𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈 : 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐫

The few souls still went about their business without paying much mind to you. Strangers sent cordial nods and small smiles as you glided past them. Even when you pushed open the tavern doors and tried to make yourself small, no one took offense to your entry.

Dressing like a man had its perks. You might try it more often.

You stole an empty table in the center of the room, scanning the walls for any memory. Alcohol polluted the air, and the light music of a single fiddle player reminded you of the fun you once enjoyed. All the lovely dancing and laughing felt so far away, but only a week-and-a-half separated you from that former joy.

You saw so much more than usual on a typical tavern night. A woman pretended to act coy as her secret lover romanced her in the furthest corner of the room. People joked and fooled around over mountains of food without a care in the world. A trio of older men roared as they told stories from their youth under the influence of spirits. There was so much happiness in the room, but none drifted to your lonesome table.

"Hey, kid," one of the old men called to you, "What ya drinkin' tonight? First drink's on me!"

You raised a hand to him to wave him off, carefully keeping your freshly polished nails hidden from view. After your refusal, the men chatted, and your eye wandered. Drinking, eating, dancing, laughing, waiting, smirking, falling, choking, crawling... and then nothing. You tried to push further—to clear obscured faces that were just out of reach—but you were in the dark.

That smirk flashed over and over. You would find your witness if you could recall so much as a face or even a nose.

Father said the best way to remember something was to retrace your steps. You must visit the scene of the crime, he would say. How long had it been since you last heard that phrase uttered when you misplaced a book or a boot?

In your surrounded solitude, you missed your father–your real father. Although Niccolo was a decent substitute, he was still just a substitute. Your real father would have handled this matter already by either taking care of the man who wronged you or by never letting you be alone for so long in the first place.

You had to pretend to be your father in another man's attire. But you were your mother's child, not in nurture but in nature.

And although it would be painful, you took Father's advice and left your table scouring for a new location. You followed the other night's steps toward the bar. You stood at the cherry wood's edge, where you had waited for your tea, but when that led to nothing, you walked past the taps and into the dim hallway.

The cellar door was closed. The cellar door was never closed, let alone locked. In all the years you had walked through these halls, Hannes always forgot to shut the door behind him when his taps ran low or to sample goods out of view from patrons.

You jiggled the handle. A lock kept memories sealed behind splintered wood. You shook again, hoping that, somehow, the latch would fall off and grant you entry. Something was there. You knew it in your soul.

"Need something, friend?" The barkeep in question's voice called from a few paces to your left, polluted with weariness.

You shook your head, fleeing the moment you were caught. Your disguise was meant to keep your identity a secret, and not even Hannes could know the truth.

But Hannes' hand shot into your bruised arm when you tried to pass him. He squeezed you so firmly that you let out your first whimper in over a week while his fingers almost pierced through your bicep.

"You wouldn't happen to be looking for something down there, right?" Anxiety rose in your throat the harder he dug into your flesh. "A friend of mine got thrown down those steps a few nights ago. Nearly died. Nobody caught sight of who tossed her. Door's been locked since. You wouldn't know anything about that, would ya?"