The alley light was muted.
Thin, bright swords coated the grimy ground, peeking through heavy curtains and boarded windows. Each quick step brought her further into the decaying dystopia, and each rapid beat of her heart reminded her to cast a glance behind her, just to be sure.
He was meant to be here, she thought. Adrenaline flowed in aching rivulets, and her skirt protested at her fast movements, as did her heels as they beat a sharp staccato on the concrete.
She looked woefully out of place, her white blouse a beacon against the bleak backdrop. Every passing face had held a thought about her; she was lost, having an affair, searching for a cheap thrill.
In some ways, she supposed they held their own little piece of truth.
A passing figure crossed the alley entrance, silhouetting their dark shadow with looming dominance down across her own person.
Her breath hitched, her pulse quickened, and before she had the sense to make a quick escape, instincts deposited her in a nearby alcove.
Out of sight, out of mind, away from the regime.
The mantra was her own little guiding light in the dark alley; in times of strife and struggle, it was her constant companion.
Then behind her, a creaking footstep.
Hairs stood to attention, bristling in the cold at the prospect of harm. Eyes darted to and fro, searching for escape.
Running wouldn’t work. The regime had rifles and armoured cars, soldiers and training. She was armed with a business degree and heels—the battle would be swift, defeat assured and internment certain.
Hesitation dwindled her time into nothingness, and she prepared for the inevitability that was re-education.
“If you’re looking for a place to hide, I’d reckon you could do better than the bins.”
His voice broke her from the reverence of the inevitable, it wasn’t a soldier’s bark. It wasn’t cutting or corrosive, it didn’t carry the confidence of a man with a weapon at his side.
It was… kind.
Anxiety was a ball in her throat, tight and coarse, “I… I wasn’t doing anything,” was her automatic response. “Business,” she decided after a pregnant pause. “I’m looking for the business office. If you could point me to th—”
The hum in his throat was wrought from terror, hammered and forged in a fear she’d never felt. “You’re a long way off the business office, lass, I’d say too far off.” A single footstep followed, “turn around and give me a look at you.”
Too close to flee, did she have a choice?
A part of her, a recess hidden under the shroud of alley shadows and fearful thoughts, wondered what her family would say when they found out.
The thought didn’t stop her turning or the lies that formed on her lips, waiting for life to be breathed into them.
She took stock of his figure, fast and true and within a moment the air left her lungs in soft waves.
“You’re not one of them.”
Words sometimes needed no elucidation. They could be left alone and still be understood. This was one such case. If they looked skywards, they could see red flags reign. There never needed to be a reminder.
The man’s face was old and worn; sinewy muscles pulled taut across his face. It was hardened by the world, but kind like his tone—it seemed to hold some old wisp of aristocracy. A face chiselled by a sculptor who saw the world without wonder and fell out of love with its beauty.
He shifted his head to the side and returned her scrutiny tenfold, and she shied under his gaze.
“For our little embers.”
She sighed a breath of relief, soft and swift. “You’re not much of a conversationalist, are you?”
A laugh followed her words, humorous and good-natured, “you looked like the doe who spotted the hunter,” he said. “Is this your first?”
Her nod seemed to set his shoulder’s at ease. “It’ll get easier, at some point you’ll slip by ‘em and they won’t have noticed a thing.” The man brushed his own words aside with his hand, “but that’s neither here nor there. You’ll want to get home quickly.”
“You don’t have it?” She blurted out in the fear her expedition would be fought nought.
“Oh, I’ve got it alright,” he assured her with the patting of his breast pocket. “I’d be a poor salesmen if I showed to deals without the means to complete them.”
Then the adrenaline ached again, but in excitement rather than fear.
“Can I…” Her voice was soft before she made the conscious effort to strengthen her tone. “Can I see it?”
No answer was provided save the reaching into his coat and procuring the coveted item, the one she’d ached for months about even trying to get.
It was a book.
Leatherbound, frayed and worn by time, but inoffensive. Plain.
He stretched out his hand and offered to her and with gentle fingers that sealed her fate forevermore, she took it and brought it close.
The old paper was like satin between her fingers, the musty smell saffron in her nose. It was its own little breed of perfect. Plain had been the wrong descriptor, the fear, the thrill, the possibility encapsulated in between the cover was exquisite.
His smile was warm and genuine, the sort that held a reassurance behind it. “First time?” He nodded towards her, she was too enraptured to break from the pages.
She shook her head, “I’ve read the ledgers and mandates, but nothing like this. This is…”
“Those were pages and words. This,” he said, “is more than that. So much more.”
There had been an expectation, something of a naive one, that it’d seem more dangerous than it was. That there would be something inexplicably terrible about it, something to justify the ban.
“It doesn’t seem so bad,” she muttered, turning it over.
“For you?” He asked, “No. We need wonder like we need to sleep or eat—the dream of a better world is built upon it.” His gaze became solemn and the kind face turned as harsh as his skin. “To them? It’s a weapon of a breed they can’t even comprehend. You can live in a thousand worlds. You can dance and dream, love and explore. You can defeat hate and that, above all, scares them in ways words can’t do justice.”
What could she say, in all her woeful inexperience, that could possibly be a worthwhile addendum to his words? She could stand there in the dark and dirty alley for an eternity and not find anything worthwhile.
“I…” Tears stung her eyes for reasons she couldn’t explain. “I’ve got money, I can—”
“It’s not about the money,” he explained with that kind tone. “It never really is. It’s about the thought that, one day, the world will be the right kind of tinder for that little ember you have there. One day, we’ll need that hidden fire to rage again. One day, we’ll win.”
Her eyes found their way back to the book; breaking from his gaze took more strength than she knew she had.
This is my little ember.
It had no name, no pictures. It had so much more.
“Happy readings,” the man said as he walked away from her, whistling a happy little tune. “Go find your spark.”
And with that, the world seemed to regain some of its colour.