By the time I woke up, Etsuko was already gone.
The sun had claimed the sky—bright, insistent, pressing through the curtains like it had a right to be there.
I could smell her perfume still. Faint. Floral. Something expensive that clung to the air even after she'd left.
Her bed was made. Neat corners. Precise.
Mine was not.
"Seems I'm still adjusting," I muttered, stretching as I got out of bed.
My body protested—stiff joints, the dull ache in my leg where the boot pressed too long during sleep.
The dorm was quiet.
Too quiet.
Just the creak of floorboards settling. The distant murmur of voices from somewhere below.
"I'm probably not alone," I reminded myself, abandoning the dangerous idea of wandering around without clothes.
Some mistakes don't need to be made twice.
I pulled on my uniform instead. The fabric was heavy in the heat, but familiar. Grounding.
Caught my reflection in the small mirror by the door as I buttoned the collar.
Pale.
Tired.
But present.
"…It's been a while."
The pantry greeted me like an old friend.
Shelves lined with jars and tins. The faint smell of dried herbs and old wood. Dust motes hanging in the light that came through the narrow window.
"O holy grail of my stomach," I said solemnly, stepping in. "I worship you."
Simple plan.
French toast.
Coffee.
I pulled out eggs, bread, a small bottle of vanilla extract someone had left behind.
"Does this world even have a France?" I wondered aloud while whisking eggs in a chipped ceramic bowl.
Everything else felt… copied.
Close enough to Earth to be comfortable.
Different enough to be unsettling.
The same foods. The same names for things. But shifted slightly. Like a translation that almost worked.
"Eh. Somewhere out there, someone probably named a place 'France' and called it a day."
Bread dipped.
Pan warmed.
The butter hissed as it melted, pooling golden in the center.
I flipped the toast, watching it brown. The smell filled the small kitchen—sweet, rich, comforting.
Coffee next.
The grinder was loud in the quiet dorm. I turned the handle slowly, feeling the beans crack and crumble beneath the blades.
The grounds smelled bitter. Sharp. Promising.
"Maybe I should visit the library," I decided, pouring hot water over them.
That thought stayed.
Settled.
Took root.
I ate standing by the window, watching the street below. Carriages passed. Vendors called out. A woman with a basket of flowers walked by, her voice rising and falling in a language I didn't know.
The toast was good.
The coffee better.
"Have you ever been to a library?" I asked Anaita as we stepped outside.
She said nothing.
Just fell into step beside me, her presence quiet and steady.
"Yeah. Me neither."
The air was warm—thick with humidity, the kind that made your clothes stick to your skin before you'd even walked a block.
Summer had settled in properly.
The sun pressed down. Relentless.
"I've been to the beach though," I added. "And it was… very beach-like."
That earned me nothing.
Not even a glance.
"So the library should be normal too."
She produced an umbrella.
Just like that.
From nowhere.
I stared.
"That's so cool."
We walked beneath it, shaded from the sun. The heat was still there, but softer. Bearable.
The streets were alive with movement. Carriages rattling over cobblestone. Horses snorting. The smell of roasted nuts from a street vendor's cart. Salt air drifting in from the harbor.
I asked for directions twice.
The first man pointed vaguely down the street.
The second woman gave me a look like I should have known already, then told me to turn left at the fountain.
We found it.
Big.
Stone.
Impressive in a way that felt deliberate—columns flanking the entrance, wide steps leading up to heavy wooden doors.
We stepped inside.
The air changed immediately.
Cooler.
Quieter.
The smell of old paper and leather. Dust and wood polish. The faint mustiness of books that had sat too long in the heat.
Rows of shelves stretched out before me, tall and orderly. Sunlight filtered through high windows, casting long shadows across the floor.
"…it's a library."
I didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
I found a section.
Sat down at a small wooden table near the back.
Opened a book.
"A member of a cult…"
I stared at the page.
The words were there. Clear. Precise.
Useless.
"…That's it?"
I flipped forward.
"A group, sect, or movement following an unorthodox belief system, often regarded by others as strange, extremist, or dangerous…"
I closed the book.
The sound echoed in the quiet.
"Yeah, no. That's useless."
That wasn't what I was asking.
Not really.
Not what I felt.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. The plaster was cracked in places. Water damage, maybe. Or just age.
Anaita rested her head on the desk like she had no stake in my curiosity.
"Figures."
I tried another book.
Then another.
Definitions. Histories. Academic observations written by people who had never been afraid.
Nothing that explained the weight in my chest when I thought about that night.
Nothing that explained the symbols.
The chanting.
The way they'd looked at me.
After a while, I stood.
The chair scraped against the floor.
"Where else can I get information…"
The streets were alive again when we stepped outside.
Carriages.
Voices.
Movement.
The sun had shifted—lower now, but still hot. The shadows were longer.
I walked without direction.
Just… looking.
Watching.
"Wow," I muttered. "It's so otherworldly."
Which was funny.
Because it wasn't.
Same streets.
Same people.
Same rhythm.
Just… not mine.
"Maybe it's just me," I said to Anaita. "It's another world, even if it doesn't look like one."
A woman passed by.
Bunny ears.
They bounced slightly as she walked, soft and white against her dark hair.
…I wanted to touch them.
I did not.
Growth.
"Ah."
A small brick building sat quietly off to the side, tucked between a tailor's shop and a closed storefront.
The sign above the door was faded. Hand-painted letters in a language I could barely read.
"A bookshop."
I glanced at Anaita.
"So you were listening."
She said nothing.
Just looked at me with that quiet, knowing expression.
I went in anyway.
The door creaked.
A bell chimed somewhere above.
"Welcome."
An old man sat behind the counter, reading. His hair was white, his face lined with age. He wore small round spectacles that caught the light.
He didn't even look surprised.
I greeted him and slipped between the shelves.
The smell was stronger here than in the library. Older. More personal.
Books stacked haphazardly. Dust on the spines. The faint scent of pipe smoke lingering in the air.
"It's a foreigner," I whispered to Anaita.
She gave me a look.
"I know, I know—people here don't all have tails or ears," I added quickly. "But blonde? That's rare."
She shifted to a thoughtful expression.
Tilted her head slightly.
"Exactly. I'm smart."
No reaction.
Tough crowd.
I pulled out a book at random.
The cover was worn, the title barely legible.
Flipped it open.
"I call to Lilith, She who carries the Devil's Mark…"
I paused.
"…Ah."
Demonology.
Of course.
I slid it back into place and took another.
"On the Nature of Angels."
I opened it.
The pages were yellowed, the ink faded in places.
"The Angel does not save. It corrects."
I lifted an eyebrow.
Returned it to the shelf.
By the time I looked outside again, the sun had lowered.
The light was softer now. Golden.
"…We stayed longer than I thought."
I returned the last book to its place.
Turned to leave.
"You won't find it on the first visit," the old man said, pouring tea into a small ceramic cup.
I stopped.
Looked at him.
He didn't look up.
Just kept pouring.
"…so it seems."
I hesitated.
Then smiled slightly.
"But I will."
I stepped outside.
The street was warm.
The light softer now.
The air thick with the smell of cooking food from somewhere nearby. Spices. Grilled meat. Smoke.
I hadn't found answers.
But I had found something worse.
A direction.
And the quiet, creeping certainty that I was being watched.
Not by Anaita.
By something else.
Something that had been waiting for me to start looking.