By the time Hedi reached Northstar City, dusk had already settled like ash on a dying flame.

Day slid into night, the lead‑gray sky swallowing color; her hope for a apricot‑orange sunset fell into a quiet void.

She paid the remaining fare, waved the driver off, and stepped into the apartment building like a swallow nesting late.

The protective railings around the complex had all been removed, like scabs peeled clean—someone must’ve finished the underground core retrofit.

By the elevator, a copper placard gleamed like a penny in rain, etched and hand‑painted with a striking advertisement.

A thirty‑something woman in an apron leaned forward, her face pallid as anemia, yet grinning as she opened the icebox, the picture layered like a diorama.

The top shelf showed hand‑cut blocks of natural ice, canned traditional cream, and fresh butter in parchment, shining like winter fat.

The second shelf held a neat egg basket, aged cheeses, and smoked boneless ham, stacked like a harvest altar.

The third displayed fresh fish and a whole chicken tied with grass rope, rustic as a farm dawn.

At the bottom lay fruits and vegetables—tomatoes, pumpkins, and rare imported grapefruits—bright as lanterns in fog.

On the wooden rack beside the icebox sat two glass‑sealed jars of jam and a few bags of milk, white as chalk dust.

A red slogan screamed like a flare: “Powered by state‑of‑the‑art steam cooling. Want one? Buy now!”

While she waited for the elevator doors to open, Hedi leaned on the wall and studied the icebox’s bounty, her mind a slow tide.

It felt overstuffed, a collage with no true center; her eyes skittered, unsure where to land, like sparrows on a storm wire.

For her, a crammed icebox was exaggeration; she didn’t hoard food, she moved light, like a reed in wind.

Selina, Hedi thought, would probably buy one to keep leftovers from spoiling—my leftovers always bother her—yet reheating them on the go is another knot.

If you want my wallet to open with grace, stock that icebox with drinks—delicious, yet never truly quenching, like mirages in glass.

She stepped out of the elevator and reached for her door, only to feel a cold gap—she’d left her suitcase back in Naghtown.

People forget even what they carry, if it’s not needed in the moment; memory drifts like smoke after a spell.

She had cast magic, then been walked into an interrogation room, then moved to the Sacred Cathedral’s guest quarters, and later sparred with Selina—the hours had frayed like rope.

Only now, needing her key, did the suitcase snap back into view like a loose tooth.

“When luck goes sour, even cold water chips a tooth,” she muttered, a crooked smile tugging like a torn seam.

She turned and stared at the street’s thin loneliness, her mood a low tide.

Bare roadside trees swayed weakly under gray light, like bones in a damp wind; the road rail had two clean gaps, like bitten metal.

A dopey old man led an equally silly little dog, both shuffling like sleepy clouds; an old, dusty car crawled past like a beetle.

The world’s face mirrors human moods, bright or bleak; the scene is only a shard of the larger glacier.

She sighed, a mist thread in cold air, and left the building, picking a quiet restaurant like a cave to hide in.

Bone‑biting wind whooshed past and sliced her cheeks, stripping what warmth remained, like knives of frost.

She hunched, knees tucked, like a salmon sealed in a can, refusing to close its eyes.

Inside, the air was equally heavy; customers sat like wax figures, and the host wore a blank mask, his gaze flat as pond water.

He didn’t smile or lead her in; he just stood at the door, staring at the floor’s grain with dead‑fish eyes.

“What do you need?” the waiter asked, voice dull as wet ash.

“Whatever,” Hedi matched his tone and took a corner near the restroom, a shadow among shadows.

After a while, the waiter set the dishes down, plates glinting like moons on a dull table.

She tasted one bite; her tongue stayed neutral—no delight, no disgust—just a middle road like a ruler‑straight line.

It balanced between two poles; a hair’s shift would make it either mouthwatering or foul, like a coin spinning on edge.

“The chef’s probably a genius,” Hedi murmured, then took a sip of milk and sighed, “They watered it down.”

She finished the rest in small careful bites and drained the cup, her will steady as a child throwing stones into a dry well.

She wasn’t chasing taste or service; she was hunting a firm fullness to sweep the gloom, like rain clearing dust.

“Please come again,” the waiter said, voice hollow as a hallway.

Hedi smiled without a word, tightened her coat belt like a lifeline, and started looking for a locksmith, her steps small as stitches.

The word “locksmith” felt antique to her; words carry flavors—death, rats, grime and dream, rainbow and candy—each with its own scent.

“Locksmith” sounded like a simple elder tucked in a country town, a figure carved in oak.

While searching, she glanced at a small fountain in the distance, the place where she’d first walked after dinner with Selina, memory rippling like water.

She stared and felt a nameless drift, as if a tangle of weeds were racing through the vessels of her heart.

She suddenly thought of cattle—why do they chew coarse, tasteless fodder day after day, like clocks repeating time?

If Selina were here, she’d probably ask, foolishly earnest, “You wanna try?” like a sparrow poking a bear.

But after Naghtown’s argument, she’d steer the talk to the Priest and Sister Bertha, then cite her psychology reading like a textbook.

“That’s emotional metaphor and inner struggle,” she’d say, “a mirror of how you process painful memory—like cows chewing cud!”

Hedi’s mouth tilted in a wry smile, and she glanced at the empty space beside her; Selina wasn’t there—this was only a mind’s lantern show.

She turned her back on the fountain and kept searching for a locksmith, her feet tapping like small drums.

The rest was a trudge without charm, a path best left unpainted.

When she finally found him, she was spent; her legs ached, and the sky had sunk fully into black ink.

“Careful,” the locksmith said, opening her door and cutting a spare key, his hands steady as old tools. “Don’t make me walk that far again!”

Hedi took the key and thanked him softly, though a small complaint buzzed like a fly: You live too far; my feet are trembling.

Even so, she felt oddly pleased he was a kind‑eyed old man, matching the picture her word had drawn.

Night deepened; her pocket watch pointed to nine, its ticking soft as rain.

Hedi lay down, body heavy as sand, but her thoughts slid back toward her argument with Selina, circling like moths to a lamp.

Only near two in the morning did drowsiness creep to the edge of her mind, a fog licking the shore of wakefulness.