The debris pile stretched along the shoreline like the backbone of a leviathan. It was a graveyard of cargo that had never reached its destination—crates splintered open, barrels leaking neon sludge, and suitcases spilling their intimate contents onto the unforgiving grey sand.
Noah moved through the wreckage, his boots sinking into the wet sludge. Every step was a struggle, but he moved with a new, jagged purpose. He wasn't wandering anymore. He was hunting.
"What am I looking for?" Noah whispered, stepping over a shattered mirror that reflected his tired, hollow face.
"Something soft," Mittens replied, sniffing a broken crate filled with rusted alarm clocks. The clocks were all ticking, but at different speeds, creating a chaotic, clicking heartbeat for the beach. "Something that smells like milk and powder. The Purr-sident calls it 'The Soft Shell.'"
"Soft Shell," Noah repeated. The term sounded clinical, alien.
He climbed over a mound of soaking wet books—all of them blank, their pages dissolved into pulp by the rain—and then he saw it.
Caught on a piece of rusted rebar jutting out from a rotted pier was a scrap of fabric. It fluttered in the cold sea breeze, bright pink and defiantly cheerful against the monochromatic sludge of the beach. It looked like a flower blooming in a landfill.
Noah approached it slowly, his breath catching in his throat. It wasn't just a scrap. It was a garment.
He unhooked it gently, terrified the fabric might disintegrate in his rough hands. It was a baby sleeper. A onesie. It was pale pink with little cartoon clouds on the chest. The fabric was impossibly soft, a velvet touch in a world made of sandpaper and stone.
He held it up. It was tiny. The arms were so small his thumb could barely fit through the cuffs.
How could a person fit in this? he thought, the logical part of his brain trying to reject the reality. It's too small. It's for a doll.
But his heart knew better.
ZAP.
The beach vanished. The smell of brine and rot was replaced instantly by the scent of warm milk and talcum powder.
Noah was sitting in a rocking chair that squeaked rhythmically. The room was painted a soft, buttery yellow. Sunlight streamed through sheer curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
In his arms, wrapped in this exact pink sleeper, was a bundle of warmth.
She squirmed, making a tiny, bird-like noise—a hiccup followed by a sigh.
"Hey there," Noah whispered, his voice sounding younger, lighter, unburdened by the static of the city. He traced the baby's cheek with his knuckle. Her skin was softer than anything he had ever touched. "I'm your dad. I'm the guy who's going to build you treehouses and chase away the monsters."
The baby opened her eyes. They were blue. Deep, endless, oceanic blue. They stared up at him with absolute, terrifying trust.
"I've got you, Katy," he promised, rocking back and forth. "I've got you. Nothing is ever going to hurt you."
ZAP.
Noah fell to his knees in the wet sand, clutching the wet sleeper to his face. He inhaled deeply, desperate to catch that scent of milk again, but all he got was the smell of the dead ocean.
"I promised," he choked out, tears hot and fast mixing with the cold rain on his face. "I promised to chase away the monsters. And I failed. I'm here, feeding the monsters."
"Easy, tiger."
Mittens' voice cut through the emotion, sharp and pragmatic. The cat nudged Noah's knee with his head. "Don't drown in it. The memory is heavy, I know. But we have to move. The Street Sweepers are coming."
Noah looked up. In the distance, where the fog met the city, shadows were moving. Massive, boxy shapes with rotating brushes and grinding gears. He could hear their mechanical whirrr-thump, whirrr-thump—the sound of the city erasing its mistakes.
Noah shoved the pink sleeper into his pocket, next to the Ring. He picked up the heavy wooden Ark model with his other hand.
He stood up. He wiped his face with his muddy sleeve. His posture changed. He didn't slouch. He didn't cower. He stood tall, his spine stiffening with a new resolve.
"Let's go," Noah said, his voice cold and steady, the tears stopping as abruptly as they had started. "I have a performance to give."