It had already been an hour and a half since Ronan left the hospital. By the time the streets began to look familiar, the light had started to thin.
He had reached the Ferreom District, where Percy had lived. Narrow roads ran uneven here, stones cracked and shifted in places, while rows of brick buildings pressed close on either side.
The air carried the faint smell of coal smoke and damp mortar. Workers moved past in small groups, their boots scuffing the pavement. Percy's memories made the turns come easier, though the weight of the day still sat in Ronan's legs.
He passed a tall clocktower that leaned a few degrees off true. It had stood that way for years, the locals said, yet no one seemed worried it would fall.
A short distance beyond it lay what people called the playground. In truth it was an old construction site left half-finished after the company went under seven years back.
Rusted pipes jutted from the ground beside rough stone foundations, and children had claimed the space anyway, running between the obstacles when the weather allowed.
Ronan kept walking until he stopped in front of a modest two-story house. Percy owned it outright. That single fact had eased his life more than anything else.
No rent to scrape together each month meant he could spare a few coins for a drink after work now and then. The house had not come from family or steady saving.
Percy had grown up in an orphanage attached to an old church, with no parents or relatives to speak of. Three years ago, during a city festival, he had drawn a winning lottery ticket.
He knew nothing about business or putting money to work, so he bought the house and the small patch of land with it. That choice had proved wiser than he realized; within a year he had managed to spend nearly everything else that remained.
A voice spoke from behind him. "That's unusual for you to be home so early."
Ronan turned. Mrs. Callyst stood there, an old woman whose face Percy knew well. He gave a small respectful bow. "Good evening, Mrs. Callyst."
"Well, good evening to you too, young man," she answered, her smile warm but edged with curiosity. "How come you're back so early today? Did something happen?"
"I was at the hospital because of an accident yesterday," Ronan said. "So I couldn't go to work."
Mrs. Callyst's hand went to her mouth. "Oh my! Are you alright?"
"As you can see, I'm completely fine," Ronan answered at once. "It wasn't anything serious. Thank you for the concern."
She was in her late sixties, gray strands showing plainly in her hair. She had treated Percy kindly since the day he moved in. She and her husband had no children, which seemed to be why she looked after him the way she did.
Now and then she would bring food over, even when Percy tried to refuse. Her husband, Mr. Callyst, drew a pension from his years as a soldier.
He carried himself upright and spoke little, yet he had always been decent to Percy in his quiet way. Every New Year the couple invited him to their table. To Percy they had become the nearest thing to parents he had known.
Mrs. Callyst stepped closer and looked him over from head to foot, not satisfied with words alone. Only after she had checked for herself did she ease.
"You seem fine enough," she muttered, then added, "Still, you must be hungry after the hospital. Come, let me cook something."
Ronan started to refuse, but the long walk and the empty stretch since morning gave him away. His stomach growled loud enough to cut through the quiet street.
Mrs. Callyst smiled, already knowing the answer. She would not take no this time. Ronan followed her inside.
Her house was a little larger than Percy's and older, the couple having lived there long before he arrived.
The outside showed its age, yet everything stayed clean and in order. Inside, pottery pieces stood on high shelves and cabinets, placed well out of reach.
Five fat cats ruled the floor. When Mrs. Callyst entered they gathered at her ankles, rubbing and purring. Only one came near Ronan—a gray cat with half-lidded eyes. It knew Percy from his frequent visits.
Ronan sat without being told. Mrs. Callyst hung her coat and moved to the kitchen. "Where's Mr. Callyst?" he asked.
"Oh, him?" she called back while chopping. "He said he'd be late. Went to meet some old comrades. Seemed excited about it too."
Ronan gave a faint smile. "Hard to picture him excited about anything."
Mrs. Callyst laughed softly in agreement. They kept a light conversation going while she cooked.
Ronan tried to pull the cats' names from Percy's memories. He managed three—Dio, Mia, and Layla. The other two stayed out of reach no matter how he turned the thoughts over.
Soon she brought the food: a bowl of meat stew and a round of fresh brown bread still warm from the oven.
Steam rose, carrying a rich, savory smell that filled the small room. Ronan thanked her and began to eat. The warmth spread through his middle after nearly a full day without proper food, and the simple meal made the tiredness in his limbs ease a little.
Mrs. Callyst spoke while he ate, asking about the hospital and telling him to rest well that night. He answered between bites, finishing what was in the bowl.
When he was done he thanked her again, sincere and quiet, then stepped back outside.
The streets had grown dim. Lights flickered on one by one behind windows, and the air had turned colder against his face. Mr. Callyst had not returned yet.
Ronan did not linger on it. He crossed to his own door, went inside, and felt the full weight of the day settle on him at once. Both mind and body were spent.
He lay down on the bed without lighting a lamp or removing his shoes. Sleep was unresistable in that moment .