Page 76 of Aïdes the Unseen
The city moved around us: taxis muttering at intersections, pedestrians whispering down crosswalks, distant sirens howling between the buildings. All of it a blur I filtered out. My focus was narrow. Trained. Irina.
Her shoulders stayed high for a few blocks. Guarded. But not brittle. Not fragile. She was gathering herself with each step. Letting the motion wear down the jagged edges inside.
I didn’t fill the silence. I didn’t need to. Presence was sometimes louder than words. And right now, what she needed wasn’t explanation or comfort.
She needed toexistwithout being hunted. So, we walked. As we moved, I made sure no one came close enough to threaten the space she was finally learning how to reclaim.
By the second block, Irina began to speak.
Nottome, exactly, noratme, but into the world beside her, casting thoughts into the air like seeds. Her tone was half-wonder, half-casual… The kind of voice people used when talking to themselves but hoping someone else might be listening.
“That bakery on the corner?” she said, gesturing with a slight nod. “The one with the blue awning? They used to give outbroken biscotti pieces to kids on Sundays. Probably still do. I haven’t checked in a while.”
I said nothing, just listened.
“There’s a gingko tree behind that traffic light,” she went on, more softly. “It was planted after the blackout in 2003. The owner said it was to remind the street that even in the dark, some things endure. People don’t notice it, but it drops the most perfect gold leaves in October.”
She glanced at me briefly, then looked ahead again.
“You probably don’t care about that.”
“I do,” I said.
She blinked, surprised. But something in her expression eased.
A few steps later, she continued. “Did you know that parts of Central Park were built on land that used to belong to a free black community? Seneca Village. It was razed to build the park. Not many people know that. But the trees remember. You can feel it in the way the wind changes near the west edge.”
I looked at her sidelong, the way you might look at a star just past the horizon line, afraid it’ll disappear if you stare directly.
“You talk about the land like it’s alive,” I murmured.
She shrugged, then smiled crookedly. “Maybe it is. Plantslisten, you know. Even if most people don’t. And the city… it breathes. Bleeds. Remembers. You just have to know how to hear it.”
I knew. By everything unholy in the universe, Iknew.
The magic wasn’t in the spectacle. It never had been. It was in thedetails. The bark fissure that formed like a smile after seventy seasons. The lichen that changed color a week before a cold snap. The way roots curved away from grief buried beneath the soil.
She understood it all instinctively, yet she had no idea how rare that was.
As we neared the park, her words faltered. She laughed, at once both soft and embarrassed, like she’d just realized how much she’d said. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I ramble when I’m—when I don’t know what else to do.”
I stopped walking.
“Irina,” I said, catching her gaze. “I could listen to you forever.”
The moment snapped still, golden and suspended between us.
She froze. Her lips parted slightly, eyes caught on mine like a tether had drawn taut between us—undeniable, trembling. The kind of connection that lived in the blood, beneath memory. The kind that crossed lifetimes.
I wanted to touch her. To see if her pulse matched mine. But before I could?—
Thump.
A sharp shoulder brushed mine, forceful and deliberate enough to throw me off balance for half a step. I caught myself before I could stagger. My head snapped toward the source.
Jogger. Blonde. Tall. Her stride slowed just enough to meet my eyes. Her ponytail bounced like any other early-morning runner. But her eyes—those sharp, silver-greenpredator’s eyes—held me in place with the precision of a blade.
Artemis.
