hallway stretched long before Alan, each chandelier swaying faintly above, casting fractured lights across the black-stoned floor.
The air carried a faint scent, burnt wood, candle smoke, and something faintly metallic. His boots echoed softly as he walked.
Should I buy clothes? Or a revolver? A blade? Perhaps more candles? Hmmmm... I'll think about it later.
His steps slowed as he entered the living room. Bruce was slumped across the sofa like a collapsed tower, snoring lightly, one arm hanging limply off the edge, a half-empty glass still in hand. Alan glanced at him, then quietly stepped around.
Shouldn't wake him. After all that drinking and gambling… no wonder his mind's in pieces.
Turning right into the narrower hallway, Alan's pace steadied. Familiar shadows hugged the walls, flickering with the occasional lantern. He stopped when the door came into view.
Murphy's Door.
Tall. Still. Its surface shimmered faintly, as if alive beneath its polished texture.
Didn't Serena say something…? If the door isn't expecting you, it'll shred you like meat. Why'd I remember that just now?
Alan's fingers twitched. He rubbed his palm against his coat, then clenched it.
His breath caught in his chest.
I have no choice. I'm on shift now. It's part of the house. Part of the job, maybe.
He stepped back with his right foot, crouched slightly, and launched forward, crossing through the threshold in a swift motion like a runner clearing a finish line.
And just like that, he was outside.
The wind was different here.
His house stood still, untouched by time. The crooked porch, the paint peeling around the window frames, the familiar way the garden leaned too far to the left. His chest tightened.
Home.
The memories stirred quietly.
I wonder what time it is… and what day it, ah, Graham said Saturday. June 21. 1897 A.R... What does 'A.R.' even stand for? Why not just year?
He stepped closer, scanning the front wall. His childhood photos were still pinned near the door, crooked, dusty. He wandered in, his boots lighter now, and stopped in front of the wall clock.
3 E.L.
A glance at the window confirmed it, the street was still full of life.
Children darted between stalls, onion vendors bickered at full volume, and someone yelled in the distance, probably about being robbed. Alan leaned against the windowsill.
The usual racket. Complaints about onion prices, vendors screaming over each other, some poor kids lifting wallets. Nothing's changed.
He moved to the couch and let himself sink into it. The cushions wheezed beneath him. He sat there for a moment, then murmured.
"I should send something to my sisters."
With a stretch, he pushed himself up again. His muscles groaned but moved with purpose.
He passed the narrow hallway, glanced toward the bathroom door without stopping, and entered his room.
The windows were still open, he had left them that way this morning. A breeze carried in the scent of city dust and warm bread.
He knelt by the desk, pulled up the loose board, and retrieved a folded piece of parchment. Sitting down, he smoothed it out and began writing. The words spilled onto the page without hesitation.
He wrote of the strange place that called itself headquarters.
Of the door where both Schrödinger's Cat and Murphy's Law seemed to argue for dominance.
Of Bruce Dwyer, always drunk but somehow still functional.
Iris Gustave, who always cooked too much. Graham, who always sounded like he was one sentence away from yelling.
Florence Graye, unseen, but definitely screamed. Serena Thorne, the tired doctor who treated Night Clerks like broken bones.
Lucille Coulston, who helped him descend. Elias Ashford, his whole story felt like a fever dream patched together with philosophy and sharp quotes. Mercellus, the captain with eyes like a dried stone.
And then he wrote the last line.
"Alan finally has a stable job… and received his first paycheck, one hundred silver shillings."
He paused, staring at the sentence for a long moment.
Then, with a soft exhale, folded the page carefully.
Alan rummaged through the cluttered desk drawers, his fingers brushing against loose nails, old receipts, and scraps of rough paper.
He paused when his fingertips caught the edge of an envelope. He pulled it free, used, slightly crumpled, and already sealed with something inside.
He furrowed his brow and set his top hat down beside the desk.
I don't remember this... but I'll open it anyway.
He slid a finger beneath the flap and gently opened it. A folded letter slipped out, and he carefully unfolded it. The paper creaked faintly as he smoothed it flat. The handwriting was unmistakable, slightly messy, but earnest.
It was from Isaac Morrence, his adopted middle-class cousin, Seventeen. On his mother's side.
Brother Alan.
We're going to another country, it's my first time on a long train ride! Brother Alan, you should eat more often, and drink more water. I had a few silver left, so I used it to send this to you. I even included some extra coins.
Big Sister Claire just turned twenty-two. She wanted to see you again, but Mother and Father said we had to leave quickly, so we didn't have time.
Okay byeee. Take care! Here's five silver shillings.
– Isaac
March 8, 1896 A.R.
Alan lowered the letter, his eyes still fixed on the words. He exhaled quietly and muttered.
"…Fifteen months ago. Sorry I didn't read it sooner… but I read it now. That counts, right?"
He sat for a moment longer, then carefully refolded the letter and slid it back into the envelope.
Well... it's mine now. I can reuse it. My turn to write back this time to my sisters.
He stood, pocketing the envelope, and took his top hat from the desk. He checked his pocket watch.
3:20 E.L.
Alan tilted his head, uncertain. Then his eyes lit up slightly as a memory surfaced.
Will this even reach the mail? …Wait, didn't Elias stick his hand out a window once and a pigeon showed up? I should try it. If it doesn't work, I'll figure something else out.
He stepped to the window, nudged it open wider, and extended his hand out awkwardly into the sunlight.
Nothing.
The breeze brushed past his fingers. Somewhere in the distance, someone shouted about missing potatoes.
Then, a woman's voice cut through the street noise. "Why are you holding your hand out like that? You look weird."
Alan blinked, glanced sideways, and then looked at his hand.
A pigeon was perched there.
Its feathers were ruffled, its eyes judgmental.
Wait... it worked? Did that bird… just appear? Or... did I imagine the voice?
He shook his head, brushing the thought aside. Gently, he lifted the envelope toward the pigeon's beak.
The pigeon immediately pecked at his forehead.
"Oi! You bastard!" the bird snapped.
"Humiliate me, will you? You've barely joined the Night Clerks and now you act like you own the damn system?"
Alan froze, letter still in hand.
…Okay. The bird is talking. It's not my imagination.
The pigeon stomped once on his wrist for emphasis, puffed out its chest, then added with a squawk
"What's next? Gonna ask me to file your taxes?"
Alan flinched, stumbling back slightly as the pigeon pecked at his head. He raised his arms, trying to shield himself.
"Wait, stop, stop! That hurts, I'm sorry!"
The pigeon flapped its wings once, glaring.
"Take that as a lesson," it snapped, voice sharp and unmistakably female. "Don't disrespect your elders. Just because I'm small doesn't mean you get to act superior."
Alan rubbed his forehead, cheeks flushing.
Feels like one of those aunties at the market, always flaunting their age just to haggle better.
The pigeon ruffled her feathers, still perched calmly on his hand.
"Well?" she asked. "Why'd you call me, then?"
Alan hesitated, glancing at the envelope. He bit his lip.
Should I give it to her? ... No point overthinking. Worrying always leads to more worrying.
He held the letter out.
"Madam Pigeon, could you take this to my sisters? Wait, do you even know where they are?"
The pigeon tilted her head, indignant.
"First of all, call me Madame Cinder. Second, yes, I know exactly where they are. Pecked it out of your skull the moment I landed. I'm the best Night Clerk courier. This pigeon's just an avatar."
Alan straightened his coat and brushed a few of her feathers off his lapel. He gave a polite nod.
"Understood. Then... please deliver this to them."
A sly grin tugged at the corner of his lips.
If I just poke my hand out the window again... and slowly shut it while she's still perched, would she fly off immediately?
Madame Cinder's eyes narrowed by suspicion.
"Wipe that grin off your face," she said coldly. "Don't even think about it."
Alan coughed, adjusting his posture again. Thinking that it wouldn't be noticeable
"Yes, Madame Cinder. Please proceed."
She huffed and flapped once, lifting herself into the air.
"Fine. I'll go. Off to the capital, long flight, and I swear if I hit another damn rooftop, again I'll slam your head while accelerating."