Chapter Text
If back in my school days someone had told me that one day my father would be driving me to a private university in the capital in his brand-new Porsche, where I had been accepted into the Faculty of Philology, I would never have believed them. I would have laughed straight in their face, without a doubt. I was never particularly passionate about literature or languages, certainly not enough to build a future career around them. The choice of university itself was obvious, I just wanted to get as far away from my hometown as possible. As for the faculty, my motivation was far simpler. I wanted to surprise my father, who had always dreamed that I would follow in his footsteps and become a civil servant.
From early childhood, he pressed me relentlessly with his expectations, allowing no leniency whatsoever. I was supposed to strain myself beyond reason just to claw my way into “high society,” secure a respectable position in some stifling office, and shuffle papers day after day, or else enlist in the army and take a bullet on the front line, which at times did not seem like the worst possible outcome.
I still recall with disgust and dread the endless hours spent hunched over thick, dusty textbooks on sociology, law, and economics, the same volumes my parents had studied in their youth. By the hundredth page my vision would blur; letters swam before my eyes, tables lost their edges, and I fought desperately to absorb at least a fraction of the material. More than once I fell asleep right at the desk, only to wake with an aching neck and back, and a burning red mark on my cheek left by my father’s heavy hand when he happened to act as my alarm clock.
Close relatives approved of his methods of upbringing, which consisted entirely of stick and no carrot. His own father had spent his entire life at the front, perhaps my father was merely following that example. My mother on the other hand always watched in silence. When my father left my room after yet another scheduled beating “for preventative purposes,” she would place a plate of those revolting apples in front of me, never once meeting my eyes.
My mother rarely contradicted my father, even when he spoke insultingly about her homeland, about her favourite books, which sometimes, quite mysteriously, ended up in the furnace, or when he spent hours criticising her cooking. That, incidentally, was one of his greatest misconceptions: my mother cooked extraordinarily well. No restaurant could ever reproduce the stew she loved so much, and she did not even bother to leave us the recipe before her death. Had I spent more time with her, I would not have needed it anyway.
My father reacted to her death exactly as one might expect of him — with irritation, as though a baseball match had been cancelled. Even after that fatal autumn day, he continued to criticise her, accusing her of selfishness, now claiming that he alone had to shoulder the burden of an ungrateful son. Throughout my final years of school I was entirely on my own. My father was rarely home after receiving a promotion at work. A police commissioner running for parliament. Not for the first year, and without success.
When I told him about moving to the capital, I expected the worst reaction imaginable, from disappointment (as though there was room for more) to smashed dishes and my subsequent eviction from the house. Instead, he merely stared at me with a deeply contemplative look, and for a moment I almost imagined some sort of gears turning inside his head. Rusted, grinding, but still capable of setting his thoughts in motion.
“All right,” he said at last, sighing heavily as he rose from the table. “It’s a good university. Spending a year or two might be good for you.”
Then he stepped out onto the porch, taking a pack of Marlboro and the morning newspaper with him.
I remained seated in the kitchen, listening to the kettle whistle as it came to the boil and to the steady ticking of the clock, which sounded more like a bomb than a timepiece. Suddenly I felt an urge either to laugh or to follow him outside and throw boiling water straight into his face. I was eighty percent certain his reaction would be explosive, and I had prudently prepared several comebacks, at least one of which would surely have silenced him. Yet once again, he had outmanoeuvred me.
It was as though he knew something I did not. A year or two? Good for you? He must have assumed I would change my mind and choose a different faculty eventually, which I had indeed planned to do. But since he had seen through me again, I decided to stay until the very end. Let him bury his hopes of turning me into his replica and dictating my place in this world.
Paradise was gradually becoming an isolated country. About eight years ago, the government began shutting down large numbers of travel agencies. Cities that once lived off the flow of foreign visitors either vanished from the map or shrank into villages, absurd caricatures of faded tourist brochures. The last time I visited places like that was when my mother was still alive. She loved the beach, and there she looked genuinely happy. She said the sea and the sand reminded her of the place where she had grown up.
My father, by contrast, was obsessed with hiking trips into the forest, where the trees were so enormous they made my head spin. My heart would pound as though one of them might come alive and crush me, and I categorically refused to take part in those savage expeditions. I could never understand how playing at being a primitive human, sleeping on cold grass, hunting one’s own food, scavenging for edible berries, could possibly be enjoyable. On the positive side, I did like the abundance of green. Perhaps I should have considered redecorating my room. Still, had I first grown up in such conditions and only later ended up where I live now, I would have traded forest life for the city and all its conveniences without hesitation.After my mother’s death, my father never took me to the sea again, though he did suggest on several occasions that I join him in that thrice-damned forest.
For nearly five years, my world had been confined entirely to the city. From time to time my father took me along to meetings with his colleagues, parading me about as though I were a brand-new music player fresh off the shelves, or a walking celebrity autograph. Even the city, however, became dull in time, so the idea of staying there after finishing school sounded like a waking nightmare. The moment the letter from the university arrived, we set off for Mitras almost immediately, the capital of our so-called glorious kingdom.
The scenery rushed past the windows at a frantic pace. I gave up trying to make out the local flora and focused instead on the radio.
“…we can say with absolute certainty that autumn will arrive swiftly this year, replacing summer without delay. Heavy rains will cover the north-west of the island before moving southwards, so be sure to check that you have an umbrella. And don’t forget to keep your spirits up even at work or at school. Which brings us neatly to our next topic! From this year onwards, educational institutions will introduce a new subject aimed at improving young people’s knowledge of their own country. The curriculum will include an in-depth course on national history, literature, and regional studies. Sounds intriguing, doesn’t it? We believe this initiative will benefit not only students, but their parents as well. Earlier today, members of parliament convened in the capital to discuss the issue of—”
My father switched off the radio, and silence settled between us once more, broken only by the whistle of the wind and the low growl of the engine. I didn’t miss the chance to press where it hurt.
“Did the word parliament unsettle you?” I asked. “I would’ve thought it might interest you.”
He didn’t even frown. His gaze remained fixed on the road, though his hands tightened visibly around the steering wheel. Of course listening to a discussion he might have been part of himself was hardly pleasant.
“That information is irrelevant to you,” he cut in sharply. “Your university is private. Things work differently there. Hand me the matches.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t want to reek of tobacco all over the halls of dormitory.”
“You won’t be living there.”
Before I could object, he went on.
“I’ve rented you a flat nearby. I’ll send the payment every month, so don’t go wandering about God knows where looking for a job. Study properly.”
I understood immediately. He was afraid I’d fall in with the wrong crowd and rumours would start circulating about me at the very least. A flat of my own was a good thing, even if I disliked the reasoning behind such unprecedented generosity.
“Well, how thoughtful,” I said, unwilling to surrender so easily. “Did you hire domestic staff as well?”
He continued to ignore my jabs with unnerving calmness, casually changing the cassette. Soft jazz filled the car, pleasant, slightly melancholic even.
“The rector there is a good acquaintance of mine. He’ll recognise you straight away,” he said, running a hand through his ginger hair, or rather what remained of it. Would the same fate await me in old age? Better to die young.
“That’s information I genuinely didn’t need,” I replied, folding my arms and listening to the wind. The engine’s noise soothed me more than any singer’s voice ever could.
“You shouldn’t be so dismissive. Connections are never a bad thing. And Erwin is a decent man,” my father suddenly laughed. “Hasn’t changed at all, still obsessed with history, just as unhinged as ever. But an exceptional person. One in a thousand, if not a million.”
“Is he your acquaintance or your lover?” I began. “Or maybe you–”
The car braked sharply. I lurched forward for a brief moment, the seatbelt biting painfully into my chest, my breath catching as though a wire had tightened around my throat. Instead of turning to my father to ask what had come over him, I found myself staring out of the window. We were already in the city. In the distance stood the royal palace, lavish, repeatedly rebuilt over several centuries. It gleamed in the dim sunlight like a pearl. I couldn’t think of a better comparison, though I was certain local literature was full of them, I would have plenty of time to borrow ideas.
A heavy hand landed on my shoulder and I was spun around roughly.
“Listen to me,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper instead of his usual shouting. “You’re not stupid. So do yourself a favour and stay out of trouble. If I so much as hear that you’ve done something foolish, you’ll be coming home and studying wherever I decide. Understood?”
I didn’t find an answer right away. By the time I came up with something sharp enough to puncture his unshakeable confidence in my supposed criminal tendencies, he had already stepped out of the car. I wanted to stay inside, but my attention was drawn to the building he was heading towards.
It made a tentative claim to Gothic architecture, diluted with minimalism. A pointed roof, tall windows without stained glass, very little characteristic ornamentation. It looked almost dull, awkward even, on a street dominated by bright, blinding colours. I found myself wishing I’d brought sunglasses. The sign was blunt and practical –Tea House. Beside it hung a simple drawing of a cup, as though it had been added later and certainly not by the owner. Cracked figurines of gnomes, angels, and dolls frozen mid tea party stood near a small fountain, clearly someone else’s idea. Either that, or the proprietor was simply incapable of sticking to one aesthetic. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find an ordinary station café inside, dressed up with Marlian pub elements and Hizuru teas on the menu.
Yet as we approached the threshold, I caught the pleasant scent of bergamot and fresh pastry, and heard porcelain clink. I followed my father inside.
The tea house was more spacious than it appeared from outside. There were many small tables for one or two people, as though larger groups were subtly discouraged. Behind the counter stood a short young man in a white shirt and black apron, his back to us as he dried dishes. The scrape of porcelain louder than the unobtrusive melody playing from a gramophone.
Despite the dark interior and heavy curtains, the room felt bright. It struck me that I had stepped either into a vampire’s lair afraid of daylight, or into a morgue hastily repurposed as a tea room. I didn’t know what my father wanted here, but I wanted to leave. There were no customers. Only then did I realise it wasn’t even eight in the morning. The owner greeted my father with a careless handshake, then nodded in my direction when I stepped closer.
“Yours?”
Judging by the brief glance over his shoulder and the gesture toward a nearby table, my father intended to invite me to sit. Instead, I turned away and began to examine the place, my heels clicking slowly against the polished parquet.
Spotless tables, heavy black curtains, a few equally dark pots holding crimson flowers, several bins. On the wall near the only table large enough for a group hung a wooden board cluttered with drawings and illegible notes. Nothing caught my interest.
The herbal scent mingled with the sharp tang of cleaning chemicals. Near the open door leading into a back room, out of sight of customers, stood buckets of water, rags, and detergents. I glanced at the door again and only then noticed the opening hours: ten in the morning until eight in the evening.
When I turned back toward the two men, I saw my father handing the black-haired owner a large white envelope. Unmarked, unstamped. He hesitated before taking it, but eventually slid it into his apron pocket, never taking his wary eyes off my father. In return, he passed him a brown paper bag marked with the initials L.A.
“On the house,” he said, cutting off my father’s attempt to object with a raised hand. “I’ve got plenty of work to do, and you’ve already tracked dirt in here. Go, before some idiot decides we’re open.”
My father nodded and turned away, muttering farewells and thanks under his breath. He looked embarrassed, and, to my own surprise, I felt embarrassed for him. With strangers or colleagues, he usually behaved as though they had known each other all their lives, as though they had been through fire and hell together. Now he resembled a circus elephant suddenly startled by a mouse.
I lifted my chin and straightened my shoulders. My father lingered briefly beyond the threshold. The hanging decoration overhead rattled as the door swung open, stones knocking against one another. I cast one last glance at the owner. He watched us with a grim expression, and when his gaze settled on me, his grey eyes narrowed, far too clearly betraying not quite contempt, but a profound distrust.
My father never gave me a satisfactory explanation about the mysterious envelope or why he had suddenly taken on the role of a courier. Apparently, one of his colleagues had learned that he was travelling to the capital and asked him to deliver a “package” to a friend who, purely by coincidence, happened to be known to my father, though not particularly well judging by their awkward encounter.
We spent the rest of the journey in relative silence, if one discounts my attempts to provoke him into conversation. First, I criticised the music he had chosen, he promptly turned it off and suggested I pick something myself. Then I tried again to bring up the visit, but all I managed to extract was the owner’s name. Levi Ackerman. It meant nothing to me. When I asked about the flat, he said we would be there soon and that I would “see for myself.” It was strange to see him so taciturn. During yet another stretch of silence, I studied the slowly waking city of Mitras.
The sun showed no urgency in breaking through the low clouds, and the wind cut through my tweed suit, straight to the skin. My new home turned out to be a detached, three-storey residential building, with a garage nearby and several gazebos scattered around it. It looked more like a small hotel for families on holiday, eager to enjoy nature. The building stood on higher ground, offering a view of countless other structures below and one that towered over the rest. That, I was told, was the private university of Mitras.
Had I not known better, I might have taken it for a grand museum or a theatre. The walk from here would take roughly half an hour, or perhaps ten minutes, if I chose to tumble headfirst down the hill rather than descend properly. And this, according to my father, was a flat nearby.
He didn’t get out of the car, merely parked it by the entrance in silence. Without the engine’s hum, the quiet felt oppressive. We sat like that for a minute. A tall young man carrying an enormous canvas walked past the car toward the building, whistling cheerfully, it turned out he was my neighbour. Suddenly, a rustling paper bag landed in my lap, the very one Levi had handed to my father.
“This is for you,” he said. “Consider it a gift for being accepted into the university.”
I gave a bitter smile.
“Well then,” I said, pulling out its contents and turning it over in my hands. “I’ll be sure to thank Mr. Ackerman.”
My father pressed his lips together and rummaged through his bag, once again pointedly ignoring me. Inside the paper bag was a black wooden cylindrical tube, decorated with unfamiliar hieroglyphs. I removed the lid and was hit by a fresh herbal scent. I closed it again and rolled it in my hands, listening to the dry rustle of leaves. It looked expensive. Impressive. My father produced a thick leather wallet and held it out to me. I raised an eyebrow in question.
“You need something to live on,” he said. When I reached for it, he abruptly pressed it to his chest. “Or don’t you?”
“If you want me to drop dead, then no, of course not.”
For some reason, he laughed. I didn’t share his sense of humour and continued to bore into him with an irritated stare. He was not himself today, tense, almost anxious. When he did speak, it was to say something entirely out of character.
He handed me the wallet at last. Inside were keys and money. I counted it slowly. The amount was more than satisfactory. What had stopped him from giving me this before? When I looked up, I found him watching me with a certain indulgence, as though I were a foolish kitten. My instincts told me he was about to say something. Something wholly unlike him. A speech about how quickly his son had grown, how regrettable it was that my mother hadn’t lived to see it. I already knew all that. Just as I was about to jump out of the car, his trembling voice stopped me.
“The house will be completely empty.”
I couldn’t bring myself to look at him differently. My brows were drawn together, my eyes narrowed, as though instead of my father, a particularly dangerous criminal sat before me, one who had suddenly begun denying his guilt on the eve of execution.
“You’ll get used to it.”
I got out at last, retrieved my suitcase from the back seat, and slammed the door shut. Damn it, why was this city so cold? Behind me, the engine roared.
“Floch!” My father leaned out of the open window. Were those tears in his eyes? “Write to me sometimes, will you?”
“Yeah,” I muttered, opening the front door, then added more loudly, “I will.”
I didn’t watch him leave. When the street fell quiet again, I let out a long breath and went in search of my flat. The entire building housed only six apartments, and mine was the last. The place looked new. On the ground floor stood a telephone booth and everything was spotless. On the second floor, in a wide landing, one of the residents had arranged a small garden, filling it with pots of various sizes and brightly coloured flowers.
My head throbbed, and all I wanted was to lie down. Long journeys exhausted me. I began, half-heartedly, to sketch out a plan for the two days before term began. It wouldn’t hurt to walk to the university and learn the route, buy all the necessary equipment, and see what the city had to offer outside of lectures. I tried not to dwell on the possibility that I had chosen the wrong faculty. A philologist, in my opinion, could find a place anywhere if there was the will.
As I reached the third floor, a black cat darted under my feet and fled down the stairs. I swore, nearly tumbling after it as I flinched sideways. The door to the fifth flat stood wide open, and a moment later the same fair-haired young man I had seen from the car emerged. He didn’t look well – his eyes were glassy, his cheeks flushed. He smelled of strong alcohol mixed with floral perfume. Clearly, he’d had a lively night. Just what I needed. Noisy neighbours.
“Oh, hi. You moving in?” he asked, pointing at the flat in front of his own. I nodded cautiously. “Great. Welcome. You haven’t seen a cat run past, have you?”
I silently gestured downwards. He broke into a grin, shook my hand in a rush, introduced himself as Jean, and bolted down the stairs. I hurried inside my flat. The moment the door closed behind me, I dropped my suitcase and rubbed my hands over my face. The new surroundings threw me off balance. I tossed my jacket onto the nearest cabinet, kicked off my shoes, and walked through the flat. The floorboards creaked. There was far too much visual clutter, countless small cabinets, shelves, tables, and chairs arranged haphazardly, as though the previous owner had moved out in a blind panic, knocking everything aside.
In the living room stood a luxurious sofa upholstered in pale beige fabric, with ornate carved woodwork. A matching wooden coffee table, and an enormous empty wall unit with a recess for a television which, to my dismay, was in a miserable state, as though someone had taken a hammer to it. Whoever lived here before me, I hoped someone would treat their head the same way they treated that absurdly expensive piece of technology.
Though the flat was objectively spacious, compared to my family home it still felt oddly cramped. I opened the windows and went into the bedroom. The king-sized bed was blissfully soft, and I fell asleep the moment I collapsed onto it.
I decided I would get to know Jean. After that, a walk to the university wouldn’t hurt, perhaps I’d run into future coursemates, like myself, scouting for connections before term began. Until lunch, though, I could afford to rest. Lately, I had been plagued by nightmares, always the same one. I dreamt that I was drowning, though not in the usual sense. I was swimming upward, and just as it seemed I would break the surface and draw breath, pitch-black darkness closed in again from all sides. Salt water filled my lungs. I kept swimming, my arms aching, barely obeying me, until I grabbed onto something solid, stone, perhaps, or metal, repeating to myself, I have to make it, and then… I woke up. The sensation of suffocation, the awareness of utter futility, accompanied nearly every morning.
This time, when I woke to birdsong outside the window and the shouts of children playing, there were no nightmares. I lay staring at the ceiling for a long while, perfectly calm, thinking of nothing at all for the first time.
By noon, I had nearly finished cleaning, though I hadn’t rushed to unpack. As it turned out, the entire flat was held together by divine intervention alone. Leaking taps in the bathroom, wobbling tables, doors that had to be lifted upward to close properly. The fridge sat in the kitchen as a decorative object, and the sofa in the living room creaked loudly. I decided I should look for a better flat at a lower price, if such a thing existed in the capital, or perhaps move into a dormitory, provided they were decent. At least there would be more people there, which meant more connections, more opportunities, more attention. Here, in this secluded spot on higher ground, I felt like an exiled prince.
Despite his obvious wealth, my father had never been one to spoil his child from the cradle, as my mother had. There was no guarantee that his generosity would stretch indefinitely, that my wallet would always be bursting with money. I would need a plan, one that allowed me to secure all of this on my own.
After finishing with the floors, the windows, and everything else, I rolled up the sleeves of my shirt and set about rearranging the furniture, giving the interior a more organised appearance within a few minutes. Everything was in its place, at a glance, one would never notice the catch. And yet the atmosphere remained inhospitable. As though I had burst into someone else’s home and felt indignant that marauders had already stripped it bare before I arrived. To hell with it, soon I wouldn’t set foot here at all
I heard three knocks. The front door had no peephole, and I stood facing it without moving, listening intently to every sound and cursing the creaking floorboards.
“It’s Jean!”
I flinched in surprise but opened the door nonetheless. My neighbour looked fresher than he had that morning. His hair was slightly damp and slicked back, he wore a white shirt with faint green paint stains and brown checked trousers. In one hand he held a bottle of champagne, the brand unfamiliar to me, in the other, a kraft paper bag.
“You know…” his gaze slipped past my shoulder into the depths of the flat, then returned to me with that same unpleasant condescension that made something boil inside my chest. “You’re just like the previous owner. He stood behind the door like an idiot for a couple of minutes before opening it too. I offered to replace the door a thousand times, but he always had more important things to do.”
Jean shook his head, as if chasing away some thought, then smiled and held out what he was carrying.
“Anyway, don’t think too much—”
“Come in,” I cut him off. “I don’t drink alone.”
Jean needed no further invitation and navigated the flat with ease, as though he weren’t here for the first time. Which, judging by his familiarity with the previous owner, was probably true. He put on a somewhat exaggerated show of surprise at how empty the place had become.
“Up there,” he pointed at the wall cupboard. “There used to be an actual bird skeleton. It was a gift from our lecturer Hange, I’m surprised Eren never threw it out.”
We were already sitting in the kitchen. I washed the only glass I could find with some difficulty, while Jean insisted on drinking from a mug kept on the very top shelf, as though deliberately hidden. It bore a simple, almost childish drawing – three little figures walking through a field of flowers beneath a sky full of stars. The previous tenant must have forgotten it.
“Where do you study?” he asked.
“At a private university. The only one of its kind. I’m in fine arts. And you?”
Jean leaned back lazily in his chair. I mirrored the gesture and took a long sip of champagne before answering.
“I’m applying for philology. Same place.”
Jean scoffed, as if he didn’t believe me.
“Bad choice,” he drawled, pulling a box of toffees from the bag. I hated them. “It’s full of nerds, except for Armin and Rochelle. Luna’s all right too, but that’s probably just because they’re my friends. I’ve known Shelly since she we were kids, if there’s anything strange about her, I’ve long stopped noticing.”
“I heard the lecturers there are excellent. Erwin Smith, do you know him?”
“Oh boy, do I,” Jean visibly perked up at the name. “It’s their university. I mean, his and his father’s. Erwin was my history teacher at school, and now he’s my rector. Took over from his father about three years ago. Rumour has it he went on a business trip, but in reality…”
Jean suddenly broke off, as if he’d said too much. His fingers traced the drawing on the mug almost tenderly; his gaze lingered on it as though it weren’t an ordinary piece of crockery but a genuine relic.
“Ah, gossiping’s ugly,” he said, downing the rest of his champagne in one go. “Where are you from, anyway?”
I wanted to know what had really happened to Smith, but I decided to postpone the question. Not for long.
“From Trost. I’ve wanted to get out of there for ages.”
Jean nodded in understanding.
“Yeah, I grew up not far from there myself. I like the capital, more opportunities, luxury, everything I enjoy. I’ll definitely stay here after graduation. But my friends are scattering. We used to have a big group, and now there are only three of us left, not counting me.”
He suddenly wilted and stared out of the window. Pressed his lips together, frowned, then turned back to me when I began topping up his mug. Let him say it out loud instead of drifting around inside his own head.
“Tell me about them.”
Not a request, a demand, but without pressure. If I was going to grow closer to Jean, it would be useful to know his circle.
“Well, Historia studies law. She grew up here but wants to leave too. I met Armin in upper secondary school. Rochelle’s my childhood friend. Luna and I met through Eren. Sasha, Connie, Mikasa, and Marco studied here as well, but all four left after…”
Jean frowned again and looked at me for a long time, as though solving a difficult equation in his head. Deciding whether or not to share a certain secret. He no longer reached for the champagne.
“All right. You’d have found out anyway. We had a mutual friend, Eren Yeager,” he had already mentioned the name. “He was the previous tenant of this flat. And he disappeared a six months ago. We still don’t know what happened to him. He was always a stubborn rebel, but a couple of months before he vanished he changed. There wasn’t a single day when Eren didn’t argue with professors or disrupt lectures, but later you couldn’t get a word out of him. He stopped coming to university, stopped going out with us after classes. The night I saw him for the last time… Well. Many people left after his disappearance. Some believe Eren is dead. He couldn’t have fled the country, visas aren’t issued anymore, the process is deliberately dragged out. We all understand why. Armin and Mikasa still fund search organisations. Luna and Rochelle aren’t worried, they say the cards show that Eren is fine or something. I know they’d never admit how bad they feel. Historia wasn’t close to him, but she’s been off for the past six months too. Eren didn’t have many admirers, but the atmosphere at the university has changed. Some are afraid he won’t be the last victim.”
He imitated quotation marks around the final word.
Outside, the street had fallen silent, as though even the birds had hushed to listen to Jean’s story. The thought that I was living in a flat once owned by a missing person left an unpleasant feeling in my chest, as if I truly had broken into someone else’s home like a shameless marauder, which only strengthened my desire to escape this cage, far from the lively districts. Jean probably felt the same, but was too polite to say it outright. I suddenly imagined Eren returning home to find someone else already settled in. Goosebumps crept over my skin. I nearly suggested that Jean and I swap flats, but bit my tongue just in time.
“Don’t worry so much,” my neighbour finally spoke after a few minutes of silence. “You’ve only just arrived, and here I am frightening you with horror stories.”
Later, he asked whether he could take the mug with him. It turned out to be a gift he had made for Eren himself, originally as a project during their very first semester. Strange that Eren had left it behind. Or perhaps he hadn’t had the chance to take it? No one would ever know for sure. I agreed, stranger still, considering it wasn’t my possession to begin with. But the alcohol had gone to my head, and speaking felt difficult. One of the reasons I dislike drinking is that it often robs me of speech while leaving my mind overflowing, unable to release my thoughts, they churn inside like volcanic magma. Alcohol always made me irritable. The last time I was wasted I got into a fight. Incredibly foolish of me, but I believed that intoxication revealed a person’s true nature. At least, I believed that about myself. I couldn’t remember what had set me off, only that in that moment I had been capable of expressing disagreement with my fists alone.
I walked Jean to the door with an unsteady gait. I even felt a flicker of shame, seeing how sober he looked compared to me. Drinking on an empty stomach had been a mistake.
“Thanks for inviting me,” he said. “I’ve got a lot to do today, but we’ll sit down together sometime. You know where I live, drop by whenever. We’ll see each other soon.”
My head didn’t stop aching until evening. By five o’clock a drizzle had started, and an hour later it turned into a proper downpour. I never made it to the university. On the way there, I stumbled upon a bookshop, already crowded, many townspeople, myself included, were hiding from the weather. The lighting inside was dim, making it difficult to read without straining my eyes. The hum of voices was distracting too, but it wasn’t a library, after all. I examined the shop windows in shock, discovering that they only stocked books written by our countrymen. Brandt, Rocco, Koch – fictional authors, all of them, writing on military themes, glorifying our country above all others. Rocco wrote atrociously. My mother adored his novel The Call of the Front. The story revolved around a married couple, the husband desperately trying to dodge military service for the sake of a peaceful life with his wife, only for guilt towards the country to prevail. He enlisted and was shot the moment he reached the combat zone. The next hundred pages detailed the wife’s suffering. Complete nonsense, offering no food for thought whatsoever. Like watching a stranger cry and letting them sob into your shoulder, only to forget about their existence moments later. After combing through the shelves, I found nothing of interest. I was used to my father bringing books home, throughout my whole life, I was given virtually no pocket money, deprived of choice in many aspects of life. And now, when I could finally afford to buy something at will, there was no choice left at all.
The weather showed no signs of improving. The best option would have been to return to the flat, stop by a shop on the way, buy a bottle of wine, and drain it over the course of the evening. But I didn’t want to do that alone, and finding suitable company was difficult. Jean was out of the question. The idea was discarded almost immediately. Puddles squelched unpleasantly beneath my feet, darkness fell quickly. It was hard to believe summer was already over. Soon, all the greenery I loved would be replaced by dying russet leaves, but if I was honest, I liked autumn even more. At least one could wear refined suits and coats and feel comfortable. Sitting at home, watching rain rage outside as leaves drifted slowly on the wind, was far more pleasant than standing under a scorching sun and suffering the heat. I was born in October and my mother always said autumn was truly my season. On that point, I agreed with her completely.
Cars sped past me, pedestrians hurried by, heels clicking against the wet asphalt. I was in no rush, there was nowhere I needed to be. The street was decorated with garlands and signs, bathing everything in a warm orange glow. Passing a café, the smell of cinnamon hit my nose. Despite the dull ache of loneliness, I felt cosy. Free. When I return to the flat, this place would never become my home, I wouldn’t be met by an anxious mother or a grumbling father. I was free to do as I pleased. In that moment, I realised how many possibilities lay ahead of me. I would finally rid myself of parental supervision and the pressure of imposed expectations, begin building my life on my own terms, as I had long dreamed. I was immeasurably glad at the start of student life, it was already a huge step into adulthood. In a couple of years, I would sever ties with my father and my hometown.
Near a bus stop, a girl crashed into me. I staggered and struck my shoulder against a lamppost to my right, a dull pain shot through it. There would probably be a bruise. I swore aloud. The girl had been running, glancing around in panic, and hadn’t noticed anyone in her path. I swept my gaze over her quickly. Shorter than me by a head, long dark strands soaked and clinging messily to her face, mascara smudged beneath her eyes; a bleeding wound on her lip, as though she’d bitten it hard. When she looked at me, something inside my chest gave a jolt, a strange sense of unease I couldn’t explain. But it was the girl who was clearly distressed. Her eyes shone, wide open, her face frozen in shock. She wore a simple nightdress, with a black coat thrown over it, far too large for her. She looked as though she had run away from somewhere. Her arms were bent at the elbows, and the moment I noticed something red on her palms, she immediately shoved her hands into her pockets, forcing a crooked smile that never reached her eyes.
“I–I’m s-sorry, I d-didn’t mean to…”
For some reason, I froze as well, unable to move or look away. Something had clearly happened to her. She stood motionless too, as if I had caught her in the act. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared, traffic backing up. The sharp sound broke the spell. As I was about to respond, the girl slipped past me and headed towards an alley, gradually breaking into a run. Something flashed behind her. I barely caught sight of an object dropping from her pocket at the feet of passers-by. I stepped closer and quickly picked it up, moving aside so the flow of people wouldn’t interfere. It was a knife. An ordinary kitchen knife with a bent tip. Initials were engraved on the white handle, which was smeared with something sticky. I took it in my left hand and smeared the viscous substance across my fingers, catching the metallic smell.
There was someone’s blood on the knife.