My gaze darted between the camera and the old object, heart hammering like it was trying to punch out of my chest. I didn’t want to put the pieces together. Nope. Not tonight. My brain was fried already.
Screw that.
I slammed the box shut, zipped it, shoved it beneath the bed and practically jumped under the covers.
Strangely, even though the outside air had been cold enough to bite through bones, the house itself was warm. Too warm. And there wasn’t even a heater.
What bothered me more was how nobody else outside had seemed cold. They were dressed like it was late spring. Like they didn’tfeelwhat I felt.
Oh gods, I’d hate to say my mother was right.
CHAPTER THREE
SANORA
The house was made of wood. Every single corner of it. The floors creaked when I walked, and the scent—faintly smoky, like old firewood—filled the air. Although it was a duplex, it only had two rooms, both sitting on the second floor. Downstairs, there was just the living room and a very empty kitchen that looked like it hadn’t witnessed the act of cooking in years.
My stomach twisted in protest, and I groaned in regret. I should’ve listened to my mother when she insisted on packing foodstuffs. At the end of the day, she was always right. The fridge was working, but glaringly empty. There wasn’t a single utensil in sight. Not a pot, not a plate. The shelves were just as bare. My only mission today was to fill them with stuffs that’d serve me for the next twenty-six days.
Grumbling, I dragged myself upstairs and took a quick shower in the bathroom—which, for some godforsaken reason, served both rooms. It was outside the rooms, standing in between them. The water was cold, not freezing, thankfully, but cold enough to make my bones feel like they’d been dunked in ice. There were a lot of things I would’ve changed about this place if I could. But considering the town’s reputation, I had a strong feeling this was one of the better houses.
After throwing on a clean pair of jeans and a knit top, I skipped downstairs…only to shriek and run back up when I opened the door and a gust of cold air smacked me. I threw on the thickest jacket I had, wrapped my scarf around my neck three times like a paranoid burrito, and tried again.
This time, I stepped out successfully.
Using the photo of the map on my phone, I started walking. The streets were quiet, in a comfortable way. There was something oddly calming about the town’s silence, like it was a place that had seen centuries go by and now just watched the world without saying much. It was soothing.
A thick mist had settled across the streets, curling around the houses and hanging low. The sun hadn’t made much of an appearance, just a pale smear behind layers of grey clouds. In the distance, the hills loomed like sleeping giants, their peaks hidden behind veils of fog.
Some houses had boarded-up windows and vines creeping up their sides because they were empty and ruined. Others looked like they were still lived in, though not many. Some were made of steel frames and digital signs that flickered, others made of darkened brick and stone, with wooden beams like old ribs jutting out. Ivy clung to some of the older homes, and little bicycles lined the front porches.
Chimneys released thin trails of smoke into the fog. I heard no cars, no chatter, only the caws of crows overhead and the occasional creak of old wood reacting to the cold.
As I walked, I couldn’t stop looking around. If the stories were true—and Iknewthey were true—then this place had once been the very heartbeat of magic. I was walking through a town that used to be the body of ancient power, where magic had once danced in the air.
Nimorran.
With joy bubbling in my chest like a soda can that had been shaken, I smiled at everyone who made eye contact with me. Some returned it with soft, polite nods. Most didn’t. But I didn’t care.
My teeth were nearly chattering from the chill, and yet hardly anyone was wearing a jacket. I even saw a child in a sleeveless sweater. Was I the only one freezing my fucking brain off?
I passed a closed shop with painted glass windows and shelves that displayed wooden toys and marionettes. A child ran past me barefoot, chasing a paper kite. There was something…haunting and lovely about it all. Like time had forgotten how to function here.
I skidded to a stop when I saw a bookshop.
Tucked between a tailor’s store and a bakery, it stood with a wooden, glass-paned door and a flickering “OPEN” sign hanging behind it. The wood looked old but the glass was clean. The sign above the door read: Long Life Archives.
A bookshop in Nimorran? My heart skipped as my feet moved without permission, steering me across the street and straight to the door. The thought that this shop might contain stories that even the most well-stocked city bookstores hadn’t acquired made me feel like a pirate about to uncover buried treasure.
Suddenly, I forgot how hungry I was.
I pushed the door gently. A bell jingled overhead.
“Welcome,” a deep voice said.
I froze. That voice. No—no way.
I turned towards the counter.
