Chapter 9: Traces in the Warehouse and Symbols at Dawn
Joey's newfound determination flickered like a fragile flame, constantly threatened by the winds of his anxiety. The next day, a Sunday, the house was calmer. His father, after the incident in the warehouse, seemed to have contented himself with muttering about the need to "take better care of things" and patch the hole in the wall "before the house gets invaded by all sorts of critters."
When he had a moment alone, Joey mustered his courage and returned to the warehouse. The morning sun streamed through the cracks, illuminating the floating dust. His analytical mind urged him to gather more data.
He examined the spot where the small figure had been. On the floor, among the tools he himself had awkwardly tried to put away, he found something the creature had left behind: a small, matte metal gear, unlike anything he had ever seen, with tiny, intricate teeth. Beside it, a fragment of what looked like hardened leather, with a strange symbol engraved on it, almost like a stylized lightning bolt.
He picked up the objects carefully, his heart pounding. They were proof. Tangible facts. Proof that he wasn't imagining things, a counter to his own tendency to doubt his perceptions. The creature was real and had been there.
He remembered what Léo had said about strange symbols near the library. "Symbols that looked... shiny." Could there be a connection? His mind, which often had difficulty making others follow its reasoning, saw a potential pattern.
The thought of going out and investigating those symbols was terrifying, a direct challenge to his social phobia and his need for security. But the need to understand, to collect more information and perhaps find the meaning he often searched for in life, was stronger.
He waited until late at night, when the house was plunged into silence and the city outside seemed less threatening under the cloak of darkness. With his hood pulled low over his head—a small comfort, a shield—and the small gear and leather fragment in his pocket, Joey slipped out, preferring that people didn't know what he was doing.
The streets were deserted. Every shadow seemed to hide a threat, every noise made him jump. He tended to worry more than other people, and being alone in the dark amplified this. But he pressed on, driven by a strength he barely recognized in himself, a step in trying to overcome his problems.
He reached the area of the central library. The police were no longer there. The place was dark and silent. Léo had mentioned a wall.
Joey began to search, his phone in hand, using the flashlight hesitantly. Finally, in a damp alley behind an abandoned building adjacent to the library, he saw them.
They were exactly as Léo had described: complex symbols, some circular, others angular, painted with an ink that seemed to have a faint phosphorescent glow, even in the dim light. They were different from the symbol on the leather fragment, but there was a similarity in their complexity, in the "otherworldly" feeling they exuded, reminiscent of the fantasy worlds he sometimes escaped into.
As he examined the symbols, trying to discern any pattern or meaning, he heard a noise. Someone was nearby. His panic returned with full force, that familiar anxiety when decisions had to be made quickly. He shrank into the shadows, barely breathing, his instinct to avoid confrontation kicking in.
From there, he saw a figure emerge from the darkness further down the alley. It was Lyra, the elf. Her silver hair seemed almost luminous, even in the gloom. She was thinner, her clothes a bit dirty, and she looked around with the caution of a cornered animal, an outsider looking in, a feeling Joey knew intimately.
She approached the wall, her fingers tracing the outlines of the glowing symbols with an expression of deep concentration, almost reverence. She seemed to be trying to decipher them, or perhaps recognize them.
Joey watched, fascinated and terrified. He believed it was important to understand others' feelings, and Lyra's were palpable. He wanted to say something, to ask, but the words wouldn't come; he often hesitated if not comfortable with what he wanted to say.
Lyra suddenly seemed to sense his presence. She turned abruptly, her eyes wide and alert. For an instant, their gazes met again, just as it had happened with the hooded man.
But this time, before Joey could even think of fleeing, Lyra raised a hand, palm up, in a gesture that seemed universally to mean "don't approach" or "I come in peace."
She then pointed to the symbols on the wall, then to herself, and then made a broad gesture towards the night sky, as if asking, "where did these come from?" or "do you understand this?"
Joey was paralyzed. A real elf was trying to communicate with him. He was more comfortable expressing ideas than emotions, but right now, neither seemed possible. His dream of a world without evil, a world of understanding and peace, seemed to be knocking at his door in a way he could never have predicted.
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