Day 030 Hour 09: Nolve's Corner
The curtain flapped open as I approached.
Behind the stall, just as I expected, was Nolve — sleeves rolled, cap tilted slightly off-center, organizing his morning clutter with the slow grace of someone who'd already seen the end of the day.
He didn't look up.
"Was wondering if you were going to stop by," he said softly, voice like sugar stirred into warm tea.
I kept my expression flat, but my feet paused a little.
"You always wonder that, or just today?" I asked.
Now he looked up — kind eyes, steady hands, no smile. Nolve never smiled like the others did. He didn't sell joy. He sold calm. And people paid for it, even when they didn't know they were buying.
"Something about the air this morning," he said. "Has your father's kind of restlessness in it."
That made my stomach knot, but I didn't bite. I just gestured toward the stand.
"I need a city district map. Something recent. Doesn't have to be good. Just readable. And two permanent markers."
He nodded, already reaching below the table.
"You doing one of your scavenger ideas again?"
"Nope," I said quickly. "Just organizing. Trying to keep my steps cleaner."
He didn't challenge it.
Nolve never did.
He laid the map flat, then set down two markers — one red, one blue — both still sealed in their brittle plastic sleeves. I expected off-brand trash, but these looked… decent.
"Normally I'd charge five," he said gently, eyes still on the items. "But you're not really in the mood to pay today, are you?"
I took a breath.
"No," I admitted. "I was actually hoping you'd just let it slide."
Nolve chuckled, a sound that came from deep in his chest but never quite escaped his mouth.
"You always did ask for the world like it was yours already," he said. "Your father never asked for a discount in his life. Said if he couldn't afford something, it wasn't his day to have it."
"Yeah, well," I muttered, "that didn't keep him around, did it?"
For a flicker of a second, Nolve's face dropped its usual softness. Not hurt. Just... hollow. A memory shifting under the surface.
Then he shrugged, tapping the map gently. "One dollar. For old times."
I pulled the cleanest single from the mission stack and placed it on the table.
We didn't shake hands. We never did. He bagged the supplies in one of his usual nondescript grey plastic sleeves and handed it over without meeting my eye.
I took it quickly, turned to leave.
"Nemi," he called behind me, just as I stepped past the curtain.
I froze, waiting.
"I hope whatever you're walking into... gives you a way out."
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't know if that was a kindness or a warning.
Day 030 – Hour 09: The Waiting Place
The bag was light, but it felt heavier than when I'd walked in.
Maybe it was the weight of the map. Maybe the markers. Maybe Nolve's words.
I walked the long route home — not because I needed to, but because I didn't want to feel watched turning corners too quickly. It was the same thing people did when carrying something valuable they didn't want to admit was valuable.
The sun was higher now. More voices were waking up. A radio echoed from somewhere above, playing a commercial for canned noodles. A group of kids ran barefoot through an alley, chasing something invisible and laughing like they owned the morning.
But I didn't look at them.
I just kept walking, counting the steps out loud in my head to keep the panic still.
Back at the building, I didn't hesitate. I took the stairs two at a time again. Habit. Superstition. Maybe both. I unlocked the door, shut it behind me, and bolted it tight before I let out a breath.
Inside, everything looked the same — stale air, dry sink, futon still unmade.
But I wasn't the same.
I set the bag on the floor and unpacked it carefully: the map folded into wide quadrants, the red and blue markers placed beside it with precision. I didn't uncap them. Not yet.
I pulled the second envelope from the pouch and laid it beside the tools. It felt ceremonial now, like I was laying out offerings. And maybe I was.
I stared at the setup for a long time, just sitting cross-legged on the floor. The silence crawled in again. I didn't fight it.
I didn't expect instructions right away. They had said to wait.
They always meant what they said.
But I found my eyes drifting again to the bill in my back pocket — the gift. The one that wasn't marked for the mission. I took it out, ran my fingers along its edge. It felt warmer somehow, less clinical than the one I'd been assigned to use.
I folded it and slid it into a cracked envelope marked "RENT" from three months ago and buried it under a loose floorboard. If it was really mine, I'd decide what to do with it later.
Not now.
Now was for listening.
I sat back down on the floor, folding my legs, and stared at the map.
Waiting.
Not thinking.
Not planning.
Just waiting.
And the longer I waited, the more I noticed the familiar quiet wasn't so familiar anymore.
Because this time... the silence wasn't empty.
It was loaded.
Would you like the next message from the Club to arrive soon, or give Nemi a few more hours to spiral inward — maybe hallucinate a memory or experience a brief moment of doubt before the real instructions come?