Andrew walked back toward the inn.
The warehouse still echoed in his mind. The cobblestones looked darker than they should have.
His fingers felt wrong. Not painful. Just wrong. As if the warmth had settled into the bone and refused to leave.
He kept his hands at his sides. He did not look at them.
The streets of Merrow Street were quiet at this hour. A cart passed, its wheels rattling on the cobblestones. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. Above it all, the low hum of the city never stopped.
Andrew walked with his head down. He did not want to see the warehouse behind him.
The inn appeared at the end of the street. The sign hung in the dim light—The Sleeping Fox, its painted fox worn down to nothing. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The common room was empty. The fire in the hearth had been lit. It cast long shadows across the floor.
Andrew climbed the stairs without stopping. His footsteps echoed in the narrow hallway. He reached his door, unlocked it, and stepped inside.
The room was as he had left it. Small. Quiet. A bed. A washbasin. A window that looked out onto the street.
He set his suitcase on the floor. He sat on the edge of the bed.
He sat in silence.
His chest felt tight. Not from the walk. From something else. The air in the room was normal—cool, still, ordinary. But he could still feel the weight of the warehouse pressing against his lungs.
He breathed. In. Out. The feeling did not fade.
He looked at his hands.
The red was still there. Faint, like a bruise beneath the skin, but unmistakable. He turned his palms over. The color marked his fingertips, the pads, the spaces between his fingers.
He stood and walked to the washbasin.
The water was cold. He poured it from the pitcher, filled the basin to the brim, and plunged his hands in.
The cold shocked him. It was good. It was real.
He rubbed his fingers together, scrubbing the skin, watching the water cloud with nothing. The water ran clear. The red did not fade.
He scrubbed harder. His palms grew raw. The skin reddened beneath his efforts, but the stain remained—separate, deeper, untouched.
He stopped.
His hands dripped over the basin. The water was clean. His hands were clean. But the red was still there, faint and patient, like a memory pressed into his skin.
He stared at them.
And his back grew warm.
Not hot. Not burning. Just warm. A slow heat spreading from between his shoulder blades, down his spine, across his ribs. The cross—stitched into his tunic, pressed against the fabric—seemed to hold the warmth like a ember held in cloth.
He held still. He did not reach for the cross.
The warmth faded. Slowly, like a breath released. By the time he turned to look at his reflection in the window, it was gone.
He saw himself. Pale face. Dark circles under his eyes. The tunic rumpled from the day.
Behind him, the room was empty.
But for a moment—just a moment—he thought he saw something else. A shape. A color. Red, in the corner of his vision, where the window glass caught the lamplight.
He turned.
Nothing.
---
A knock came at the door.
Andrew dried his hands on his trousers. He walked to the door and opened it.
The woman from the counter stood in the hallway. Margret. She held a small tray with a cup of something that steamed in the cold air.
"You missed supper," she said.
Andrew looked at the tray. He had forgotten about food.
"I wasn't hungry," he said.
Margret studied him. Her eyes moved to his face, then to his hands. He tucked them behind his back without thinking.
"Long day?" she asked.
Andrew nodded. "First day."
She did not smile. But something in her expression softened, just slightly.
"You'll get used to it," she said. She held out the tray. "Drink this. It'll help you sleep."
Andrew took the tray. The cup was warm in his palms.
"Thank you," he said.
She nodded once and walked away. Her footsteps faded down the hall.
Andrew closed the door. He set the tray on the washstand and looked at the cup. Some kind of tea. The smell was herbal, faintly sweet.
He did not drink it.
He sat on the edge of the bed again. His hands rested on his knees. The red was still there. He did not look at it.
Exhaustion, he told himself. Travel. New city. New job. His mind was playing tricks on him.
The warehouse was strange. Eldon had said so himself. There were things in the city. Things you didn't look at. That was all.
He had imagined the warmth. He had imagined the shadow. He was tired. That was all.
He lay back on the bed. The mattress sagged beneath him. The ceiling was low, the shadows deep.
He closed his eyes.
And he saw the red.
Not in his memory. Not in his imagination. In the darkness behind his eyelids, a shape moved. Slow. Pulsing. The color of old blood.
His eyes snapped open.
The room was empty. The lamp had burned low. The shadows in the corners were still.
He sat up. His heart was beating too fast.
He looked at his hands. The red was still there. He looked at his reflection in the window. The glass showed him only himself.
He reached behind him. His fingers found the cross through his tunic. The fabric was cool. The cross was cool.
He pulled his hand away.
He lay back down. He did not close his eyes again.
---
The hours passed.
The lamp went out. The room fell into darkness. The sounds of the city softened to a distant murmur.
Andrew lay still. His hands rested on his chest. He did not move.
And then he heard it.
A sound. Faint. Far. Coming from the direction of the warehouse.
He held his breath. The sound came again. A shift. A pressure. A thing moving through a space that did not want it.
He sat up.
The sound stopped. The room was silent.
He waited. The silence held.
Slowly, he lay back down. His hands were cold. His chest was tight. The cross against his back was a weight he could not ignore.
He thought of Eldon's words. You work. You eat. You sleep. That's your life now.
He closed his eyes. He forced his breathing to slow.
He would work. He would eat. He would sleep.
Tomorrow, he would wake. He would go to the warehouse. He would earn his fifteen Stachs. He would repay Gerald. He would be ordinary.
He would ignore the red.
He opened his eyes one last time. The room was dark. The window showed him nothing but his own faint reflection.
He looked at his hands. The stain had not faded. If anything, it had spread. The red crept further down his fingers, toward his knuckles, slow and patient.
He stared at it. He did not move.
Then he looked up at the window.
Beyond the clouded glass, the sky was black. The smoke from the factories had thinned, just for a moment, and through the gap he saw them.
Two moons.
The first was familiar. Large. Crimson. It hung low in the sky, its light thick and heavy, the color of old blood. It had always been there. He had seen it a thousand times over Ferot Village, had walked home under its red glow without a second thought.
Beside it, smaller but no less familiar, was the azure moon. Pale. Silver. Its light was softer, cooler, the light of quiet nights and sleeping fields.
He had seen them both his whole life. But tonight, they looked different.
The crimson moon seemed closer. Its light pressed against the window, seeping through the clouded glass, touching his hands, his arms, his face. The stain on his fingers seemed to deepen in its glow, the red spreading, pulsing, alive.
He stared. His breath caught in his throat.
The crimson moon pulsed. Once. Twice. A slow rhythm, like a heartbeat.
And his back grew warm.
Not the gentle warmth from before. This was deeper. Slower. The cross pressed against his back through the fabric, heavy and alive. For a moment—just a moment—he thought he heard something. A voice without words. A sound without shape.
Then the smoke drifted back across the sky. The red moon vanished behind it. The azure moon faded to a memory.
The warmth faded.
Andrew lay in the darkness. His hands were cold. His chest was tight. The cross was quiet against his back.
He did not move.
He did not close his eyes.
But the morning came anyway.
---
The water had washed everything away.
Everything except the red.
[End of Chapter 3]