Marek awoke earlier than the alarm. He slept on his back, hands under the head, looking at the shades on the roof through the window. The flat was quiet.
Outside the day began, the city's public transport was waking up, people moving around in their own ways. Marek shut off the mouse and closed his eyes once more to avoid getting up for a few minutes. He sat up, pulled out his cell phone and read the news, his emails, and then again the news.
He lived in a city where every day was the same and different only in small matters. He was thirty-two, working a job that allowed him to keep bills paid, and involved in relationships which hovered on the edge of polite shallowness.
In the bathroom he brushed teeth and shaved quickly. His movements were economical, free of excessive effort.
He had already prepared his clothes yesterday evening — the outfit for work that suited him: dark trousers, a shirt, a coat. He had given up on trying to be a bit special. He did not mind repeating something too much.
On the journey to work he saw familiar people, shops and billboards. He stopped at a vendor, bought a cigarette and a coffee, even though he smoked not at all.
He stepped out onto the corner and lit up in front of the bus stop. He usually attended to his phone as he breathed in the smoke. Today he did otherwise. A second, two, nothing. And the cigarette lit without sound, without light at the other end.
The flame burned, touched the filter, Marek inhaled. He paid it no attention. He knew it was terribly practical when you're in a rush. He thought he would ascribe it to tiredness or inattentiveness. A day earlier he would have called it a lucky coincidence.
Agency work consumed him. He was at his desk, unlocking a project, translating words, adjusting designs. His phone rang every now and then. Friends walked by and said hello before returning to work.
Marek had a system and the system was for him. He needed silence, routine. When there arose a small inconvenience, he could readily repair it and resume the system.
On lunchtime he took a shorter route through some street where there were old houses and additional trams stopped on the platforms. He noticed graffiti, ancient inscriptions and random people.
On one of the houses he saw that there was a symbol pressed into the plasterwork. It was not typical for the city; it was not included in usual graffiti. It had simple shape — a circle and crosswise lines.
Marek stopped, placed his hand against the coarse plaster; his finger traced the width of the symbol. Not knowing gave him a small tool of curiosity. The symbol was recurring in different parts of the city, but thus far he had not seen it.
Going back to work the image continued to linger in his head all day. He kept telling himself it was just a bit of street art, young people messing around at night.
But in the recesses of his mind was the brush of the cold plaster, a small tingling he was trying to quash. Things linger in the head when you don't want them to.
He met Akira after work. It was nothing special: coffee, work chatter, about mutual acquaintances.
Akira sat in silence in what she spoke and walked in a straight line in what she did. She knew how to get to the matter without beating around the bush.
Marek felt he could open up to her more than to other people. He confided in her about the symbol.
Akira smiled but did not rule it out. She said she had noticed it too, that it had been appearing in city suburbs for weeks. She thought it wasn't a publicity stunt.
"It's just another graffiti," she replied. "But it started repeating last month."
Marek realized that sooner or later everybody notices something they didn't notice before. He didn't pay much attention to it, but somehow it stuck in his head all evening.
That night he seemed to go to sleep more unwillingly. Memories came to his mind which he could not define.
They were silent images, emotional scenes, short sentences that came back to him and vanished. Only very rarely did he know their sense.
Once a scene flashed in which he was furious for no reason. He slept with a dry throat and the feeling someone was observing him.
Morning was the same but different in small things. Marek took another cigarette. This time, the flame was not from his lighter. It lit in silence and as it should.
For lack of a better term he reminded himself that his lighter was broken and the wind had sparked it. But outside, all was quiet. He rubbed his face and felt a shiver he could not explain. He tried to ignore it.
At work there was a plea to do some corrections in some documents. Marek sat in front of his monitor and began correcting the text. He patted the mouse and felt some bizarre pressure. It did not last long, as if something in his chest had switched.
His phone in his pocket began to vibrate for no reason. He did not open it right away. He needed to concentrate. Abruptly he noticed an error appear on the portal on his screen. Text lines shifted, letters relocated.
Marek stroked the keyboard and the text reverted to usual. He attributed it to software malfunction, but a slight dissonance remained present.
It intensified in the late evening. Marek came home and cooked dinner, but using the stove felt unaligned. He went to the stove and the knob rotated on its own.
The flame went out, then flared back up by itself without his intervention. Marek drew back, breathing more rapidly. He wondered if, after a long day, his head was simply not as sharp. He decided to open the window and perform a quick test. He smoked his cigarette and watched it.
He clenched it tightly between his fingers. He focused his mind on it. Apparently nothing happened. Then he glanced away and the cigarette lit. Marek stiffened. A thin voice resonated deep within him that there was no coincidence.
The voice was quiet, non-commanding, but compelling. He summoned an enormous shot of rationality and told himself he would correct it by reading, by getting to a physician, by resting. Deep inside, however, he felt something change.
Over the following days the oddities grew stronger. Small things which he had intentionally avoided began to occur more and more frequently.
Light bulbs in the apartment get on by themselves without anyone's pressing any button. Doors which were shut open when he was standing next to them. A phone gets on by itself and plays recorded calls he does not make.
Marian from the next department, usually loudmouthed, began avoiding his eye contact, and in the corridors there were already rumors going round about Marek seeming tired.
One evening, while he sat at the table trying to make tea, suddenly a call went through. An unknown number. He waited for a moment and picked up. On the other end was a man whose tone was even-keel.
He spoke in short, without exaggerated words. He only did a brief self-introduction and mentioned something about the symbol Marek had noticed on the streets.
The man informed Marek that there was a person monitoring the signs that appeared in the city, and that one should check if their manifestation was meaningful. He spoke crisply. Marek received a chill of dread. The voice was not threatening. It was the voice of a person who had knowledge Marek did not possess.
Then the phone call was finished. No name, no explanation. Just a caution to watch out and to search through any outdated books and records he may have.
Marek reviewed his life again. He did not call back. He hung up and checked the call listing. The phone number was blocked.
During the following days there were more appearances. They were at subway entrances, on the sides of abandoned warehouses and even on the packaging in the small store where he bought his groceries.
They were everywhere and everywhere again in another appearance. Marek began taking pictures of them, and despite his best efforts to come up with a decent report, questions stacked up inside him.
A fresh note arrived one day to the office. There was one of the clients who asked for a rebrand, a visual identity.
Marek would oversee the team. In the middle of the brief was the use of symbols and marks. When looked at more carefully, the same circle with transverse lines was observed in one of the designs. He stood beside the table examining the sketched proposal.
All cried out that it was coincidental. But the probability of the same pattern recurring in a client's work and on city streets was remote.
In the office he bumped into Akira and told her about the incident. Akira looked at the photos and said that something did not compute. She suggested they start tracing the source.
"Not that I believe in conspiracies," she said, "but there are too many coincidences."
Marek was aware that he was walking into something larger. He did not wish it to turn into chaos.
He knew that he had to remain calm. But small hints resonated inside his head endlessly, associating on one idea: something is brewing.
Later that night he dreamed once more. This dream was clearer. He was in a room that was black and was something between a chapel and a warehouse. In the center was an altar, and on the altar something he could not define.
He felt a presence that was not exactly friendly or unfriendly. Just a presence. He woke up with newfound determination. He told himself that he would investigate further into the symbols and the city's history.
He wished to determine if anyone else had noticed the same symbols.
Over the next days he began to gather materials. He visited the library, browsed archives.
On paper cards he found references to past guilds, to groups who used signs in conferences. Some were short, without additional information. Others were formal, with names and dates sounding out of date. Marek made copies, photographs, and notes. In his mind a new goal developed: to understand it.
He kept on holding his work pattern and regular relations.
He tried not to let anyone notice that his life was changing. He began to be more prudent with his power — with irregularities that were emerging.
He couldn't always control them. Some things changed without his intervention. At the same time, he felt someone observing his reactions. Someone who was expecting a move.
By the end of the chapter Marek stood at the window and he watched the city. The lights were turning on, the people were waking up, but something was happening inside of him that could not be ignored.
He felt fear and curiosity combined. He decided that whatever he would do next would be careful, but resolute.
He knew that the doors that were opening to him today one day he might need to walk through. He did not know if he was strong enough to do it, but he knew he couldn't stay still.
He decided to find out and learn more about the symbols at the end of the day. He knew some things did not have simple answers. He was determined to proceed step by step.
He was not in a rush. He wanted to understand.