======Goodnight======

Home is where the heart is. It’s a shame, then, that this one’s heart was broken long ago. Burned once, in a furnace of war and what should have been. Then again, in a half-remembered city in a banishment with the best of intentions. There are some things even the most skilled mechanic cannot patch. There are some things that no amount of nostalgia will ever bring back.

In the old market square, there is a stall. No one comes by to trade, not anymore, in this ruined city, each sixteenth decaying in a different way. Nevertheless, it is set up with conspicuous care, playing cards displayed neatly in rows alongside burnished crystals. There are remnants, here, of communities left behind, each trinket a blurb for some owner’s tale. A set of chimes, crafted from bullet casings. A book, full to the cover with linguistic jargon. A greasy note, written in a careful hand. And on the inside, facing the seller, is a line of portraits. The features vary -- short hair, long hair, a snub nose, then a flared one -- but the eyes, rendered in startling lapis and emerald, remain constant.

Some weary traveller passing through might encounter a figure behind the counter, dressed in a brown cape and jumper which was once green.\\
‘Do you know someone called Lulav?’ they will be asked hopefully, more habit than belief. The response to their inevitable shake of the head will be a grudging sigh and a return to studying some paperwork. Census documents, membership lists, newspaper listings: it seems as though every scrap left in Jotama passes through this stall. Most are discarded soon after.

The right arm glistens when the light catches it, intricate circuitry abutting crudely elegant metalwork. If the weary traveller were to ask, they would be met with a stern look at the audacity of the question. Looking closer, they might see a glimmer of reminiscence, before they are pushed away with surprising strength for such a frail frame. The arm twitches sometimes with instinctual memory. It is unneeded now. No zombies ever seem to bother this one. None even come close.

Once, there was another place. A Sanctuary where fresh wounds became scars. But staying was never an option, just as in the place before. The destination was always here, this bed of memories, host now only to ghosts. They flicker at the windows sometimes. But it is never her.

Residing in borrowed time, what else is there to do but look back? The dusk draws in. Another day closer to the end.

In the beginning, there was a name.

And that name was--


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