Percy opened his eyes to the same wooden ceiling he had seen for nearly three years. The sight no longer stirred confusion or a racing pulse.
Both sets of memories agreed on this place, this room, this narrow stretch of time since he had first stepped through the door.
He sat up slowly, the mattress giving a faint creak beneath him, and let his gaze move across the space. It felt larger than it was only because no one else lived here. Sunlight filtered through the curtains in thin lines that caught on the dust in the air.
He rubbed at his eyes once, then crossed to the window and pushed it open. Cool morning air came in at once, carrying the faint scent of damp stone from the street below and the sharper smell of chimney smoke from somewhere down the block.
Brighter light followed, warming the skin on his face. He drew the pocket watch from his vest and flipped it open. Five in the morning. Only the larger sun hung in the sky yet; the smaller one would rise in another ten minutes or so.
"It still feels surreal," he murmured. "Yet somehow normal at the same time. Having two sets of memories is such a weird feeling."
He stood there a little longer, watching the light strengthen, before turning toward the washroom.
The second toothbrush in the woven basket by the sink caught his eye the way it always did, but he took his own without pausing.
The charcoal paste he used came from a recipe one of the men at the Shrewsbury Drunkard had shared after four days of paid drinks.
Cheaper than buying the ready kind, and it worked well enough. He brushed in steady strokes, the gritty texture working against his teeth, then rinsed and wiped his face with a cloth that had gone thin from repeated washing.
He did not feel like making breakfast. Mrs. Callyst had pressed too much food on him the day before, and the memory of that full plate still sat heavy.
If he had not skipped meals earlier, he might have regretted it more. Gratitude lingered anyway. He washed properly, changed into the same worn shirt and vest, and stepped outside.
Work did not start until eight, so the extra hours stretched ahead of him. Normally he rose closer to seven, but today the quiet pulled at him.
The streets were still mostly empty as he walked toward the unfinished construction site that had become a rough playground. No children yet. They would be eating or dressing for school.
He climbed onto one of the wide, abandoned pipes and sat there, the metal cool through his trousers. From that height he could see the district stirring. Postmen moved in the distance with their satchels.
A few carriages passed, the zebras pulling them with the same steady gait as always. Horses were absent here, another detail that still sat oddly in his mind even after three years of Percy's memories. Some military units painted the animals darker to hide the stripes, or so the stories went.
Children on bicycles soon appeared, their voices light in the morning air, followed by a carriage full of students heading toward the school district.
That was his cue. He stood, brushed dust from his sleeves, and started walking toward Beningham Street. Saving the fare for a carriage still mattered more than comfort.
Beningham Styles sat midway down the block, a medium-sized shop with wide front windows.
Mr. Bram ran it with his daughter Silia, who was four years older than Percy and had taught him most of what he knew about measurements and stitching. Eight workers in total, including Percy.
More than strictly needed for the size of the place, but Mr. Bram left the actual sewing and customer orders to the others and to Silia. The goal, spoken of quietly among the workers, was to become a higher-end shop within the next five or ten years.
The bell above the door rang softly when Percy stepped inside. Several workers were already laying out fabric near the long tables. One sat by the window, needle moving steadily. Miss Gracy looked up at once.
"Mr. Percy, did something happen yesterday? You didn't tell anyone you'd be gone. Some of us were worried."
He smiled faintly while hanging his coat and hat on the peg. "I ran into an accident. Ended up in the hospital, so there was no chance to send word."
A voice came from behind him. "Oh?"
He turned. Silia stood there, light brown hair tied back, measuring tape looped around her neck. Percy offered an apologetic look at once. "I'm sorry about yesterday."
She shook her head. "That's not what concerns me. If you were in the hospital, are you certain you should be here already?"
"I'm fine, Miss Silia. Healthy enough, as you can see."
She studied him for another moment, then nodded. "All right. But don't push yourself."
"Thank you. I won't."
He crossed to his own narrow aisle, the waist-high wooden dividers giving a small measure of privacy while still allowing voices to carry.
His table was long and marked with years of scratches. Rolls of fabric sat on the shelves above, and half-finished orders waited to one side.
The oil lamp hung ready for later hours. Beside it rested the pin cushion, measuring tapes, chalk, scissors, and spools of thread. The old foot-pedaled sewing machine at the edge of the table had lost most of its black shine, yet the metal still moved smoothly under his care.
What surprised him was that his workload had not grown despite the missed day. He glanced toward Miss Gracy. She smiled in return, the expression knowing.
"We had some free time yesterday, so we finished a few of your orders."
He paused, then gave a genuine nod. "Thank you."
He would thank the others properly once they arrived. For now he organized the fabrics and tools on the table, set the first order in front of him, and began the day's work.