The first thing he felt was cold.
Not the kind of cold that lives on the skin, but the kind that blooms in the marrow and whispers to the heart that it should slow down, stop, maybe never start again. It sat heavy in his bones as he opened his eyes to a sky the colour of wet ash. The world above him blurred and trembled with the pounding of bells — deep, resonant strikes that rattled his teeth inside his skull.
He was lying on cobblestones, their edges pressing into the back of his neck like the teeth of a trap. Water trickled past his cheek, thin and greasy, swirling with fragments of candle wax, pennies gone green with corrosion, and a faint thread of red that spread into the gutter like paint. The air stank of coal smoke, wet wool, and the sharp iron tang of fresh blood.
He rolled onto his side, coughing, and the bells seemed to hammer harder in response. Around him, people in long black coats and tall hats moved in thick, purposeful currents. They didn't look at him — didn't so much as glance down — but muttered under their breath in a rhythm that matched the tolling above. Their mouths formed shapes he didn't understand, though he felt the sound more than he heard it: a steady, droning prayer or curse.
He staggered upright. His legs felt wrong, too long in the shin, the boots worn in ways he didn't remember walking. His coat was heavy with rain and something thicker.
Then he saw it.
It came down the street like a tide — the Lord Effigy.
Twenty feet tall, wheeled forward by men in crimson gloves whose faces were hidden under soot-blackened hoods. It was carved in the shape of a crowned skeleton draped in gilded robes, ribs spread wide like the gates of a mausoleum. The wood had been lacquered to a deep, unnatural shine, and in the gaps between its ribs, he swore he saw something pale shift and breathe.
Each slow turn of the wheels groaned against the cobbles, and the crowd responded with a chant — low, droning, without melody. The sound wormed under his skin, matching his pulse until he thought he might drown in it.
The men in red gloves steered the Effigy past him. One of them glanced his way from under the hood, and though the eyes were shadowed, the man tilted his head as if to mark him. Then the moment was gone, and the Effigy rolled onward, leaving the taste of resin and incense in the air.
Something inside his skull twisted.
It began as a pressure behind his eyes, growing fast, blooming into a splitting weight that made his knees buckle. His vision smeared; the world tilted and folded into itself.
And then—
He was looking at streets from another angle, moving down them with a gait that wasn't his own. Faces turned toward him with familiarity, calling him by a name he didn't know. The smell of boiled cabbage thick in a narrow stairwell. His own hands — no, someone else's hands — fumbling with a ring of keys. A cramped apartment with wallpaper peeling in long, curling tongues. A kettle shrieking on a blackened stove.
A drawer. Locked. Always locked. The weight of the key to it heavy, comforting in the pocket.
The visions came like a rush of black water, carrying with them not just images but feelings — exhaustion, hunger, a bitter satisfaction at having kept something hidden.
When he opened his eyes again, the world was the same wet, gray street, but now he knew exactly where that apartment was. He could have found it blindfolded.
The crowd pressed around him, drawn toward the cathedral square where the bells roared. Banners of gold-threaded black snapped wetly in the wind. Costumed clergy in oilskin cassocks moved among the masses, blessing them with sprigs of something sharp-smelling. Drunken revelers sang off-key hymns that slid into laughter.
He moved against the flow, his body knowing the route even if his mind didn't. Gaslamps hissed overhead, the flames inside burning with a faint blue tint. He passed a row of street-preachers — Coal Apostles — their teeth black as slag, tossing glowing embers into the crowd as blessings. A woman screamed when one landed on her shawl, then laughed when it left no burn.
Down narrower streets, the cobbles turned slicker, the air colder. He heard a bell somewhere — not the cathedral's thunderous tone, but a smaller, cracked bell from deep in memory.
Buildings leaned over the road as if conspiring. Guttering candlelight flickered in upper windows, distorting the faces that peered out. Somewhere, a cat screamed, and something screamed back in a voice far too deep.
The streets grew quieter the closer he got. The smell of cabbage came first — faint but growing stronger with each step. It was exactly as it had been in the memory. He turned a final corner and saw it.
A building of soot-black brick, slouching against its neighbors as though drunk. The windows were clouded with grime; water seeped in rivulets down the mortar. The wooden door was warped, the paint flaking in curls that looked like withered petals.
He stopped in front of it, heart pounding.
The weight in his pocket was undeniable now. He reached in and pulled out a ring of keys — the same ones from the vision. They were tarnished to near blackness, cold enough to numb his fingers.
The key slid into the lock without hesitation. The mechanism inside clicked once, twice.
The door groaned as it swung inward. A draft of air escaped from the darkness beyond — cabbage, yes, but under it something else: a smell older, heavier.
He stepped over the threshold.
Behind him, the door creaked shut on its own. The bells outside boomed once more, and then the world went silent.