A M A L I A
"Mama?"
The crying woman cannot be her mother, but Amalia does not care.
It sounds - it sounds - like her mother's tears, so mournful and solemn, all those years ago. A piper's cry, a siren's song; it curls through her open window, nestling deep into her ear, waking her from sleep. She follows it through the cold night, compelled and curious and not unafraid, stopping long enough to grab her staff and lantern before slipping into the night. Wrapped in a shawl, the girl floats on, her booted feet stepping lightly on as she leaves her shop and pursues the sound, away from civilization, from home and hearth, until she reaches the ruins of the old world.
Her breath comes fast in swirling steam, curling around her face. This cannot be a good idea, that much Amalia knows, drawing to a stop. The Underground looms empty ahead, and though Amalia peers through the dark she cannot see much through the dark. Ahead, she thinks, a figure looms. "Hello? the firelit girl asks, her deep voice quivering in the cold rain. "Is anyone in there?"
As she approaches the figure seems to grow, before splitting into two: both men, both strangers, neither the source of the mournful sound. Disappointed and relieved, the girl draws closer, her lantern casting a subtly glow despite the falling rain. She draws up near to
