The taste of ash on my lips. A hissing in my head. A black sun.
I fall to my knees, and then collapse into the snow.
The hot coffee burned my throat, and the warmth of the bitter drink spread through my body. I exhaled heavily, driving away the intrusive images of the night’s torment, and lifted my gaze to the sky, veiled with stormy gray-brown clouds. A chilly, pre-dawn gloom cloaked the world, and the gusty cold wind – so unusual for what I understood to be midsummer – offered little pleasure in being outside. In the Central Lands, summer is gentle and welcoming (though this year, the weather has been surprising with uncharacteristic fluctuations since spring); and in the Isthmus Region, where I was now, winds, it seemed, were a common thing.
I still couldn't fully realize that we had actually crossed the customs borders of the lands and passed through twenty-three checkpoints. My emotions urged me to look around, soak in the landscapes, and try to catch glimpses of the local culture. When else would I have a chance to escape the confines of restricted movement? But my rational mind stubbornly refused to view these new places through the lens of idle curiosity.
Firstly, the job wasn’t done yet. Secondly, while there was no doubt about the validity of the documents presented to customs officials and no questions were raised at any checkpoint, there was no guarantee that on the return trip the political investigators – the Reapers – wouldn’t take an interest in the name that had endorsed our papers. This wasn’t just playing with fire – it was an attempt to walk on a thread over the abyss.
The brewed coffee bean exuded a spicy aroma, and I suddenly thought that over the past few months, during which sleepless nights were consumed by black coffee and endless work, my body seemed to have absorbed too much of this bitter, smoky liquid, flowing through my veins instead of blood.
I tossed the empty paper cup into the trash, wanting to get back to the warm car as soon as possible, and, lifting the sleeve of my leather jacket, I glanced at my watch. Not even six yet.
Suddenly, in the distance above the houses, a flock of birds rose into the air, their sharp cries echoing through the surroundings. The silence of the early morning in the sparsely populated suburb only amplified their plaintive and anxious clamor, which resonated in a chorus of echoes among the houses and sent a gust of wind scattering leaves across the road.