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The room breathed its old breath. John's head tipped forward. Fizz's small weight warmed his thigh. The tin lantern ticked as the heat inside it faded. Somewhere far overhead a bell clunked once in its sleep and decided not to ring yet.
John slept.
He did not dream of alleys or bells or void. He dreamed of warm water running over stone and a brush that never wore out.
A few hours slid by. Fizz woke first — the way small creatures do, all at once. He stretched like a string being plucked, yawned a silent yawn big enough to swallow a raisin, then peered up at John's face to check if it was still a face and not a broom. Satisfied, he floated off John's lap and did a lazy circle, testing the air.
The smell had changed. Still bad. Less cruel. He grinned. "We are winning," he whispered to the lamps, because someone had to be told.
