S E I J I
A roof, finally. Seiji is only a little more rooted here now than he was a few days ago. He feels strange, as if he stands with one foot in a dream. As if, at any moment, someone might look through him and fail to recognize him at all. But he cannot quite describe the feeling. Only — wrongness. He is no longer cold, however, and this is a small blessing. The walls protect him from the worst of the weather beyond. And they crawl with people. Strangers, of course (and very strange they are) but even their company is far, far better than being alone. The murmur of voices, the sound of feet coming and going — all soothe his nerves by small degrees.
If despair might persuade him to lay idle, his growing anxiety pushes it aside. He finds himself walking the corridors today, his eyes scanning high ceilings and ornate windows. So much of this place breathes grandeur. But the grandeur of ruins, of forgotten cities. It is half alive and half crumbling, and its people resemble no people Seiji has ever seen. No cohesion he can fathom. No industry. No — but here his head hurts. If he searches too far back, he finds only a blur of memories, white lights and red, the sound of raindrops on glass. What should a city even look like?
If his own heads holds no answers, he will need to find some elsewhere. Now, he finds himself descending a stairway into a small place, dark but comfortable. It is alive with mundane noise: glasses clinking, people speaking. As he enters, his eyes catch the glint of glass and pass across the crowd of bodies. The smell is warm but not unpleasant. Seiji's stomach rumbles, and he is suddenly aware he has no currency. And no way of making any. He wanders toward the bar, some vague idea brewing in his head, but he slows as he notices the hawk-like woman perched there, surveying the room. Something about her eyes — they pierce him through. He hardly notices his pace slow to a crawl.
A roof, finally. Seiji is only a little more rooted here now than he was a few days ago. He feels strange, as if he stands with one foot in a dream. As if, at any moment, someone might look through him and fail to recognize him at all. But he cannot quite describe the feeling. Only — wrongness. He is no longer cold, however, and this is a small blessing. The walls protect him from the worst of the weather beyond. And they crawl with people. Strangers, of course (and very strange they are) but even their company is far, far better than being alone. The murmur of voices, the sound of feet coming and going — all soothe his nerves by small degrees.
If despair might persuade him to lay idle, his growing anxiety pushes it aside. He finds himself walking the corridors today, his eyes scanning high ceilings and ornate windows. So much of this place breathes grandeur. But the grandeur of ruins, of forgotten cities. It is half alive and half crumbling, and its people resemble no people Seiji has ever seen. No cohesion he can fathom. No industry. No — but here his head hurts. If he searches too far back, he finds only a blur of memories, white lights and red, the sound of raindrops on glass. What should a city even look like?
If his own heads holds no answers, he will need to find some elsewhere. Now, he finds himself descending a stairway into a small place, dark but comfortable. It is alive with mundane noise: glasses clinking, people speaking. As he enters, his eyes catch the glint of glass and pass across the crowd of bodies. The smell is warm but not unpleasant. Seiji's stomach rumbles, and he is suddenly aware he has no currency. And no way of making any. He wanders toward the bar, some vague idea brewing in his head, but he slows as he notices the hawk-like woman perched there, surveying the room. Something about her eyes — they pierce him through. He hardly notices his pace slow to a crawl.
The rain is full
of ghosts tonight
of ghosts tonight
