Goodnight

█████ Lulav reads the headline of the paper, settling down into some corner of her office. Nobody else is here yet, aside from another figure bringing in two mugs of some hot drink.

“Have you read the articles this morning already, Historia?” She asks, a hint of worry in the tone.

Two clinks as the mugs are set down nearby. “Of course, it's hard to ignore. If not for this, it's been blasting on every news and radio channel. Fearmongering, really.”

“That's really what you think?” █████ questions, genuinely surprised. She picks up her mug and takes a sip, but it's just a little too hot at the moment.

Historia points to a highlighted sentence on the front page, rolling eyes as it's done. 'All who are eligible would be immediately enrolled into the army - men and women of all ages.'

“It's quite a bit of bollocks. There is absolutely no world where all of us simply go to war - the army can handle itself. And if I'd known this, maybe I'd have looked for a career in Anastasius and Horasa instead.” Historia takes a swig of the hot drink, paying no mind to its temperature.

“Maybe we should have, although nothing of my own expertise would be useful over there. And, despite all of this, I like it here right now. It has you, Historia.” █████ smiles, eyes creased, shining in bright tones of blue and green. It is reminiscent of the beach, like sea glass washed up, forgotten and remembered and beautiful. The prize amongst a dozen grey stones and pebbles.

Historia looks away, out the tiny window, into the city, where people move along. Cars chug on and people cross roads and it's all full of a dull and constant life.

“Whatever happens, we'll try to stick together, no?”

The air is heavy. There is something not quite said, yet understood, despite the small space and comfort they both feel in one another's presence.

█████ reaches her hand out, just a small length away, and it is taken softly.

“Of course. Whether or not we make it together, if there is some war or event that splits us apart, I'll do my best to protect you.”

A solemn look is exchanged. Full of a future they both know that is dwindling quickly into hopes and nothingness.

“And the same to you, Lulav.”

To protect: what ever is the meaning? To guard? To hold close? To ensure it remains in some form? Time passes indefinitely, as though this were the last time this closeness could be achieved.

“I… ought to get going,” Historia continues regretfully, “But pop by for lunch if either of us get enough time to.” The taller of the couple gets close to the door, looking back once, a doomed sort-of stare that lovers give upon goodbyes.

“Yes, yes. Goodbye, darling. Don't overwork yourself. I love you.” █████ looks on dotingly, crossing her legs and slowly turning to her desk fully.

The door clicks shut. Historia left a mug of coffee on the table, a little too sweet for Lulav's tastes, and far too hot to handle. She smiles nonetheless, putting it out of the way on a shelf behind her.

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–

The Relic Seeker moves through the building. It is familiar. There is no smell nor sound that can be remembered, but these footsteps have traced these hallways before, and that eye has viewed it many times.

The door, as dutiful as ever, was locked. Someone more responsible had been here last. Where would a key be? How had this corner not been ravaged like the rest of Jotama?

Underneath a bookcase lining the nearby wall. The Relic Seeker does not understand how the answer was so obvious, but fails to question it further in the interest of finding more. There must be more. There must be something in this room. Click. It unlocks.

How vain, to think anything had been salvaged in this place. The windows had been smashed, the tables in disarray, chairs strewn over with papers haphazard. The Relic Seeker nonetheless keeps searching. Archival records of paintings and requests of borrowing them, or school visits, or students asking for meanings. A newspaper updating the war, with a circle around those to be enrolled. A mug nearby to it. Three sugars. The drink would have been more of a sweet than anything.

Alas, it is nothing, isn't it. The Relic Seeker takes the newspaper, in hope it could reveal something, but knows there is nought to be found here. After all, why would Lulav be in such a place?

In picking the paper up, there is some more underneath. Addressed to someone, maybe the one at this very desk. █████. What an odd name. Colleagues with an H. Silver.

With nothing much more to look at, the Relic Seeker sighs. Maybe the next building is the correct one.