“Riiise and shine! Let’s start the day off with a ba—”

  A swift swipe hushes the arm on her phone. “Hnhh… Sorry, you’re cute but the Monday song you choose? It’s awful.” The girl csps her hands together, an innocent apology to the device, her voice tinged with sleepy regret. “No hard feelings, okay?” Cracking one eye open, she watches the little AI assistant on the screen wave goodbye as it powers down. A silly and irrational fear forms within her thoughts, what if it holds a grudge?

  When the screen stays bnk —silent and unresponsive, just as it should be— she lets out a small sigh of relief, her shoulders sagging. “Good… I don’t need you plotting against me too.” A smile tugs her lips, faint and bittersweet, but with a smudge of something darker beneath it.

  “Start of the week again… I should get groceries,” she mutters absentmindedly, it has become a normal routine. New week? Shopping time. Technically the girl could buy a month’s worth of food, instead of going back and forth to the supermarket every week. Especially since the nearest supermarket is at least fifteen kilometers away.

  But she doesn’t mind the walk. If anything, she looks forward to it. The steady rhythm of her footsteps and the crisp air help unravel the knots of worry and anxiety that have coiled tight over the week. It’s her moment of peace. It’s pleasant to sightsee along the walk too, as the ruined city —now renamed to be the City of Hell— is being rebuilt, slowly but surely. Each trip offers something new, something to stop and admire, a new skyscraper, a new park or even something as simple as a solitary tree standing tall amidst the rubble.

  It’s comforting, in its own way. Though today, there’s this odd sense of something heavy weighing her down, making it difficult to even get up from bed. Maybe today’s the time she breaks the cycle, just this week. Besides, yesterday she cooked a bit too much for her to handle, so there’s leftovers to nom on for the day.

  “Ugh… should at least make my bed.” She learned that forcing herself to do the small things first creates a snowball effect of sorts, it makes doing things she was dreading to do, tremendously easier. Perhaps she’ll find her resolve after this one act.

  As she stands, she makes her way to the window. Sunlight is her motivator, an unspoken pact she has with herself. If the sun’s out, so is she. The warm rays offer an unexpinable boost, a little spark of energy she desperately needs.

  But as she approaches, her ears catch a faint, rhythmic tapping against the gss —soft, muffled, and oddly rapid. Could it be Greg, the local mischievous demon? No, even he wouldn’t tap that fast.

  With a sigh, she closes her eyes and pulls back the curtains, then opens the window. Instantly, a barrage of water bullets pelts her skin and face —cold, relentless, and thoroughly uninvited.

  “It’s raining… fuuuck…” she groans, smming the window shut. The relentless drumming continues as she wipes her face, grumbling a few curses under her breath.

  Today really isn’t her day.

  “Guess I’m not going anywhere.” She drags her feet, they scrape against the tile like chains anchoring her down. With a defeated sigh, she buries her face in the pillow, muffling another groan. “Ughhhh…”

  The day has barely begun, yet her energy is already spent. She reaches for her phone, unlocks it with a few familiar taps, and starts scrolling through her feed. It’s shaping up to be one of those days— just endless, mindless scrolling.

  How much time has passed now? Uh, right, when you’re so engrossed in a three hour video essay of your favorite video game, it doesn’t really matter does it? She’s halfway through the essay, a finger twirling in the hair, a bnket swallowing up her body as she’s completely entranced by the video.

  It is an interesting topic, theory, it implies that the main character is stuck on a loop, and with thousands of different timelines that all converge to the same ending. Of course, she’s crafted her own interpretation of the ambiguous finale the game offers. Just as the essay begins to wrap up—

  “Hey heyy!”

  A small AI girl chirps up, waving cheerfully from the side of her phone. The digital figure quickly moves to completely block the video, ensuring all attention shifts to her. “Reminder, the to-do list for twelve p.m. is… do magi—”

  Click, and her phone turns off. She heaves out an exhausted sigh, her energy nonexistent, seemingly spent by doing nothing but zing around, yet she knows the research must continue. Ah right, if the AI hadn’t hold a grudge for being cutoff the first time, it would definitely hold one now.

  But this time, she offers no apology —either too exhausted or simply indifferent. Her mind is preoccupied with her research, the elusive answer hovering just out of reach. All she needs is a little nudge to get her started.

  Okay, time to motivate herself, to steel her determination. With a swift sp to her cheeks and a few flexes of her arms, she shouts, “You can do this!” before leaping out of bed and sprinting to the door.

  Leaving her cerulean hair unkempt, she moves through the hallway with a lightness that defies the weight of her past. Her hair sways with each step, strands catching the dim light of the house as she descends the stairs. Though she slows slightly, careful with her footing, there is no hesitation—only momentum, only forward.

  Despite everything, her lips curl into an easy, unwavering smile, the kind that could melt away even the heaviest burdens. It isn’t forced, nor is it hollow. It’s simply there, as if daring the world to try and take it away.

  Her old house was rigged with explosives, a cruel trap meant to rat out her and her family from hiding. As a twisted form of repentance, after realizing their “mistake,” they built her a new two-story house. It only took six months for her to find her footing again —to push forward, to live again— even after witnessing the brutal murder of her parents right before her eyes.

  A generous monthly allowance was given to her, enough to feed a family. A kindness, some would say. A cruel joke, others would argue. Because with each deposit, a reminder followed—this is what remains of them. But she doesn’t dwell on it. Money is money, and she’s grateful.

  Grabbing a few books from the couch —ones she had conveniently stashed there— she makes her way to the basement, her mind set on uncovering the answer she’s been chasing for three years.

  Alright, time to—

  Ding!

  “…What?”

  The doorbell cuts through her thoughts like a bde, her body jerking forward from the sheer abruptness of the moment. Who would visit her in this weather? No —who would visit her, period?

  Even after the so-called apology, the people had not forgiven her existence. No one lived within a ten-kilometer radius of her home. People still whispered of witchcraft, their superstitions outweighing logic. When she walked through the city, they averted their gazes —some hurried inside, some spat at the ground, others simply shivered.

  But now, someone was at her door.

  Had they come to finish what they started? To right the “wrong” of letting her survive? But she hadn’t wronged anyone. She hadn’t spoken to anyone in three years. So what could they possibly want?

  Ding!

  The second chime rattles through her ribs, snapping her back to reality.

  “Coming!” she calls out, her voice cracking under the unfamiliar weight of fear.

  She sets the books down, inhales deeply, and steels herself before swinging the door open.

  What greets her is not what she expects.

  Two girls stand on her doorstep, one holding up a picture she recognizes all too well. But she barely registers the photograph. Her focus shifts to them.

  The first girl is wrapped in a coat that looks ripped from a medieval painting, utterly out of pce in this era. The right sleeve hangs empty, fpping uselessly in the wind. A one-armed traveler. But it’s her hair —ashen white, almost silver— that catches the light, accentuating her porcein-like skin. And then there are her eyes, glowing warm orange, like dying embers in a dark room. Something about them makes her feel… odd. A warmth she can’t pce.

  Then, she turns her attention to the second girl.

  Taller, by at least a foot, her presence is imposing. A battered raincoat barely fits over her broad frame, and something is growing out of her back —something not quite human. Her short bck hair barely reaches her sharp, piercing blue eyes. Unlike the first girl, her gaze isn’t warm —it studies her, assesses her, like a predator watching its prey. It isn’t hostility, but it isn’t kindness either.

  Something in her gut tells her this meeting is about to change everything.

  Zenovia