The morning was cold, and its silence was broken by the chirping of sparrows that seemed synchronized with the city's clock. Zal awoke from a sleep in which he had taken root in the cold soil. A dry cough suddenly racked his chest without warning. It took several seconds before he could draw a fresh breath.

  "Illness is the most loyal companion of exile. You can take it from one world to another, because it has become part of your own definition."

  Hunger and this familiar weakness, like two old cellmates, announced themselves with a sharp pain in his being. He rose. In the basin, the icy water burned his face and brought wakefulness back to his bones, though his lungs whistled a faint, unpleasant note with every breath.

  On his way to the tavern, he heard the church again. This time it was a murmur, not a hymn. Zal tried to listen, but another cough, deeper this time and accompanied by an itchy, unpleasant sensation in his throat, severed his thread of attention. He held his arm over his mouth and waited for it to pass.

  "Sometimes, your body is more important than any philosophy. Because philosophy can wait, but a cough cannot."

  Then he heard the chant:

  "O Creator of the cosmos... O symphony of stone and soil... We bow to Thee..."

  And a heavy silence.

  He reached "The Loose Rein." Adam Jupiter was behind the counter, head resting on his arms, asleep. Zal approached and, to wake him, clapped his hands together sharply. The sound cracked through the quiet like a firecracker.

  Adam jolted up with a shout. "By the threads of Order! Did the gravedigger bring that sound?!"

  Zal took a step back, and instinctively pressed a hand to his chest, as if to hold back the next cough. "Sorry... I thought I was late."

  Adam's gaze, initially flashing with anger, suddenly settled on Zal's pressed chest. A slight frown appeared on his forehead.

  "Late? The sun hasn't even dreamt of peeking over the mountain yet!" But his tone had softened a little. "I suppose not... but you're punctual at least. That's good. Are you... alright?"

  Zal nodded, but the small motion created an unpleasant lightness in his head. "Yes. Just... a cold."

  "The small lie Zal told was not for deception, but out of habit. The habit of hiding wounds."

  Adam looked at him for a moment, that same small frown on his forehead. Then he gestured toward the stairs with his hand. "Go upstairs, left room. Left some clothes for you there. And a pot of warm water and honey is by the bed. Good for a sore throat."

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Zal climbed the dark stairs. A faint light came from above. The stairs going up, lit. The stairs going down, in utter darkness. He paused on the landing.

  "And Zal hesitated. This image was his lived world: always in the middle. Not fully in the darkness of memory, not completely in the light of now. In a borderland that smelled of must and dread. And his illness was the bridge between these two shores."

  In the room, he found the work clothes. As he took off his coat, his hand brushed against a crumpled paper in the inner pocket. He pulled it out. It read: Work at the White Tower Press. Tomorrow, dawn.

  He remembered. And then, he remembered why he had forgotten. Hunger and weakness were more powerful than any summons.

  "The needs of the body are the first and truest commandments of any living thing. Philosophy and destiny only get their chance to speak after one is sated."

  When he came down, Adam was washing glasses. He looked up. "Alright, hero? Eat your soup first, then start." And he nodded toward a steaming bowl on the counter.

  Customers came. Adam said to him: "Don't be flustered. Most of them are old friends."

  Zal repeated the same. Customers asked: "Who's the new boy?"

  Adam said: "My new assistant. Has a bit of a cold, but he's stubborn."

  One of the men looked at him kindly. "Oh, son. You look really pale. Be careful in this season. Adam, give him a rest if he needs it, eh?"

  Adam replied with a smile: "Of course. But first he has to become a hero and clean these glasses!"

  "And Zal, in the heart of this simple warmth and unexpected concern, felt something he had long forgotten: care. Not out of pity, but out of simple humanity."

  Zal got to work. While carrying a tray, his hands trembled slightly. When pouring juice for a customer, he stifled a cough behind his teeth, so that his face flushed. Adam watched from across the counter. Once, as Zal passed behind the bar, Adam said quietly: "Don't rush. Take a deep breath."

  ---

  The day ended. The last customers left. Adam locked the door. He looked at Zal. Zal's face was still pale, and the dark circles under his eyes had deepened.

  "Well, your first day is done. And you're still standing." Adam said, but his look was concerned. "You can use the room upstairs. If you're not feeling well tomorrow, you don't have to come. I understand."

  Zal felt a knot loosen in his throat. "Thank you... I'm fine. Really."

  "Don't mention it." Adam shrugged. But before heading up, he paused. "Any questions? The city's new to you. Or... something else?"

  Questions? A world of them. But only one felt tangible. Zal took the paper from his pocket and unfolded it. He held it out toward Adam. His hand did not tremble this time—not from illness, but from anxiety. "This... do you know what this is? Do you know where the 'White Tower' is?"

  And Adam's eyes fell upon the paper. His expression changed. The warmth and concern of the previous moments suddenly vanished, replaced by something more serious and profound.

  ---

  "And thus, the first stone of a new mystery was laid, not in a dark place, but upon a counter warmed by human presence. Many secrets are hidden within the guise of the most ordinary moments—a cough, a concerned look, a bowl of soup. And many questions find their answers beginning not in isolation, but in breaking bread with a kind stranger. Now we shall see what image this new mirror of humanity will reflect of that mysterious paper."