Chapter 8 Chapter 7: The Journey
The final wipe-down of the counter, the last clatter of the chairs being stacked, felt less like closing duties and more like a ritual cleansing. With the deli locked and Kia's cheerful presence a fading memory, the weight of the day settled squarely back on my shoulders. I pulled out my com, its screen glowing coolly in the dimming light. The schedule blinked back: I could make the next hopper in five minutes if I ran.
A frantic, graceless dash later, and I was swallowed whole by the evening rush. The hopper was a pressurized can of humanity, every soul fleeing the city centre for the suburbs. There were no seats, only a press of tired bodies, swaying in unison with the hopper's lurching rhythm. We were packed in like sardines, a miserable school of commuters smelling of unwashed sweat, stale von-jar breath, and the distinct, acrid tang of old Polli's piss from the corner seat. The air was thick and humid with our collective exhaustion.
I tucked myself into a sliver of space near a grimy window, turning my body into a fortress against the unwanted intimacy of the crowd. My strategy was simple: become a ghost. I fixed my gaze on the world flashing by outside, constructing a barrier with the sheer force of my will to avoid any small talk, any acknowledging smile, any flicker of eye contact that might pull me into the reality of this shared, grim journey.
The city blurred past in a smear of fading daylight and electric neon. Tower blocks gave way to smaller commercial streets, a familiar parade of closed shops and glowing bars. And then I saw it. That tacky, blood-red neon script, buzzing against the twilight: The Apostrophe.
A jolt, like a live wire, shot through me. My breath hitched. Was Silver working tonight? Was she behind that glass right now, polishing a glass, laughing with a regular? The image of her, fierce and beautiful in the bar's warm light, was so vivid it was a physical ache.
A desperate, foolish hope flickered in my chest. Is she thinking about me, too? Does that moment of tenderness before the horror, mean anything to her now? Could she ever, possibly, find a way to forgive me?
The hope curdled almost instantly, replaced by the cold, leaden truth. Shit, who am I kidding? The memory of her face: that mask of pure revulsion and betrayal, was seared into my mind. The slam of the door was a sound I could still feel in my bones. She would never speak to me again. I was a monster who had violated her sanctuary, a living lie she had rightly ejected from her life.
Yet, even as the logical part of my brain screamed its verdict, a more primal, yearning part was already plotting. My finger twitched toward the 'stop' button. I could get off at the next one. I could walk back. I could just stand across the street, hidden in the shadows, and watch the door. Just to see her. Just for a second.
The hopper lurched forward, pulling me away from the sign, the decision made for me by momentum and my own cowardice. I stayed pressed against the glass, my forehead cool on the pane, watching the red glow of The Apostrophe shrink and vanish into the tapestry of the city's lights, a wound in the evening that refused to close.
The hopper’s doors hissed shut behind me, sealing off the clatter and stink of the city. The silence that rushed in to replace it was profound, broken only by the whisper of a breeze through the leaves of manicured lime trees. I stood there for a long moment, bewildered, on the immaculate green street of this rich intercity square. The air itself smelled different here; clean, scented with damp earth and blooming night-flowers, utterly devoid of the familiar notes of grind-bins and exhaust smoke.
Before me, Dr. Norton’s apartment block rose not as a mere building, but as a silent, imposing statement of wealth and permanence, carved from pale, veined marble that glowed softly in the twilight. It spoke of old money and quiet power, a world away from the cramped, noisy dwellings I knew.
My shoes, suddenly feeling cheap and scuffed, made no sound on the spotless flagstone path leading to the entrance. There it was: a massive, dark oak door, banded with iron, looking like it belonged to a fortress or a museum. Next to it, a single, discreet brass panel housed a buzzer and a small speaker grille.
My finger trembled slightly as I scanned the listed names, finding his written in a clean, classical script next to ‘Third Floor’. The name alone -Norton- seemed to hold a weight of knowledge and expectation. I pressed the button and the sound it made was a deep, resonant thrum that felt far too significant for a simple doorbell.
I waited. The silence stretched, thick and judgmental. A lifetime seemed to pass in that square, measured by the frantic thumping of my own heart. I was just about to press it again, convinced I’d been forgotten or, worse, ignored, when the intercom crackled to life.
A hiss of static, then a voice deep, cultured, and laced with a familiar, calm authority, sounded through the scratchy speaker. It was a voice that could narrate history books and command a room with a whisper.
“Yes?”
It was me. Just me. Suddenly feeling small and utterly out of place. I leaned in, my voice catching in my dry throat. “Dr. Norton? It’s… it’s Nanda.”
There was no reply. No questioning ‘who?’ or ‘what do you want?’. Just the immediate, electric BUZZ of the heavy lock disengaging, a sound of unquestioning permission.
The oak door gave a soft click. His voice followed, calm and welcoming through the static. “Come in.”