Василиса Чмелева – The Universal Passenger. Book 2. The Straw City (страница 4)

What’s even the appeal of these things?

I turned my gaze upward. It was probably around 4 a.m.—still dark enough for a few stubborn stars to linger, but dawn was already bleeding into the edges of the sky.

"Wish I could show you these stars," I said aloud, though I wasn’t sure who I was talking to.

A splash echoed from the lake—like a large fish breaking the surface. Sleep-deprived and driven by idle curiosity, I stood and walked toward the water.

Stepping onto the footbridge, I leaned over the edge and stared at my reflection. Gradually, it split into two, warping into something like a convex TV screen playing a film I didn’t recognize.

A walk through the Pink City, where the air was thick with spices and hope. I was with a girl, resting on concrete slabs stacked like staircases, watching water so still it seemed suspended in midair.

Who is she? Why can’t I see her face?

The stranger leaned her back against my shoulder, gazing elsewhere.

"Since I was a kid, I’ve loved looking at the moon."

It took me a second to recognize my own voice—filtered through my mind like a recording. It sounded alien, mismatched.

"Then," I continued, "years later as an artist, I ran into an acquaintance at a bar. He mentioned the spots on the moon are called ‘Mare Tranquillitatis.’ Know what I thought?" I studied the back of her head, her presence radiating warmth, like she already understood.

"That there’s no actual sea there?" She laughed.

"I thought… I’d like to go there," I said, staring at the sky and reaching up as if to touch something just out of grasp. "Because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt that kind of peace here. But I didn’t say any of that to him. Just went home, sat on the balcony, and kept staring at that silver disc like it’d pull me closer if I looked hard enough."

A pause. The scent of her hair—warm, familiar—drifted over me.

"‘The Illusion of Tranquility’—that’s what I called the next painting. Sold like crazy that year. Guess that’s what everyone was missing."

"Tranquility?" she asked.

"Illusions," I corrected.

"WE'RE ON FIRE!"

I jerked away from the lake and spun around to see the kid darting frantically along the blazing porch. Flames surged hungrily, devouring the wooden planks.

"Why are you just standing there?!" Oscar shrieked. "DO SOMETHING!"

I lunged toward him—then my foot caught on a rope stretched taut across the footbridge.

Since when was that there—?

The world upended as I crashed into the water like a sack of bricks. Darkness swallowed me instantly. The last thing I saw was Oscar standing at the edge of the footbridge, arms crossed.

Always judging me…

Then the lake pulled me under.

"Seriously, man," Oscar tapped his yellow boot against the footbridge as I spat out lake water and tried to shake slimy algae off my shoulder. "First you shamelessly steal Grandpa's cigarettes, then you toss a lit butt into dry grass. What the hell were you thinking?"

"Sorry, kid," I wheezed, still catching my breath after my inglorious backflip into the water.

"Say that again?" He cupped a hand to his ear, stepping closer with exaggerated interest.

"I said I'm sorry, okay?!" I snapped. "My bad for screwing up and almost burning your house down."

Then I remembered the fire. I scrambled to my feet—only to find the porch completely intact, no signs of flames anywhere. The world was bright as midday.

"W-what the…?" I stammered. "Where's the fire?"

"Already put out," the kid said, rolling his eyes. "Not like we could count on you. Even a stray dog’s more useful."

"B-but why’s it so light out?"

"While you were busy with your impromptu swim, morning happened," Oscar replied, as if it were the most obvious thing. "Stop gaping and go change. Christ, you’re ruining clothes faster than I can wash them."

I looked down at my soaked outfit and trudged back to the house to raid Grandpa’s trunk—again.

"I need to call about that motorcycle," I told Oscar, pulling on a dry burgundy tee and a beige shirt with the sleeves rolled up. This time, I opted for knee-length jean shorts and cowboy boots, grimacing as I held up my sneakers—still dripping.

"I’ll help," Oscar said. "There’s a roadside diner not far. They’ve got a phone."

"Not far?" I blinked. "Since when is there anything 'not far' out here?"

"Yeah, west of the red cliff."

"And why the hell didn’t you mention this sooner?!" I snapped.

"You never asked," Oscar shrugged.

I was ready to strangle the kid with my bare hands, but then I reminded myself that his grandpa could return any minute—and probably wouldn’t applaud me for throttling his grandson.

Then again, maybe that’s exactly why the old man left…

"Alright, kid," I exhaled, forcing myself to stay calm. "Consider this me asking. Take me there so I can make the damn call."

"Whatever you say."

We left the cabin and circled around to the back, where a narrow path wound through dry thickets.

"How far is it?" I asked, ducking under branches that seemed determined to gouge my eyes out.

"Not too bad. Twenty-five minutes, maybe," Oscar estimated.

"Twenty-five minutes? Yeah, right next door…" I muttered sarcastically.

"What did you expect?" The kid hopped nimbly over a rocky outcrop—which I promptly tripped over. "If I were alone, I’d just grab my bike and be there in no time. But I’m stuck babysitting you, and you’re not exactly the best company."

"Oh really?" I laughed.

Bickering and trading barbs, we barely noticed the time passing until the roadside diner came into view.

"Classy joint," I drawled, eyeing the peeling yellowish walls that hadn’t seen a paint job in decades.

"Stop whining," Oscar clicked his tongue and marched inside.

The interior, surprisingly, was far cozier than the exterior suggested. Red leatherette sofas and checkered tabletops gave the place a retro charm, while the smell of fast food and freshly brewed coffee made my stomach growl on cue.Vintage posters and neon signs added to the diner’s lived-in warmth.

"Care to check out the menu, or do you know what you’d like already?"

A young waitress in a snapback cap leaned over slightly, her freckled face breaking into a grin as she adjusted her pale-yellow apron—emblazoned with a white chicken silhouette—and gave us an expectant look.

"Scrambled eggs with bacon and orange juice!" Oscar chirped, hopping onto a tall stool at the counter like it was nothing.

"And for you, sir?" The waitress turned to me while I gaped at the digital menu screen overhead like a deer in headlights.

How the hell does a place this remote have a digital menu?

"Uh… fries, a chicken burger, and coffee. Black. No sugar," I finally managed.

"Who's paying?" Oscar asked as I slumped onto the stool beside him, marveling at how effortlessly he’d scaled the height.

"I’ve got it," I muttered. "Just give me a minute."

"A minute for what?"

"A minute to figure out what the hell’s even going on here," I said, dunking a fry into ketchup so deep it emerged half-drowned in nuclear-red sauce.