Artur's old pickup rattled along the dirt road, kicking up a cloud of dust that was the only thing keeping him company. Inside the cab, the silence was broken only by the engine and the hiss of an old radio, switched on exclusively for long trips.
"…we repeat: authorities urge calm following the incident on Ninth Street. The Department of Oneiric Activities states that the situation is under control…"
Artur listened to the words the way one listens to a foreign language. Ninth Street. DAO. Incident. Abstractions. Problems from a noisy world he had left behind.
He knew about Echoes. They were the reason for his exile. But what the radio described—an entire street vanishing—sounded less like reality and more like cheap science fiction. It didn't match the harmless dream-ghosts he knew.
Artur shook his head. The city always found new ways to lose its mind.
As he drove on, the world changed. Dirt road became patched asphalt, then smooth pavement. Trees gave way to utility poles, then to buildings. The scent of pine and earth was swallowed by smoke and grease. Silence was murdered by horns, sirens, and the constant murmur of thousands of voices.
He felt like a wild animal shoved into a cage. His broad shoulders seemed too large for the crowded sidewalks. His eyes—trained to read movement in dense brush—were assaulted by flashing screens, shouting ads, faces moving too fast.
Artur parked the truck several blocks from his destination. Side streets felt safer.
He carried the axe head and the broken remains of its handle in a thick canvas bag. People watched him with standard urban suspicion, but he didn't care. His unease didn't come from them. It came from the environment. From the constant noise. From the lack of space. From the feeling of being watched—not by a predator, but by millions of indifferent eyes.
Snippets of conversation drifted through the air. Ninth Street appeared in almost all of them, spoken with fear and fascination.
The city was sick with panic. Artur felt it the way an animal senses an approaching storm.
He just wanted to solve his problem and leave.
Twenty-Sixth Street was an anomaly. A pocket of the past wedged inside the frenetic metropolis. Brick facades. Canvas awnings. Shop windows that weren't screens. The air smelled of leather, varnish, and metal.
It was a street of craftsmen. A place where things were still made to last.
Mr. Elias's workshop sat at the end of the block. A dark wooden door. A small bell.
Artur stepped inside.
The bell's chime was swallowed by the scent of wood and linseed oil.
Mr. Elias was as old as the street itself. Small, hunched, with thick, stained hands—hands that seemed made of the same material he shaped. He was sanding a piece of furniture and didn't look up.
"If you're here for sleep suppressants, the pharmacy's on the other avenue," he said, his voice like gravel.
"I came because of this."
Artur set the canvas bag on the counter. The thud was heavy.
Elias stopped sanding. He wiped his hands on a cloth and stepped closer. He opened the bag, removed the axe head. Turned it under the dim light, felt its weight, examined the edge.
His tired eyes gained a quiet glint.
"Good steel," he murmured. "Made to work. Not to hang on a wall."
He looked at Artur's hands. At the calluses. Asked no questions.
"The handle split," Artur said.
"Hickory holds a lot… but nothing lasts forever." A half-smile. "Especially against oak."
"Can you fix it? And sharpen it?"
Elias nodded.
"I can make a new handle that'll outlast both of us. But it won't be quick. I need to seat the steel. Balance the weight. Come back late afternoon."
More time in the city than Artur wanted.
But necessary.
"I'll be here."
The bell rang as he left. A small sound. An old one.
Waiting in the city was a form of torture.
Artur didn't like cafés or storefronts. He ended up in a small park wedged between buildings—a rectangle of tired grass, a few concrete benches.
He sat there. A quiet giant watching urban neurosis.
The conversations always circled the same thing.
"…my son woke up screaming…"
"…SomniaCorp doubled the price…"
"…they say the government's going to monitor all Dreamers…"
That last line struck deep.
Artur was registered. Always had been. But monitored? He had isolated himself precisely so he wouldn't be a problem. So he wouldn't be seen.
Now it seemed the problem was coming to him.
He watched the faces: restless eyes, constant attention to shadows, to the sky. As if they expected reality to tear open at any moment.
They feared what he had simply avoided.
His peace, he realized, wasn't a solution.
It was a delay.
The sun began to set, painting the sky orange and pink. An ordinary sunset. In the mountains, it was routine. In the city, it felt false—filtered through pollution and anxiety.
Artur wanted his axe.
He wanted the right weight in his hand.
He wanted to go home.