The apartment was suffocating.
Mira woke to the sound of nothing—no footsteps, no clatter of dishes, no voice humming tunelessly the way Jalen used to when mornings carried him easily into the day. She sat up slowly, listening. The silence pressed against her like a heavy hand.
Across the room, her brother sat hunched on the edge of the bed, staring at the floorboards. He had been awake for hours, she realized, though he hadn't moved except to clutch his knees tighter to his chest.
"Jalen?" she asked softly.
He didn't respond.
Mira pushed herself out of bed, her bare feet cold on the wooden floor. She crossed the room, crouched in front of him. His eyes were bloodshot, dark crescents shadowed the skin beneath them. He looked fragile, like a paper figure folded too many times, ready to tear.
"I found something yesterday," she said, forcing her voice into gentleness. "A sign, maybe. I think it could help you."
At that, his gaze flickered, but only for a second. "Help," he repeated, the word dry, cracked. "You've been saying that for months."
Her heart tightened. "Because I won't stop trying. You're my brother. You're everything I have."
Jalen's lips twitched into what might have been a bitter smile. "Then you don't have much."
The words stung, though she knew they weren't meant to. They were not cruelty, only the emptiness speaking. She reached out, covered his cold hand with her own.
"Eat something," she urged. She nodded to the bread she had brought home from the market. "Just a little. Please."
He shook his head. "What's the point? Nothing changes. Nothing ever changes."
Mira bit down on her frustration. It wasn't his fault. The doctors had called it soul fatigue, though most people knew it by its truer name: despair. The city had words for every emotion, bottled them, categorized them, taxed them—but when someone's soul ran dry, there was no cure save for replenishment. And replenishment came at a cost far beyond what people like Mira could pay.
She sat with him for a long time, listening to the silence. The curtains were drawn so tightly that the room was steeped in dusk even though it was morning. Dust motes drifted through the narrow beam of light seeping from the window's edge.
"I'm going back to the market tonight," she whispered at last.
Jalen flinched. "Don't. We can't afford—"
"We can't afford not to," she cut in. "I've heard of another place. An Exchange. It's dangerous, but they might have what you need."
He looked up at her then, eyes sharp with sudden fear. "Mira, no. I don't want you going near them."
"You don't have a choice." Her voice shook as she spoke. "If you won't fight for yourself, then I'll fight for you."
He gripped her wrist with surprising strength. "Listen to me. I don't want you losing yourself over this. Promise me, Mira."
She tried to hold his gaze, but her throat closed. She couldn't promise him what he asked. Not when she had already decided. She pulled free gently, stood, and went to the window.
The city stretched beyond the glass—towers of steel and stone, streets that thrummed with restless life, market lights still glowing though it was day. Somewhere out there, hidden beneath shadow, the Exchange waited.
And she would find it, no matter what he said.
The day dragged, heavy with unspoken words. Mira left briefly to sell her last three vials of contentment. The merchant at the sanctioned stall gave her barely enough coin for a loaf of bread and a few dried fish. She returned home with her meager purchase, set it on the table, and pretended not to see the disappointment in Jalen's eyes.
They ate little. Jalen lay back down soon after, pulling the blanket over his shoulders though the air was warm. Mira sat at the small table, sketching absentmindedly on a scrap of paper. She used to draw with him when they were children—paper birds, castles in the clouds, maps of imaginary lands beyond the city walls. He had loved making things with his hands, folding origami figures until their room was filled with them.
Now, her drawings were clumsy, shaky. She crumpled the paper and shoved it aside.
By dusk, Jalen was asleep again, his breaths shallow and uneven. Mira rose, tucked the blanket tighter around him, and whispered, "I'll bring you the sun, if it kills me."
She slipped on her boots and cloak, then left.
Night in Veylin was both dangerous and alive. The streets swarmed with workers finishing late shifts, merchants closing stalls, thieves slipping between alleys like shadows. Lanterns hung from iron posts glowed faintly, but the brighter light came from the vials on display in after-hours shops. The air smelled of smoke, rain, and the metallic tang of bottled feelings.
Mira moved quickly, keeping her hood low. She carried nothing of value except determination.
The symbol she had seen the night before—the broken heart stitched with golden thread—was etched deeper into her mind than any map. She retraced her steps through the alleys until she found it again, faint in the lamplight. It marked a narrow passage that twisted between two looming warehouses.
Her breath quickened as she stepped inside.
The alley was damp, littered with scraps of paper and broken glass. Shadows clung to the walls, shifting unnaturally. At the far end stood a door of dark iron, unmarked save for a faint golden gleam at its center—the stitched heart.
Mira raised her hand to knock, but hesitation froze her. Jalen's voice echoed in her head: I don't want you losing yourself over this. Promise me, Mira.
Her fist trembled. Then she forced it forward, striking the door.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then a slit opened at eye level, revealing pale, unblinking eyes.
"What do you seek?" a voice asked, low and sharp.
Mira's heart thundered. She swallowed. "Happiness."
Silence. The eyes studied her, cold and unreadable. Then the slit closed. The door creaked open a fraction, enough for her to slip inside.
The air within was colder, heavier, carrying the scent of dust and ozone. A faint golden glow flickered from shelves lining the walls, each one filled with vials unlike any she had seen in the market—emotions so intense they seemed alive, writhing within their glass prisons.
A tall woman stood behind a counter, cloaked in black, her skin pale as marble. Her eyes were the same pale gray that had peered through the door, and when they fixed on Mira, she felt as if they pierced her soul.
"You want happiness," the woman said. It was not a question.
"Yes," Mira whispered.
The woman tilted her head, regarding her like one might regard a desperate beggar. "Then you must understand: happiness cannot be bought with coin. It must be traded for something of equal worth."
Mira's breath caught. "What kind of trade?"
The woman's lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. "Yourself. Memories. Dreams. Love. All can be harvested. All have value."
Mira's knees weakened, but she steadied herself. "If it saves my brother, I'll give what I must."
The woman's smile deepened, as though she had been waiting for those words all along.
"Then step closer," she said. "Let us begin your first trade."