Day 032 Hour 13: Killing Time With Ilin
I didn't want to head to Market Square too early.
Even if I could blend in, I didn't want to linger.
Too many memories.
Too many ghosts in broad daylight.
So I turned east instead of south, threading through back lots and short alleys until I hit the cluster of low-rise apartments where Ilin stayed.
Not the nicest part of the slums — but not the worst either. Half the buildings had doors that still locked. The other half had people who knew better than to test you.
I reached his unit and knocked.
Three short, one pause, then two — same rhythm since we were kids.
He opened the door already mid-sentence.
"…tell them if they want it quiet, they can study at the library like everyone else—oh. It's you."
He blinked, then smiled, brushing a hand through his unruly hair. Always slightly too long for his sharp face. Always looked like he'd just come back from an argument with someone who couldn't keep up.
"Nemi. You never show up unless something's broken or bleeding."
"Nothing broken. No blood," I said.
"Hmm." He narrowed his eyes playfully. "Then it must be boredom. Tragic."
He stepped aside, and I entered without fanfare.
The apartment was small — a converted utility flat. One room served as kitchen, living space, and study. A mattress sat on the floor in the corner, two chairs by the window, and a folding table that groaned under the weight of books and a half-built electronics kit.
The place looked lived-in and loaned-out.
Which was accurate.
"Your siblings here?"
He shook his head and dropped into a chair. "Not this week. Parents said the youngest needs his own bed for a while. Code for 'I'm tired of three kids fighting in the same room.'"
I nodded. "Still getting rides to school?"
He made a face. "If you can call it that. The car starts when it feels generous. Like the engine needs to be in a good mood."
"Fits the theme."
"Of mediocrity?"
He gave a bitter grin. "School's a joke. I passed my last econ exam by explaining how debt works using a bread seller and a knife. Professor looked impressed. Like I invented poverty."
I laughed. Just once.
It was a small relief — one that felt a little out of place in my chest.
"Parents still scraping for tuition?" I asked.
"Yeah. They put just enough aside to keep me enrolled, even though we all know it's a waste. I couldn't get into the better schools, so now I'm here, stuck in limbo between people who don't care and professors who gave up."
He paused. "But they keep paying."
"Why?"
"Hope. Habit. Maybe guilt."
He looked at me.
"Why'd you come?"
"No reason."
"Liar."
"Not a lie if it's also the truth."
He nodded slowly. "Fair enough."
We sat in silence for a while.
Me, streetworn and clock-minded. Him, sharp and resentful, half-built from borrowed space and paper deadlines.
We were the same age.
Same neighborhood.
Same scarcity.
But different lenses.
He saw the world in systems that didn't work.
I saw it in moments that had to.
When I stood to leave, he didn't ask why.
Just looked at the time and said, "You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one where your body's still here, but your shadow's already moving."
I nodded once. "Take care, Ilin."
"You too."
He added, quieter: "Whatever you're walking toward… don't let it eat you whole."
I didn't answer.
There wasn't anything left to say.
Day 032 Hour 17: The Pillar
I arrived at Market Square four minutes early.
Didn't stop to look around.
Didn't slow my pace.
Just walked straight to the northwest pillar behind the old garment factory — the one cracked near the base, where someone once spray-painted a crooked checkmark and called it art.
I stood exactly where I knew I was meant to.
Raised the phone.
Framed the shot — cracked pavement, rusted bins, broken light post in the background.
Click.
Done.
The memories came sharper than expected.
Not soft. Not wistful.
Just loud.
I saw flashes of cheap chairs stacked like Tetris pieces.
Of a crate I once turned into a table and sold for five bucks and a favor.
Of standing right here, bartering with a man twice my size over whether "refurbished" meant wobbly.
Schemes. Dozens of them.
Each idea born from necessity and abandoned before it grew teeth.
I used to come here to try.
But now I was here to obey.
I didn't linger.
Didn't take a second shot.
Didn't let the weight of the past settle.
I pocketed the phone and turned away from the square without another glance.
There was nothing else here for me.
Not anymore.
Day 032 Hour 19: Nothing After Everything
I got home just as the last of the daylight drained from the edges of the sky.
The door locked behind me with a dull click, and for the first time in two days, I didn't immediately drop into motion.
No unpacking. No reviewing. No pacing.
I just stood in the center of the room, phone in hand.
Waiting.
No buzz.
No message.
No sign that the Club had seen the photos. No prompt asking for confirmation. No line of text saying "Task complete."
Just the silence that settles when the mission is over and you don't know if it mattered.
I sat down slowly against the far wall, phone screen lighting my face with its faint blue glow.
Checked the gallery.
Five photos.All timestamped.All intact.
I swiped through them again, this time with a sharper eye.
Was one blurry? No.
Was the framing off? No.
Wrong time? Unlikely.
Did I say the phrase wrong in my head when I hit the shutter?
No.
Still...
The longer the silence lasted, the more my memory turned on me.
I tried to recall the steps again.
I'd walked. I'd waited. I'd captured.
I'd obeyed.
So why did it feel like something had been missed?
I looked at the phone again.
No signal loss.
No battery warning.
Just a blank inbox, blinking like it owed me something.
I leaned back against the wall and let my eyes close for just a second.
Then another.
I told myself I wasn't tired.
But my body knew better.
The tension had stretched too long — and now that it had no place to go, it dissolved. Slowly. Reluctantly. Like a guard finally lowering a spear after a siege.
No message came.
Not in the first hour.
Not in the second.
Eventually, without meaning to...
…I fell asleep.