That night Thomas went down to the basement.
It smelled of dampness and stored time. He found the five hand-bound volumes: Alexander Lych's diaries, collected under the title The Impossible Cities.
Diagrams. Impossible maps. And drawings of his own birthmark, each one showing a different stage, as if the stain were slowly transforming.
His phone vibrated.
—See you where we always meet.
Sunny.
He found her sitting on the sand, golden braids shining under the red moon. The blue sphere floated beside her.
—Sometimes I think I should look at the sky more often —she said.
She moved her fingers, trying to catch the moon. For an instant the sphere was caught too.
—I heard everything, Thomas. About the Academy. And… I'm scared.
—Me too —he admitted.
Sunny looked at him. There was something different in her eyes.
—No matter what happens… don't forget me.
Thomas was about to answer when a brutal stab of pain shot through his back. As if something were moving beneath his skin.
The city sirens began to wail.