactly child-friendly.

Chapter 3

I didn’t want to go back to the lakeside cabin, but disappearing over the horizon with the kid wasn’t an option either. So I decided to cruise the highway for a while before dropping Oscar off—hoping his grandpa hadn’t returned yet and started panicking about his missing grandson.

After bumping through backroads onto the main highway, I headed in the opposite direction from Oscar’s place. The kid, who’d apparently never ridden anything faster than a bicycle, clung to me like a barnacle, his grip only fueling my urge to go faster.

As we passed the red cliff that gave the diner its name, I pulled over. Oscar still had a death grip around my waist. I had to knock his shoulder three times before he dared open his eyes.

"Off you get, Oz," I said, peeling him off me like a stubborn koala.

Oscar wobbled onto solid ground and yanked off the helmet, its visor fogged from his frantic breathing.

Kid probably forgot to exhale on every turn.

"It's beautiful here," I remarked, trying to ignore the flustered kid and giving him a chance to recover from the trip.

"I don't know why they call the rock red," Oscar spoke up.

I laughed. Even in a stressful situation, the kid stayed true to himself and kept nitpicking.

"I love trips like this. Always have," I continued. "New experiences spark new ideas for my paintings. I think when I get back home, I’ll sketch these landscapes."

"But you don’t like it here," the kid stated, and I thought I heard a note of reproach in his voice.

"I don’t like the feeling of being trapped," I corrected him. "Once I sort out all the absurd things going on here, I might even come back."

"I'm gonna go… somewhere," Oscar mumbled, leaving his helmet on the motorcycle seat.

"Where is there to go?"

"Got stuff to do!" the kid threw back and stepped behind the jutting base of the rock, which curved around us like a protective embrace.

"If you needed to take a leak, you could’ve just said so. What’s there to be shy about?" I clicked my tongue and leaned against the stone support next to me.

"Really though… the rock's not red at all."

The stone fortress seemed impregnable at first glance. On either side stood steep, sheer cliffs, devoid of any approaches (except for the possibility of going around them in a circle). The smooth, small surface of the ledges offered no chance of finding a way up. Yet, a barely noticeable narrow path stretched toward the summit. I tilted my head back, trying to trace where it led.

"The surface up there is mostly flat, slightly convex in the center and sloped. Hang gliders love it for that. People usually come here briefly and with a specific purpose—to artificially elevate themselves, to feel like a bird, but then, when the magic of flight fades, they leave as if they were never here. It’s always sad because of that, but also curious—which next city of winds will take them away?"

I stepped away from the girl who had suddenly appeared from behind the rocky ledge I was leaning against.

My company in this desolate wilderness clearly didn’t unsettle her. But her appearance left me stunned.

"How long have you been here?" I asked.

"Since birth," she shrugged. "Well, not right on this spot, of course, but in my own home. I live behind this cliff. And every time the cold evening wind blows, every time I hear the late train rushing past our outskirts—I remember the City of Winds. Oh, how often I remember it!"

The girl with asymmetrical features and wide-set eyes—large as saucers and slightly slanted—stared at me, pressing her thin lips into a friendly smile. She wasn’t a beauty, yet somehow the whole picture made her appealing, and even the natural desolation harmonized with her.

Her voice carried an excitement she was desperately trying to mask as playful cheer.

"Selena," she offered me her hand in greeting but immediately tucked it back into the pocket of her summer overalls, adorned with colorful wooden and plastic badges.

Her springy gait reminded me of either a carefree teenager or a space traveler in a bulky suit—an odd clash of hesitant nature and reckless extroversion.

As if reading my thoughts, the girl stopped pacing frantically around the motorcycle and ran a graceful finger along its seat.

"So, are you just going to stand there, rooting yourself into the ground?" she asked. "In that case, I should mention that the soil around here isn’t particularly fertile—so you’re unlikely to sprout grass, but you will get buried in fiery dust in no time. The weather here is often moody, and you’ll spend the next day shaking it out of every crevice. Honestly, it’s been ages since I’ve seen a new face—this place is remote, no matter how you spin it… So, what brings you here?"

I’d stopped listening to the girl who called herself Selena somewhere in the middle of her ceaseless monologue, so I missed the question directed at me.

"Don’t tell me you’re another investor-developer. We’ve sent plenty of those packing empty-handed. You see, the appeal of our land is its emptiness and solitude. We don’t want that changed."

"No, no," I hurried to cut off her musings. "I have no agenda, honestly. Just passing through. You could say I’m traveling."

"So… just because?" Selena arched a thin brow skeptically. "Well, if it’s just because, then let’s properly introduce ourselves."

The girl nimbly scrambled onto the lowest ledge of the cliff and sat down, tucking one leg beneath her and wrapping her arms around her knee. Taking a deep breath, as if exhausted by her own chatter, her smile faded for a second—but then, as if chastising herself, Selena grinned at me again, wider than before.

"What the hell is wrong with the people here?"

"I trust my intuition, and it tells me you’re harmless," the girl concluded with an appraising look. "You are harmless, right? Who are you here with?"

"Just me at the moment."

"Really?" Selena didn’t believe me, nodding toward the child’s footprints nearby.

"There’s a boy with me, but he wandered off somewhere."

"A child shouldn’t be left alone in such a desolate place," she said, resting her chin on her knee.

"Don’t worry about him—he’s a local to the bone. I’m more likely to get lost or into trouble here than that kid."

"Case in point: stumbling upon a weird hippie girl who probably keeps a knife hidden in her sock."

"Still, if you want to come to my place, stranger, you’ll have to find your companion first."

"And what were you doing out here?"

"Playing hide-and-seek," Selena replied calmly.

"With who?" I tensed, half-expecting an armed gang to come charging out.

"Depends on the day," she said airily. "Today… you found me."

"Think I stepped on a snake," came Oscar’s voice as he approached.

The kid emerged from behind the rocks and glared at the girl:

"Selena."

"Heya, Ozzy!" she beamed. "Long time no see! How’s life? How’s your grandad?"

"Just peachy," he replied sarcastically, gesturing to his dirt-covered knees.

"Three set out at sunset toward the flaming mountains. They carried a map, a flask, and an age-old dream!" Selena laughed.

"Okay, now that’s just too much," I muttered, heading toward the motorcycle, eager to put distance between myself and this odd hippie girl. Dealing with the kid was hard enough as it was. "Let’s go, Oz," I said, handing him the helmet. He stared at it, alarmed.

"What a pity," Selena sighed. "I thought we’d spend some time together."

"We need to head back—it’ll be dark soon," I replied, trying to start the bike.

The engine sputtered pathetically, but the machine refused to budge.

"Perfect. Just perfect!" I dismounted from the lifeless hunk of metal and kicked it in frustration.

"Don’t tell me Kurt sold us junk," I said to the kid, who’d already taken off his helmet, clearly pleased by the breakdown.

"How should I know?" Oscar shrugged. "I don’t know squat about bikes."

"Or people," I grumbled. "You’re the one who told me to trust him."

"I said I didn’t want to walk back. The rest was your call."

I glared at Oscar, who was clearly mocking me—just like everything else in this godforsaken place—and let out a groan of exasperation.

"Since you’re not going anywhere, it seems, you’re welcome to come to my place!" Selena chimed in.

The terracotta leather boots touched down on the dusty ground, kicking up a small cloud of sand. Selena approached us with a smile, absentmindedly tucking a strand of her wavy ash-blonde hair behind her ear as she walked.

* * *

"You live in a trailer?" I stared in surprise at the small, light-gray van.

"I need to travel comfortably to the places I want to be," Selena replied, inviting us inside.

The interior was pure hippie-nomad perfection. Along one wall stood a narrow bed covered with a patchwork quilt stitched from mismatched fabrics. A similar rectangular rug—woven from coiled fabric scraps—lay on the floor. A wall-mounted shelf held a twin-burner gas stove and a tiny kettle.

Beneath the long window (which swung outward to form a makeshift awning) sat a table and a lumpy purple beanbag. Every inch of wall space was plastered with souvenirs and mini-signs bearing city and state names. Under the bed, I spotted a thick stack of letters tied with a black shoelace.

"Wondering what’s in them?" Selena asked, following my gaze.

"I don’t make a habit of snooping," I said, shaking my head.

"Yeah, right," the kid snorted.

"Generally speaking," I amended, remembering the ill-fated cigarette that nearly burned a house down.

"But I’ve always loved wondering what letters hold," Selena mused, pulling the bundle from under the bed. "Sometimes I reread my favorites—to feel closer to the people who wrote them."

"I’d rather just visit someone than endlessly write letters. Or reread them," I scoffed.

Selena plucked a neatly folded sheet from the stack and tapped it with her thumb.

"Sometimes circumstances make it impossible to visit those you want to see," the girl replied sadly, "but a letter—that’s already an action! It’s a connective thread that keeps relationships from fraying."

"Seems like unnecessary effort to me," I disagreed.

"What’s worse in your book: unnecessary effort or complete inaction?" the kid chimed in, addressing Selena.

She twirled the paper in her hand, kissed it, and tucked it back into the stack, carefully tightening the shoelace around them.

"Complete inaction," she finally answered. "When someone does a lot—even if it’s misdirected—you see the effort. It shows they care enough to try, however they can. Even if it’s just a scribbled note about where they are. But in the territory of inaction? Absolutely nothing grows. Just scorched earth and emptiness taking root. Nothing survives in that environment—only indifferent stillness."

"Sounds like our neighborhood," the kid remarked.

Selena smiled at Oscar and moved toward the back of the van, where a curtain divided the space. Behind it lay a deflated two-person air mattress—the kind used for floating on water.

"If you inflate it yourselves, you’re welcome to sleep here tonight," she said, pulling a portable pump from a small corner cabinet.

Handing it to me, she kicked off her boots and stretched blissfully onto her tiptoes.

"Take off your shoes," she advised. "The earth is cool and soothing to tired feet in the evening."

"I'm good, thanks," Oscar shook his head, tapping his rubber boots against the floor.

"Is there a repair shop around here?" I asked, not expecting a positive answer.

"Here, every resident has their own 'repair shop'—usually a garage," Selena crossed her arms, but upon seeing my grim expression, added: "There’s a little private workshop further down past the cliffs. Run by an old mechanic and his son. They can fix your bike. I always stop by when my trailer needs patching up."

"That’d be perfect—otherwise, I’ll have to pay Kurt a visit for some… explanations," I replied irritably. "And maybe patch up his jealous face while I’m at it."

* * *

Spending the night in a trailer in the middle of nowhere was its own special kind of ordeal. The van had baked under the sun all day, with not a single tree or body of water in sight. The silence, devoid of any city rhythms, was occasionally broken by the chirping of insects that sounded almost like cicadas.

Selena must’ve picked up their habit—emerging once every seventeen years just to make noise.

Oscar, true to form, had fallen asleep instantly, only occasionally mumbling something incoherent in the depths of his slumber.

Selena, like me, wasn’t sleeping. We sat under the trailer’s awning on foldable camping chairs, a bronze kerosene lamp from what looked like the 12th century resting on the ground between us.

"Why are you alone?" I asked, watching as she fiddled with the beaded bracelet on her wrist.

"Who says I’m alone?" Selena sounded surprised. "You saw how many letters I have."

"You know what I mean. Why isn’t anyone traveling with you?"

"I never really thought about it."

She stood up, restless, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.

"Then why are you with Oscar?"

"Avoiding the question, Selena," I smirked.

"Fine, you win," she conceded. "I’m not… great with people. If I play hide-and-seek with myself, how can I ever really open up to others? Trust them?"

"You should try. You did let us stay the night, and you were the one who spoke to me first," I reminded her.

"You know what? You're right!"

Selena said it so loudly that a grumble came from inside the trailer—Oscar, stirring awake.

We laughed and headed inside. It was time to at least try to sleep.

* * *

After barely four hours of sleep, running on adrenaline from the upcoming tasks and sleep deprivation, I stepped out of the trailer to the mouthwatering aroma of frying sausages and coffee.

Oscar was already polishing off his breakfast with relish while Selena expertly flipped the remaining sausages on a small cast-iron grill, poking at them with a fork.

"Hungry?" she asked me, flashing a smile—this time genuine, without a trace of yesterday's unease.

"Starving," I nodded, dropping onto the beanbag chair next to Oscar that she'd dragged outside.

"We should do these outings more often," the kid said, licking his fingers. "Just gotta remember to pack rations next time."

"Easy there, cowboy," I snorted. "Your grandad's probably turning the place upside down looking for you."

"Doubt it. He usually takes off for two or three weeks at a time. Travel's in his blood."

"Funny," Selena said, handing me a plate of sausages that still sizzled and popped with heat. "Your grandfather once told me he hates traveling and only does it out of necessity."

"How long's it been this time?" I asked carefully.

"Not long," the kid shrugged, grabbing a glass of water from the folding table. "Five days, maybe."

I tried to calculate how long I'd been stuck with Oscar. By my internal clock, it had to be at least a week—but I had no proof.

After a cholesterol-and-caffeine-fueled breakfast, we hitched the motorcycle to the trailer and set off for the private repair shop Selena had mentioned earlier.

Chapter 4

As we pulled up to a small building with a neon sign reading "END OF THE LINE," two figures emerged to greet us.

An older man with long gray hair tied back in a ponytail tilted his head to the side, studying the bike with a critical eye. Meanwhile, a younger guy—presumably the mechanic's son—planted his hands on his hips and waited for us to climb out of the trailer, its door screeching shut behind us.

He too had long hair (though jet-black), tied up in a bun that gleamed with an oily sheen in the sunlight. It reminded me instantly of Indians and their lustrous braids, worn by both men and women.

The guy slid his sunglasses down his nose and gave me a nod.

"Another hotshot found our little 'End of the Line,' huh?" he drawled. "Lemme guess—you were just riding along when, outta nowhere, it decided to stop hauling your lazy asses through the backcountry?"

"We bought it from a local," I said, deciding to throw shade at the locals. "His name's Kurt. Heard of him?"

"Who hasn't heard of him?" The old man laughed, adjusting a wrench in his stretched-out jeans pocket that kept shifting and threatening to fall out. "That swindler buys up all the junk that shines and looks appealing, then sells it off as brand new."

"I'll beat the stupid out of him," I gritted my teeth, trying to suppress my anger.

"Oh come on, cool your jets!"

The young man approached the motorcycle (which Selena had already unhitched from the trailer) and gave it a quick once-over.

"This 'warrior' has plenty of life left. After repairs, it'll be good as new. Hell, I'd bet a pint of ale this bike sat in Kurt's place for ages."

"Why's that?" I grumbled, still riding my aggressive emotions.

"Kurt can't ride for shit," the old man chuckled, "but apparently his act as a hardcore biker works, since you fell for it."

The men burst into even louder laughter, and even Selena and Oscar turned away to avoid provoking me with their snickering.

"How long will it take you to find and fix the problem?" I asked, ignoring the tremor in my hands and the nagging urge to wipe those smirks off their faces.

"These things can't be rushed," the old man scratched the back of his head. "We're looking at three days of work."

"Three?" I was stunned. "You got some kind of waiting list or something?"

"We're always swamped with work," the old man said, offended. "We're the only mechanics around here all the way to the city."

I peered into the building—which looked more like a shipping container for valuable cargo than a proper repair shop.

"It's empty in there," I pointed out. "You don't have a single car."

"Why don’t you step inside first, smartass?" the younger guy egged me on, pushing his sunglasses up with his middle finger.

I didn’t resist and strode confidently into the container, pretending not to notice his crude gesture.

"Hanging up a sign and grabbing a wrench doesn’t make you a mechanic. Amateurs…" I muttered under my breath as I stepped inside.

The moment I entered, I was hit by a wave of cool dampness and the smell of motor oil mixed with cleaning products. I turned to the right—and couldn’t believe my eyes.

The space was big. No, it was enormous. Inside, everything was divided into sections by concrete partitions. I stepped carefully across the perfectly clean floor, staring at the assortment of vehicles like I was in a museum—ranging from the latest models to long-forgotten relics.

"Well?"

The young man fell into step beside me, popping a toothpick into his mouth with evident satisfaction.

"You fix all these yourselves?" I managed. "Where’d so many vehicles come from in the middle of nowhere? There’s not a soul for kilometers."

"More tourists than you’d think," he shrugged. "Name’s Ned, by the way. That’s my dad—Franklin. But he hates the full name, thinks it’s too pompous, so just call him Frank."

"Pleasure, Ned," I shook his hand. "Good to know."

After what I’d just seen, my trust in these guys was skyrocketing.

The others caught up, and Oscar pointed deeper into the station, toward an area we hadn’t reached yet.

"Is that… a helicopter?" Selena asked, incredulous.

"We’ll take on anything that needs restoring—except people, of course," Frank declared solemnly. "Not for free, naturally."

"About that… I don’t have cash on me. Truth is, I got the bike on credit to begin with," I admitted, shoulders slumping.

"Who needs truth?" Ned adjusted his glasses. "We’ve been around long enough to spot who’s good for it. Obviously, you’re not."

I glanced down at myself and only then noticed how filthy and disheveled I was. My clothes had taken a beating on the road and reeked—something I’d somehow missed until now.

I could’ve sworn my hair had grown out enough to fully obscure my vision.

"You got a shower here?" I asked.

"Down the hall, left, then left again," Ned pointed. "Meanwhile, we’ll discuss payment with your friends."

"I don’t want you covering for me," I told Selena and the kid. "Worst case, we leave the bike here and let Kurt come collect it himself."

"Relax," the kid met my gaze.

"Glenn, quit dawdling," the father called to the guy.

"Glenn?" I frowned. "You introduced yourself as Ned."

"Did I? Pretty sure I didn’t," he dodged, rolling the toothpick across his tongue.

"Whatever," I waved it off and headed down the hall, itching to wash away at least the last 24 hours.

"Hell, maybe the last few years while I’m at it…"

* * *

The hallway turned out to be winding and illogical. I turned left exactly twice as Ned—or Glenn, whatever his name was—had instructed, only to find myself facing a solid wall. I tried again. Another dead end.

After wandering through a pointless labyrinth of convoluted nooks, I was about to head back when I realized that wouldn't be so simple either. But then I spotted sunlight ahead and guessed it must be a second exit.

Emerging outside at the rear of the service station, I was once again struck by how small it seemed—just an ordinary shipping container. The weirdness never ended.

I stared at the iron rectangle, now draped with green ivy.

"I don’t remember that weed being on the roof when we arrived. Then again, I wasn’t paying much attention," I mused, shoving my hands into the pockets of my denim shorts. My fingers brushed against an envelope.

"To Constantin," it read.

I wasn’t entirely sure the letter was meant for me—up until now, I hadn’t even stopped to consider what my name was. But now, fragments of memory began resurfacing.

"Why should we live this life if we have no personal observer? After all, a director wouldn’t make a film knowing no one would watch it. We’ve lived apart through countless lives, but please—if that curious boy in yellow rubber boots still lingers somewhere in your subconscious, trust him."

"Selena," I said aloud, "speaking in riddles again. And why is she telling me to trust Oscar? Did I ever say I didn’t trust the kid?"

"If that’s you ‘cleaned up,’ I’ve got bad news for you."

Frank approached, tracing a wrench through the air as he sized me up.

"You’ve got catacombs back there. A miracle I even found the exit."

"What’s that paper in your hand?" Frank asked.

"No idea," I shook my head, "but it says ‘To Constantin.’"

"So you’re Constantin, then?"

Frank scratched his shoulder blades with the wrench’s handle and reached for the letter.

"Nothing interesting in there," I said automatically, pulling it away and tucking it back into my pocket.

"You know, Constantin," Frank smiled. "My boy and I have owned this station a long time. Technically, Glenn was born here, grew up here, learned the trade here."

I glanced at the "container" and said nothing.

"Plenty of folks have come through here. Plenty of well-off ones too," Frank clarified. "But someone as distrustful as you? That’s rare. Even Selena has her moments of being more forgiving. After all, she’s the one who brought you here, right? Doubt you’d have lasted a day on your own."

I was offended. In all my time here, even a crow had managed to judge me. I opened my mouth to retort, but Frank cut in:

"Don’t get me wrong—in a way, I get it. I lost my wife early on, raised my boy alone. Kids, as you know, are restless little beasts. Glenn still pulls stunts. Loves attention, no denying that. But that’s life, so he works with me."

"I’m sorry about your wife," I sighed. "Must’ve been hard, losing her like that, especially with a child to raise."

"Huh?" Frank looked confused. "Oh! Nah, you got it wrong. She’s alive and well—just ran off with that dung beetle, Vance."

"Ah," I finally understood. "And who’s Vance?"

"Local farmer," Selena chimed in, the kid beside her. "His ranch feeds half the county. Land’s crazy fertile."

"Scoundrels like Vance always have the best soil," Glenn added. "You should drop by, get acquainted."

"No way!" the kid snapped. "Quit messing with us."

"What’s the problem?" I asked.

"Vance is the local boogeyman," Selena explained.

"Oh, come on," Glenn scoffed, spitting out his toothpick. "He’s alright. Just… moody sometimes. Normal stuff."

"Rumor is he’s got an entire weapons cache buried on his ranch," the kid whispered conspiratorially.

"That’s just gossip from bored locals," Glenn countered. "They’ve said all kinds of things about us too. That we’re smugglers, secret millionaires—hell, even mechanics."

"Even mechanics?" I repeated, tensing up.

"Glenn's joking," Frank tried to reassure me. "What he means is that locals here love making up tall tales. Anyone who achieves even a little something suddenly gets wrapped in legends."

"And if this 'achiever' happens to be an outsider? Lights out. They'll be branded a 'stranger' forever," the kid nodded in agreement.

"I thought locals would have enough problems of their own," I replied, processing this information.

"They've grown tired of their routine troubles," Frank chuckled. "So they crave fresh 'meat' for gossip."

"Same old story everywhere," the kid muttered. "Let's go. We've settled the repair terms."

"We'll be nearby, in the trailer," Selena told the mechanics. "Let us know when it's ready."

"Three days, not sooner," Glenn repeated.

"Which means at least five," I grumbled, resigning myself to Glenn being quite the storyteller.

As we drove away from the station, Selena remarked, "Glenn's not a bad guy, really."

"I don't like him," Oscar said bluntly. "Did you notice how he's always hiding his shameless eyes behind those sunglasses?"

"It's just really sunny right now," Selena tried defending him.

"Yeah, right," the kid stared out the window. "Lies as easily as he breathes."

* * *

For three days, we stayed in Selena's trailer. As an exception, we drove to nearby grocery stores for supplies, and I finally managed to wash up in a questionable roadside motel. Still, even these conditions felt like a blessing at this point. I couldn't recall exactly how far we were from Oscar's place, but judging by the landscape, it was quite a distance. Naturally, I spent every minute cursing Kurt, mentally picturing strangling him with the shoelace that bound Selena's stack of letters.

"Relax," Selena chattered nonstop, steering toward the repair shop while sharing cheese puffs with Oscar.

I had no appetite. All I wanted was to find out if the bike was ready.

"Who stockpiles weapons on a ranch in bulk?"

Oscar and Selena had been arguing the whole way about the credibility of rumors concerning the farmer named Vance.

"Farmers!" Oscar retorted heatedly.

"And who else?" Selena teased, amused by the kid's agitation.

"Dunno… Farmers' mothers!"

"Probably their wives too?" she giggled, refusing to let up.

Their pointless bickering was cut short when I noticed something ahead—or rather, the lack of it.

"Where's the repair shop?" I interrupted.

"Are we even in the right place?" Oscar asked, glancing at Selena.

She slammed on the brakes. The three of us lurched forward before rebounding back into our seats.

I jumped out of the trailer and hurried toward the empty lot while Oscar checked if his nose was still intact.

The breeze carried scraps of colorful tinsel and candy wrappers across the empty lot, while the scent of popcorn and cotton candy lingered in the air.

An old Jeep drove past me, and an elderly man leaned out the window.

"The circus left, but you stayed behind?" he joked.

"What circus?" I asked.

"The traveling kind," the man replied, pointing two fingers at the barren field. "They put on quite a show here—ran for almost a month. The last three days? Absolute spectacle."

"And those illusionists!" An elderly woman popped her head out from the back window, giving me a friendly smile. "Unforgettable!"

"What did they look like, these illusionists?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Father and son. Tall, long-haired gentlemen."

"I even won a pair of glasses from them!" the man announced proudly, holding them up.

Glenn's sunglasses gleamed mockingly in the sunlight, their gilded frames flashing—and in them, I caught my own reflection.

I turned away as the elderly couple hit the gas with a screech, leaving me standing in a cloud of dust.

The kid stood slightly behind Selena and stared at me in fear.

"You said you’ve known them for a long time," I hissed, turning to the girl and stepping closer.

"Yes," she answered curtly.

"Said you’d already fixed your van at their place."

"Yes, but listen, I’m bad with faces," the girl began. "Maybe it wasn’t them."

"I hope you’re not serious, Selena," I seethed. "Because I’m out of patience, and you—" I jabbed my finger at Oscar, who was pressing himself against her, "—I don’t know what you’re scheming or what you’ve dragged me into, but I’ve had enough."

"Constantin," Selena said, "I’m really sorry, I don’t know how this happened."

"We’ll fix it. Trust us," the kid replied.

Anger washed over me. I completely lost control and glared at the kid through the growing haze in front of my eyes. The word "trust" was already a red flag for me, especially coming from these two.

After blinking a couple more times, I found myself in a pub, leaning over a heavily drunk man, my fist raised above him.

"Has this happened before?" echoed in my head.

"Call the police!" someone shouted in the background.

"This guy’s completely lost it."

"He got hit too—that thug started it first!"

The voices of the unseen crowd blended with the sounds of broken glass and rock music. I looked at my bruised knuckles and back down. The man on the floor was gone.

My mind strained heavily, trying to show how I had gotten drunk from anxiety (but why?) in the pub and picked a fight with a stranger who had given me a sidelong glance. Apparently, I was also looking for an opponent—some way to unleash the negativity.

"But what pushed me? Did they actually call the police?" swirled chaotically in my head.

"Stop!" a woman's voice commanded sharply. "You don’t want this, Constantin. We don’t want this."

I began looking around, twisting back and forth, my body coiling through space.

"Who stopped me back then? Was I even with a girl?"

* * *

"Back with us, I see," Oscar said, pulling off his rubber boot and pouring the leftover water back into the lake.

"Where’s Selena?" I asked, staring blankly at the small footbridge where my own shadow flickered.

"She dropped us off and left right away—forgot already? Not surprising, though. In your usual style, you face-planted into the lake first thing. Maybe you should get a floatie, or, I dunno… armbands? Can’t exactly stretch a safety net over the whole lake."

I looked at the kid as he grimaced, pulling the wet boot back onto his foot, then wiped his palm on the leg of his coveralls. The coveralls, oddly enough, were completely dry.

"Oz," I said quietly, "tell me straight—what’s going on here?"

"What does it look like?" he shot back.

The kid’s eyes seemed older than he was. Only now did it hit me—his wisdom didn’t match his naive, childlike face at all.

"Am I dead?" I asked, fighting back nausea.

Oscar burst out laughing and stood up.

"Man, Constantin, you’re something else. If you were dead, how could we have had such a fun time together? Or do you think I’m dead too?"

"I don’t understand any of this," I said hopelessly.

"Yeah, no kidding," the kid shook his head. "You can’t even figure yourself out—no way you’ll get the rest. Alright, here’s the deal. You help me fix the roof and patch up the house before Grandpa gets back. And I’ll… gradually explain everything."

I looked at the kid, then at the lake (its calm surface stretching wide), then back at the kid—and nodded.

I’d already realized I didn’t have a choice.

Chapter 5

Summer was coming to an end. At least, that’s what Oscar had convinced me of, and the increasingly frequent downpours and dropping temperatures seemed to confirm it.

About two weeks had passed since I’d last seen Selena. Every night before bed, a bitter frustration gnawed at me—we’d parted on such a sour note. And yet, she’d only ever treated me with good intentions.

Oscar kept insisting the hippie girl wasn’t holding a grudge and might even visit again someday, but my memory—much like the relentless rains—kept tormenting me with fragments of the past. Reminding me how I used to snap at people, with or without reason, completely unable to control my emotions or stop myself in time.

Humility was never part of my communication skills.

After nights spent stewing in regret, I’d throw myself into work each morning, hoping to exhaust my body enough to escape the insomnia.

I’d fixed the roof—just in time before the rainy season. Patched every crack and hole in the cabin. Whitewashed the ceilings, repainted the walls, buying all the supplies I needed from the local hardware store… on credit. At this point, I’d lost track of how many people in the area I owed. Honestly, drowning in the lake would’ve been easier than tallying up my debts to the entire village.

As for that strange, recurring incident, Oz still hadn’t given me a straight answer, brushing it off as another one of my memory lapses.

Every time I felt like I was on the verge of understanding—of remembering something—I’d end up back in the lake. Eventually, it became automatic. I’d just swim out calmly, no panic, no struggle.

Looks like humility was finally starting to sink in.

"I love the quiet here," the kid rubbed his ear, still smeared with a streak of lime-green paint.

The entire time I'd been fixing up the place, Oz had been helping me. That restless little runt couldn't sit idle for even half an hour. So when it came time to paint, he'd insisted on picking the color for his own walls and joining in.

He wasn't exactly a natural at it. His brushstrokes were uneven, some patches darker than others. But then it hit me—it looked better this way. Like the kid was just starting his journey as an artist, and this was his first stab at impasto.

"I've noticed most folks around here are pretty meek," I said.

"Wrong," Oz kept scratching his paint-stained ear. "Wouldn't call 'em meek. Just… calm."

"I envy that," I plucked a dry maple leaf from the pile we were sitting on and dropped it into the lake, watching it drift away.

"Save your envy for Kurt," Oscar snorted.

"Don't bring him up."

I still hadn't let go of the idea of tracking that guy down to talk about the motorcycle—the one we needed to reclaim from those shady mechanics.

"In silence, you hear more," Oz said, eyes following the floating leaf. "We keep quiet so we don't miss what matters. No point wasting attention on the same noise looping over and over. And we always remember the golden rule."

"Which is?"

"Noise is contagious," Oz shrugged and sprawled across the dry leaf pile, staring at the sky. "It only takes one loud argument in a crowd before the dissonance infects everyone, turning cognitive."

I immediately remembered my bar fight (one of many) and felt uneasy. Trying to "drown" in loud crowds to avoid being alone with my thoughts in silence had always been my default.

"Do you know where that Vance lives? The one the illusionists mentioned?" It suddenly came to me.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Frank mentioned his wife left him for some Vance. We should pay them a visit. Maybe…" I reasoned.

"No way. Absolutely not. Nuh-uh," the kid jumped up, ruining the neat leaf pile.

"What's got you so worked up?" I asked, surprised. "Maybe she could help us find Frank and Glenn."

"Maybe you're right and the woman knows something," Oz shifted uncomfortably, choosing his words. "But Vance won't let you anywhere near her. He's explosive. And jealous."

"I'm not going there to propose marriage," I smirked.

"And Vance owns guns," Oscar reminded me. "Multiple ones. His ranch is huge too. Step foot on his property, and no one can protect you."

"You're actually scared," I observed, watching Oscar. "I'm not asking you to come. Just show me where it is."

"Your funeral," Oz muttered, staring at the lake for a long moment. "But remember – if you can't find common ground with Vance, I can't guarantee you'll walk away in one piece."

* * *

"Maybe we should've bought a bulletproof vest?" Oscar fretted nervously as we approached the ranch gates.

My foot sank into the damp earth with a careless step. A muddy puddle seeped through the clumps of clay and sand, mixing with the soil before splashing across the toe of my boot.

I lifted my foot with a grimace, producing a wet, sucking sound from the mire. A few dirty droplets flew off—one landing on the wooden sign nailed firmly to the ranch's handmade gates.

"Private Property. No Trespassing," the sign declared. Below it, someone had carved with a knife: "No, seriously—fuck off!"

"We can still turn back," the kid whispered, adjusting the saucepan he'd strapped to his head as a makeshift helmet before we left—a choice that had amused me the entire walk here.

"Oz, go home," I sighed. "I'll come back once I get what I need."

"I won't be able to sit still until you do. We go together."

"And if you're right about this farmer being unhinged?" I asked skeptically. "What if you get hurt?"

"If you get hurt, I’ll catch hell for it too. Grandpa didn’t give a return date, and I’m bored out of my mind alone."

Oscar adjusted his saucepan and hopped over the sturdy log fence.

"Why are we sneaking in like thieves?" I muttered, following him. "This is exactly how we get shot faster."

"Our goal is to reach the porch as quietly as possible," Oscar explained, veering off the well-worn tire tracks leading to the house. "With luck, he won’t be home, and his wife will let us in."

"Christ, this place is wrapped in horror stories," I muttered, shaking my head. "Does no one visit?"

"Did you read the sign?" the kid grumbled. "What 'guests'?"

"Got it. So, what about the grounds? Think there are landmines buried here?" I tried to lighten the mood, but Oscar didn't appreciate the joke and started carefully examining every bump in the ground.

"Can I help you gentlemen with something?"

We both startled and turned to see a woman holding a woven vegetable basket, her amber-brown eyes drilling into us. Oscar instinctively raised his saucepan like a weapon.

"I doubt you came here for salt," the woman remarked, nodding at the kitchenware. "You don't strike me as culinary types."

"Apologies for our manners, ma'am," I recovered first. "We're looking for the wife of a man named Vance."

"Well, you've found her," she said, shifting the basket.

She was tall with refined features and a slender frame. She appeared about forty-five, but the wisdom in her slightly wrinkled eyes suggested she might be older. Her well-manicured hands held the basket with an elegance that seemed out of place on a farm – not a speck of dirt under her nails, while even we'd gotten filthy crossing half the property.

Her golden hair was neatly bobbed and styled. She wore an elegant green sundress with black rubber boots similar to Oscar's – though decidedly more fashionable.

She followed my gaze and smiled again: "You could use some boots too, young man, if you value those shoes. It's easy to get stuck in this mud."

"Already learning that the hard way," I sighed, shaking another clump of dirt from my sole.

"Come inside. We'll talk in more civilized surroundings."

The woman marched toward the house, and we wordlessly trailed after her. Oscar continued looking in all directions, as if waiting to be "taken out" by a sniper.

* * *

The interior of the farmhouse was exceptionally cozy. Floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows made the already spacious living room appear even more expansive, flooding it with light. We could clearly see the path we'd taken just minutes earlier.

"We were never going to approach unnoticed," I thought.

"These are portes-fenêtres. From French, it means 'door-windows'," the woman said as she set the table with appetizing homemade cheeses and pickles, pouring us cherry compote that disappeared into our stomachs instantly. She discreetly refilled our glasses from a crystal pitcher.

"I love the feeling of freedom and the option to leave, even through a window," she remarked, carefully returning the pitcher to the table. "So, you were looking for me. To what purpose?"

"How should we address you?" I asked, settling into a rattan chair beside Oscar.

The hostess took her place on a two-seater rattan sofa with cream cushions. She placed one behind her lower back and laid the other across her lap, covering it protectively with her hand.

Her manner was so refined that her very presence made one recall all rules of etiquette. Even Oscar dabbed his mouth with a napkin after each sip, as if afraid of accidentally staining the furniture. His "armor" had been kindly washed and placed on the drying rack by our hostess.

"Justina," the woman inclined her head in greeting, and we followed suit. "I know Oscar – his grandfather is wonderful. I've also heard about your arrival, young man. Your name is Constantin, if I'm not mistaken?"

"That's what they call me," I replied.

"Now you may proceed to business," Justina gestured permission for questions. "I dislike dancing around bonfires."

"Where is your husband?" the boy asked cautiously.

"He's at the far end of the ranch, near the horse stables. Marila – our fast girl – recently gave birth to the most adorable foal. Now Vance spends entire days there."

"It seemed to me the woman said this with melancholy, but I wasn't sure. One doesn't get jealous of pets, that's what I always thought, but then I remembered how hard it is for women to accept that for men they're not the first priority, but represent only a certain percentage of time that men are willing to devote to them. And here it's just a matter of luck. The particularly unlucky ones get pennies in the form of thirty percent and assurances that this should be enough. Hence, ultimately, so many women who keep their hundred percent to themselves, betting on loneliness."

"We won't take much of your time, Justina," I said hurriedly, banishing these vexing thoughts. "Tell me, are you familiar with a man named Frank?"

The woman barely stirred, but my gaze didn't miss how quickly she squeezed the cushion and let go.

"Wouldn't this be about my ex-husband, by any chance?"

"That's how he introduced himself," I nodded in agreement.

"And what has that sly one done this time?"

"The thing is, he and Glenn staged an entire performance for us, posing as mechanics. And stole our motorcycle which we left with them, expecting the men to fix it."

Justina raised an eyebrow and a shadow of a smirk slid across her face:

"Not surprising to me. That's Frankie all over."

"Forgive me," I hastened to continue. "I understand this must be unpleasant for you to hear about your ex-husband and son."

"Son?" Justina frowned, but quickly realized. "Oh of course, you must mean Glenn. He's not my son at all. He's my brother."

I looked at Oscar, who couldn't tear himself away from the compote and, by all appearances, had missed half the conversation.

"I don't quite understand, ma'am," I forced out.

My head began to ache.

"Glenn is my blood brother," Justina repeated distinctly. "I actually have many brothers and sisters, but Glenn is the youngest and most difficult of them all. He constantly lies and believes the stories he makes up on the spot."

"And Frank?"

"Frankie really is my husband – an insufferable, cunning fox. When I left him, Glenn kept in touch and they created their own circus, bonding over our disagreements. They travel from town to town fooling people. But honestly, I didn't expect them to have the nerve to come back and pull their cheap scams in their hometown."

"Is there any chance they might return soon?" I asked the pressing question.

"Who can tell with those two? They're fickle with their plans," the woman sighed.

"I'll never see that bike again," I replied and stood up. "Still, thank you for your help, Justina."

I took the empty glass from Oscar, set it on the table, and pulled the boy along:

"Let's go, Oz."

"Justina, what are these uninvited guests doing in our house?"

Cold steel pressed between my shoulder blades, and I instinctively held my breath, realizing it was a rifle.

Apparently, standing behind me was none other than Vance himself, and right now he had me in his sights.

Chapter 6

Vance did not look like an unbalanced aggressor. Perhaps it was his bushy dark eyebrows, with gray hairs every other one, that diminished their thickness. Perhaps it was the brown freckles that abundantly covered his face, tanned from working in the sun. Or maybe the reason was his frail physique with a large belly and short legs, creating that very deceptive impression that this kindest soul of a man, who had just been fussing with a foal, couldn’t possibly be so full of rage at the world.

And yet, the gun in his hands—which completely clashed with the overall image of a balding middle-aged man in a cowboy hat with a pedigreed beauty of a wife (which, by the way, also caused utter bewilderment)—had been pointed at my back just a couple of minutes ago. Even the presence of a child didn’t seem to faze the man in the slightest.

"Darling, please, be more lenient with our guests. Show some hospitality."

Justina gave her husband a soothing, almost maternal smile and tapped the couch seat beside her, gesturing for him to sit down. But Vance paced back and forth across the room, impatiently casting scrutinizing glances at us as we settled back into our armchairs.

I felt like I was in a pen with a wild beast, one that was surveying its territory, deciding whom to start its meal with.

"I, Justina, am in no hurry to send our guests away. On the contrary, I’m asking them to stay, as I have not yet had the pleasure of getting to know them."

Vance had a small lower jaw, set far back, and at times, there was a lisping quality to his voice that was hard to mask. Though Vance tried, enunciating each word slowly. It was entirely possible that this very thing drove him into a frenzy—the necessity of constant self-control.

"Well? Speak up, what do you want?" Vance finally stopped pacing restlessly along the stained-glass windows and took his place behind his wife, slinging the rifle over his shoulder.

"I wonder, does he even sleep with it?" crossed my mind.

"Sorry for the trouble," Oscar was the first to break the tense silence. "My friend and I got into a scrape. A most unpleasant incident happened to us. As you know, around these parts, you can't always trust people."

"Oh, do tell me," the man snorted and took a closer look. "Oscar, didn’t recognize you at first. How’s your grandfather doing? I adore that old man. So fiery, so headstrong. I remember going hunting with him. Ahh…" Vance looked down dreamily, "those were great times. Your grandpa—a born marksman."

"He’s doing fine," the kid answered curtly.

"Well, and you—cat got your tongue?" the man turned to me.

"The thing is," Oscar continued, not giving me a chance to open my mouth, "Constantin is new around here. Doesn’t know the local customs well, and that’s why we keep landing in trouble."

"Oh really? And here I thought we land in trouble because I keep listening to you, kid," I silently argued with the brat.

"So what’s this trouble, then? Gonna tell me already?" Vance grumbled.

"Don't get worked up, darling," Justina said to her husband. "Let the boys catch their breath after your… dramatic entrance."

"Weakness isn’t in fashion these days," Vance sighed. "Fine, breathe easy—I wasn’t gonna shoot. Unless, of course, you came here to rob us."

"How could we?!" the kid exclaimed, grabbing a glass of cherry compote from the table. "Not only were we lucky enough to be invited into your home, but we also got to taste your homemade treats. And might I say, Justina is simply a marvelous hostess. This compote—nothing short of a masterpiece."

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