The next morning.

Alina upended her little hoard; coins pattered onto the bed like cold rain on a tin roof, and she counted them, then tucked the weight into her pockets like stones.

The coins dragged at her nun’s habit; the once neat cloth hung like slackened skin on a tired face.

She didn’t mind the looseness; the habit was a modest shell, a cocoon that hid shape even when it sagged like wet canvas.

But when she bought a ticket coin by coin, sideways glances flicked at her like pebbles on a pond, and the clerk’s helpless smile bent like a reed in wind.

On the train, a stale scent of sweat rose from her clothes like a sour tide, and regret pooled in her chest like a cold, smooth rock.

Yesterday, the sun had hammered her like a brass gong, and sweat had seeped into the fibers like brine; today she should’ve worn a fresh skin.

Do I have to rush like this? The thought stung first, like a thorn in fog. I’m going into a city I don’t know—like a frog leaping from a dry well beyond its small ring of sky—yet I’m carrying this damp, salty stink.

She sat rigid, a bowstring trying not to sing, and kept stealing a glance at the man reading beside her, waiting for a pinched nose or a wince like a shutter slamming.

At the same time, fear crawled like ants; she dreaded him doing exactly that, a bite she could already feel before it landed.

Her mind staged a cramped little play with shadow puppets, tugging her strings until she felt like a bundle of nerves, all contradiction and static like a storm in a jar.

She drew a slow breath, as if lowering a bucket into a well, and let the rushing scenery outside wash her anxiety like a fast river.

Mountain after mountain unrolled in a long spine; woods clung to the slopes, a crumpled green ruin smeared by speed, always retreating like waves pulled back to sea.

Even as her eyes clung to the racing trees like burrs, her heart felt steeped in a murky pond, water thick and sour around the ribs.

It must be a ghost, she thought, an unbound spirit steering my mood like a wayward boat into reeds and bad water.

It was worry about someone pinching their nose, and it was Priest John’s last apologetic breath, and it was Melvina leaving like a lamp going dark.

The first two can’t be changed; the thought landed like rain on stone.

I can’t peel off this sweat-soaked skin, and I can’t call the Priest back from sleep; my hope hangs on Melvina—why am I thinking that? The question flickered like a moth against glass.

It feels like I’m a woman who must cling to Melvina like ivy to a wall, or I’ll slide back into shade.

I only want to know why she left; the words felt small, like a seed pinched in two fingers.

No matter how I soothe myself, I need Melvina now, more than ever, like a thirsty field needs one deep rain.

Her lashes lowered like shutters; since Priest John fell ill, everything had drifted toward strange ground like a boat slipping its moorings.

The thought rose from the back of her mind like wind through a crack: The familiar will crumble, down to dust; it’s only a matter of time.

No, it won’t! Another thought pushed back, like a small angel squaring off with a grinning imp. If I learn why Melvina left, I can start over, clear as dawn.

“Annoying,” she whispered, a puff of steam in cold air, to banish the two voices dueling like cats in a sack.

The man glanced over, puzzled, a quick flash like a fish turning, and heat burst in her face, a bruise-purple bloom; she rushed, “Sorry… I was talking to myself… I didn’t mean anything.”

He closed his magazine, smiled faint as a crescent moon, and turned his gaze to the window, to the looping forest like a stuck reel.

That gentle motion corralled her into a pen of shame; it felt like being kindly handled as if she were slow, a glass label slapped on a living thing.

But I… The word broke like a twig; she couldn’t understand why her chest stung so sharply.

Back in Naghtown, meeting people had never scraped her like this; her skin then felt thicker, or the wind was softer.

They’d been strangers then too, as strange as the man beside her, as blank as snow before footprints.

Thinking it over, it all came back to leaving the warm shell; she had stepped past the gate where her breath knew every stone.

This train toward Northstar City wasn’t just shaving miles; it was loosening her roots like soil shaken from a plant, and the new air stung like pollen.

The “born-friendly” tag folks in Naghtown once gave her shattered like a clay cup, scattering before she could catch a single piece.

“Next stop, Northstar City.” The mechanical voice droned overhead like a metal bell, and her thoughts cinched tight like a drawn knot.

The seat quivered with the slowing, a mild sway like a branch settling after wind.

Far ahead, factory rows exhaled thick steam, gray ropes twining with the white, and the clouds and chimneys braided like smoke and silk.

The train nosed into the industrial belt like a beetle into stalks, and the air grew heavier, a lid on a pot.

She worried a strand of hair like a thread on a sleeve and watched the others: pages turned like wings, trays dropped like tired leaves, bodies drifted toward the door like a tide.

Such ordinary motions drummed in her chest; a band of green sprites were bungee-jumping on her heart, squealing with every bounce.

The carriage doors slid open with a breath like a cave mouth, and she stepped onto the crowded platform, a stream of footsteps rising like rain on stones.

She drew a shallow breath; foul air struck like cut glass, and a cough tore through her, sudden as a trap springing.

It felt like air had edges, slicing her throat in clean lines, prodding the tender lining, jab by jab.

People’s glances slipped over her, quick as minnows, but their look carried a chill, like finding a long-rotten fish sealed in the freezer.

She covered mouth and nose like a winter traveler, lids dipping, and a pinch of shame showed like a smear of dusk.

She exhaled slowly, as if pushing smoke from a chimney, easing the raspy air from her lungs, then drew a careful breath like a diver tasting surface wind.

“Need a hand?” The voice cut in like a whistle through steam.

“No, thanks.” She smiled and shook her head, a polite wave like a leaf in current, yet the attendant lingered with a light, odd tilt, sly as a fox.

It felt wrong on her skin, a burr under cloth. “What is it?” she asked, confusion fluttering like a moth.

“You’re blocking the doors,” he said, blunt as a hammer on nail.

She froze, a deer in brush, then saw her mistake and let a soft apology fall like a dropped coin.

His gaze stayed on her, as if he were peeking through a window at a room’s private lamp, a look that pressed and slid like rain on glass.

“Even if it’s your first time, watch your surroundings a bit,” he said, mouth twisting, half warning, half jeer, like a smile hooked on a thorn. “People are busy.”

“I’ll move right—” She clipped the tail of her words, catching his turn, then threw a question like a rope. “Excuse me, do you know which academy started yesterday?”

“Every academy started yesterday,” he said, flat as a stamped ticket.

“I see…” The syllables curled like thin smoke.

“You looking for someone?” His glance ticked like a clock hand.

“Hedi Melvina.” The name left her tongue like a pebble dropping into still water.

“I don’t know any Melvina,” he said, checking his watch, a silver moon on a wrist. “If it’s Northstar City, there’s only Hervor and Pandero.”

“Where are they?” Her voice lifted like a sparrow.

He lifted his arm and pointed to the far wall, smooth as a trained aquarium fish turning on cue in clear water.

Hand still over mouth and nose, she thanked him with a nod, and drifted toward the map like a leaf toward a bank.

The map sharpened with each step, its paper yellowed like old bone, the curled edges like dried bark.

She stopped before it—and the swarms of black letters spun like midges—so dense with lines and notes that doubt rose like fog: was this really meant to guide travelers?

She tilted her face and hunted, eyes combing like rakes, until she found both: one to the east, one to the west.

Pandero Academy squatted near the industrial platforms like a brick kiln, while Hervor Academy lay nearer the city’s navel, a calm pool at the center.

She had to return to Naghtown by afternoon for the public viewing, a clock hand already tapping her shoulder, so she chose the closer one—Pandero Academy.

Looking back now, she should have gone to Hervor Academy.