The attic was the only place in our house that had ever belonged to me. It was small and low, with a ceiling that sloped so sharply I had learned where not to stand by the bruises on my head. It smelled of dust, paper, and the sea wind that crept through the cracks. I had filled it with scraps of myself: a stack of books scavenged from the docks, a crate I used as a table, a blanket that was always too thin in winter and too heavy in summer.
It was not much, but it was mine. And now Ash was sitting in it, wrapped in my spare blanket, his eyes scanning the beams like they were the carvings of a cathedral.
We had climbed the drainpipe in silence, our hands slick with rain. My mother slept on the floor below, and I had not dared to breathe until we were both inside with the window latched. The lamp on the crate gave off a tired light, just enough to turn Ash's face into pale planes and shadows.
"You are safe here," I whispered.
His gaze came down from the ceiling. "You sound like you want to believe that as much as you want me to."
I looked away. He was right. My attic was only four walls and a roof. Nothing about it could stop what we had seen in the railyard.
Still, it was the first time I had seen him sit down without looking like he might spring back up at the smallest sound. He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, and for a moment he seemed less like a figure built in a lab and more like a boy who had been left out in the cold too long.
I sat cross-legged opposite him and pulled the map and journal from my jacket. The leather case was damp, the edges curling. I laid the map flat on the crate and opened the journal to the page that had burned itself into me: The truth lies below the city. If Kai finds this, tell him nothing. Let him choose.
I turned the book toward Ash. "Did he ever say this to you?"
He shook his head slowly. "He said many things, but not that. He told me stories. He read from books. He spoke about the city in ways that sounded almost kind. But he never said those words."
"You said before that he read to you," I pressed. "What kinds of stories?"
"Ones where someone left home and returned changed. Sometimes they brought back treasure. Sometimes they brought back scars. He said they were practice for the day when the door would not hold me anymore."
The words struck me. My father had been preparing him, too. Not just me.
"What about you?" Ash asked. "Did he tell you stories?"
I swallowed. "He used to read to me when I was younger. But after I grew older, he stopped. He said I had to find my own."
Ash nodded, as if that made sense. "He gave you a map instead of a story."
I looked down at the curling paper between us. The lines twisted like veins under skin. Some I recognized now as streets. Others still looked like nonsense. At the center was the eye. Around the edges were numbers I had ignored before.
I traced a finger along them. "These numbers… they might not just be markers. They might be part of a code."
Ash leaned closer. His eyes reflected the lamplight. "Codes hide things in plain sight. They make you work to see what is already there."
I opened the journal again, flipping through pages filled with cramped handwriting. Most of it was about shipments, repairs, meetings. But in the margin of one page, written at a slant as though my father had not meant it to be seen, was a note:
Bell at seven. Bell at nine. Bell at three. Skip the fourth. Keys are questions. Answers are even.
My pulse quickened. "It is a code. He left it here, waiting for me to piece it together."
Ash said nothing. He watched me work, his stillness making it easier for me to think.
I counted the bells against the numbers along the map. Seven, nine, three. Not four. Each number pointed to a word scrawled beside a tunnel line. Slowly, the words stitched themselves together into a phrase.
Second door under archives. Chamber three. Proof behind red panel. Names.
I sat back, staring at the sentence. Proof. Names. My father had not only left me a riddle; he had left me the location of something he could not say aloud.
Ash's voice was quiet. "Names of who?"
I looked up at him. "Maybe names of others like you. Maybe names of those who made you. Either way, he wanted me to find them."
The candle sputtered. I closed the journal and pressed my palms against it as if I could keep the weight of it from spilling into the room.
Ash shifted, pulling the blanket tighter. "You should sleep. Your body is worn down. You cannot run forever without rest."
"You are not going to sleep either."
"I have rested enough," he said. "It never helps."
"You sound like an old man when you talk like that."
For the first time since I had found him, Ash smiled. It was small, quick, but it stayed with me. "I am older inside than I look."
I stretched out on the cot, boots still on. My eyes would not close. Every time I blinked, I saw the phrase on the map and the red panel hidden behind wood. "Tell me something true," I whispered. "So I do not dream the wrong thing."
He was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than the rain. "Once they turned off the lights in my chamber for longer than usual. I began to count in the dark. I told myself that the number I reached would be my age. When the lights came back, I stopped. That number is what I carry now."
"What was it?"
"Seventeen."
My throat tightened. "That is my age."
"Then it is a good number to keep."
I slept with that thought, though it felt fragile.
When I woke, the candle had burned down to a puddle of wax. Pale daylight crept around the edges of the window. Ash was still awake, sitting in the same place, his eyes steady.
"You did not sleep," I said.
"I listened," he replied. "Your mother stirred twice but did not rise. The house is safe for now."
A low hum drifted through the air. At first I thought it was the pipes. Then I realized it came from outside. A vehicle engine, too smooth for this part of the city.
I slid to the window and cracked it open. Rain-washed air poured in. Down on the street a black truck idled, its lights dimmed. After a moment it rolled past and disappeared around the corner.
"They are searching," Ash said behind me. "The network told them the door opened. They will not stop until they know why."
My hand tightened on the window frame. "Then we cannot stay."
"No," he said. "We go to the archives. We follow the code."
I scrawled a short note to my mother on a scrap of paper: I will come back. Trust me. I left it under the cup on my desk. It was not enough, but it was all I could give.
We climbed down the drainpipe into the wet alley. The truck's hum lingered in my ears. We moved quickly, keeping to back lanes, our heads down.
The cathedral's bells rang faintly in the distance as we crossed into the square. The courthouse tower loomed, blank-faced, its windows dark. I felt its weight on my back even when I forced myself to look away.
The east wing of the cathedral held the archives. The side door was locked, as always at this hour. Ash crouched, studying the brass lock. "Five pins. Weak spring," he murmured.
I handed him my pencil. He broke it cleanly, slid the tiny spring into the lock, and turned. There was a click, sharp and perfect. He opened the door as if it had been waiting for him.
The air inside smelled of dust and paper. We moved down into the basement, past rows of cabinets. The light switch buzzed when I flicked it on, throwing the shelves into stark relief.
"Look for red," I whispered.
We searched slowly, eyes darting over every wall and baseboard. My heart beat louder with each step, each cabinet that looked the same as the last. Finally Ash stopped, tapping a darker baseboard near the back. "Here," he said.
We heaved the cabinet aside. Behind it was a small panel, painted a tired red. A single screw held it in place. My hands shook as I unscrewed it with the knife.
The panel came free, revealing a metal box on stiff rails. I pulled it out, heart pounding. Inside was a cloth bundle. I unwrapped it and spread the papers across the floor.
Photographs. Notes. Lists.
The first page read: Subject H, designation A 5 H. Response stable. Protective tendencies observed.
I looked up at Ash. He did not look away. His hands were still, but his eyes burned.
We turned more pages. Subject R, Subject L, Subject T. Notes about their strengths, their weaknesses, their failures. Some names written in the margins. Some lines crossed out.
At the bottom of the stack was a letter in my father's hand.
If you are reading this, then you already know I failed to keep the work from growing in Greyharbor. I buried what I could. I left behind what I could not destroy. These names are not a record to be erased. They are a promise. Speak them. Find the others. Do not trust the tower. Do not trust the men who say they are only counting. Someone braver than me must finish what I could not.
My chest tightened. For the first time, my father's voice felt alive again, not only in memory.
Footsteps pounded above us. A door opened. Voices drifted down the stairwell.
I shoved the papers back into the cloth and crammed them into the case. Ash slid the panel back in place, cabinet scraping as we pushed it against the wall. The lights above the stairs grew brighter.
"This way," Ash whispered.
We darted into the boiler room, the smell of hot metal wrapping around us. A narrow door stood at the far end. I pulled it open, and the alley greeted us with cold rain.
We slipped into the street as the cathedral bells began to ring. Seven, then nine, then three. Not four. The pattern from the code.
The city was speaking in numbers. My father's voice was still guiding me.
Ash looked up at the strip of sky between the roofs and gave the faintest of smiles. "We found something true," he said.
I gripped the case against my chest. "Now we make it count."