Akreda Amena left the half-assembled bookcase standing in the middle of the room, abandoning it along with the smell of new furniture. Maybe that was glue she was smelling—if glue was still used these days. She glanced over her shoulder, already knowing she would have to return that evening to finish mounting the final unit, but time was pressing now. She checked her watch. She had enough time to be at the studio, ready for a new edition of the radio show I Have Seen — Akreda Amena Live, which she had been hosting for nearly three years. Ideas were already spinning in her mind—questions for the guests, background music, closing announcements.
She grabbed her coat from the back of the chair, hurried out, and locked the door behind her. Outside the building, she hesitated. There was one thing she needed to do first. Pulling her coat closer around her, she headed toward the train station.
She knew what she would see. She saw it every day.
The train pulled into the station. Doors slid open. People poured out and rushed toward the problems waiting to be solved. Akreda Amena leaned against a wall and watched, impassive. She already recognized the commuters. The rest she read by the way they walked, their eyes, their gestures. Time passed, and the man she was looking for seemed to have removed this station from his criminal itinerary.
The air was clean. She decided to take a short detour to the studio. Even with time tight, she felt the need for a brief walk—a pause between her private space and the space of the broadcast.
She went down toward the riverbank. The wind drifted irregularly, churning the surface of the water; ripples sometimes moved in slow circles, sometimes broke into short waves, as if the river were breathing beneath a thin skin. Akreda Amena pulled her coat tighter and walked along the railing, listening to the wind in contrast with the unsettled noise of the city. They couldn't be compared.
A few meters ahead, an elderly man stood holding a long fishing rod. He wore an old coat, its hem stained with mud, and stared at the water. The line trembled slightly, but he didn't react. What did he hope to catch from that river? Perhaps it wasn't fish he was after, but silence—the simple act of being there, beside water that still flowed.
For a moment, she understood his calm. Then she remembered the cross.
She moved away at a quicker pace, carrying with her the image of the river and the man trying to catch quiet.
She entered Pierce Atelier — Artisan Design Jewelry. Behind the glass displays, semi-precious stones, pearls, and fine metals merged into classical and modern forms.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Miles Pierce," Akreda Amena said as she crossed the threshold.
Between her fingers she held a small black velvet box.
"Good afternoon, ma'am," the man replied, lifting his eyes from a necklace on his workbench.
Akreda opened the box and, with careful movements, revealed a small cross carved from volcanic rock—its texture rough, its color gray, almost metallic.
"I received this beautiful gift," she said with a faint smile. "I'd like to find a chain that suits it, something I can wear all the time."
"Of course," Miles replied, stepping closer and taking the cross delicately between his fingers. "Interesting material. It has a distinct energy. What kind of chain did you have in mind?"
She thought for a moment.
"Not too heavy. I have a sensitive neck. Something fine, but durable. Maybe silver, or a lightweight alloy."
The jeweler nodded.
"Here—satin silver, plated steel, and a new alloy made here in the atelier. It's light, but as strong as platinum. Chromatically, it would complement volcanic rock."
"Yes," she said. "It was born from the heart of a silent underwater volcano, eleven thousand meters deep, where I've heard light doesn't reach. I doubt humans have ever set foot there. Isn't it interesting to wear something like that?"
She reached for the alloy. The tiny links seemed to move fluidly, like a metal serpent.
"Beautiful. I'll take this one. It's sober, but there's something alive in it."
Miles smiled.
"Your instinct is good. This chain will balance the texture of the cross. I can set it right away. Do you know who last bought something from me? Rhiannon Mastersson."
"Isn't she that rock singer?"
"The very one. She stayed in the top three for weeks with that song about her ex-lover."
"The one she wrote on his windshield with lipstick? The fourth time, she specified that if he wiped it off again, she'd set his car on fire. She did—and that's when she shot the video that topped the charts. She sang while the car burned."
"I think it even exploded."
"Yes. It exploded. She spent a few days in the hospital, but said the spectacle was worth it."
"I'd like to meet a wild woman like that."
"You don't happen to have cars you light like cigars, do you? She bought the same kind of chain, didn't she? I'd be disappointed."
"No. She ordered two rings. One for her nose and one for her pussy—if I understood correctly."
"Tough woman."
While the jeweler worked, Akreda Amena wandered through the atelier. Black-and-white photographs from Pierce's travels lined the walls—India, Morocco, Iceland. In one corner, a wooden-and-glass display case held jewelry sketches inspired by fossils, shells, and geometric forms.
"It feels more like a laboratory," she said.
"In a way, it is," he replied without looking up. "Jewelry is another form of alchemy. You transform matter until you get the answer you were looking for."
"And yet, Mr. Pierce—what exactly are you searching for in matter?" she asked.
"Balance. We're all looking for it, whether we realize it or not. Those who don't seek balance are unbalanced themselves—though some people call them deranged."
The cross, now fixed to the chain, had subtly changed. The dark metal accentuated the gray slope that bent sharply toward the esoteric, and the light made it look like a relic from another world. Akreda Amena lifted it gently and studied it in the mirror. Against her slender neck, the object took on an intense presence—almost unsettling.
"It no longer feels like just a stone," she said.
"Maybe it never was," Miles replied, leaning back slightly against the chair, admiring the jewelry—or the woman's neck, or perhaps the whole composition.
A moment of silence followed. From outside came the distant sound of an old bus passing by. Akreda stepped closer, holding the cross between her fingers.
"May I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Do you think an object can absorb the energy of those who've worn it?"
Miles paused. It was an unusual question, but not foreign to his world.
"I believe anything that touches us long enough retains a trace. Maybe not a physical one, but something subtle—a kind of resonance."
She nodded, as if he had confirmed something she already knew.
"Then over time, I'll probably become a small part of this cross's history."
Miles noticed a fleeting shadow cross her face—an admixture of nostalgia and fear.
"You said it was a gift from a friend?"
"More than a friend. Someone important. But he was lost during one of those obscure expeditions. No one spoke about it. Not even those who knew him. Only this object remained."
Silence settled over the room. Miles asked no more questions. In jewelers' ateliers, silence often tells the rest. Akreda Amena paid.
"I owe you more than just a piece of jewelry," she said, and left the shop.
Miles looked back at his worktable, where among the tools and stones lay a small stain of metallic ash. He had never seen it before. Strange, he thought—his atelier was always spotless. He touched the stain with a finger. It was cold, and for a moment it seemed to vibrate, like the cross itself. Perhaps it was only fatigue.