When I heard the word, it rang in my head like a bell; it was a terrible bell, a funeral bell. The only thing that Arjun did was stand there and gaze at me with those eyes that were worn and knowing, as if he had already seen my conclusion.
"Next, what exactly do you mean?" The sound of my voice was delicate, like that of a child.
"You're connected now," he continued slowly, as if each syllable bore weight. "To her. To her... undertaking. Something was set up by her. An inquiry is being made. Some folks don't like queries. They enjoy the world calm. Sleeping."
What is it? An inquiry? This did not sound like a dead female on a bridge; rather, it sounded like spy things.
When I inquired, "Who?" "Who doesn't like it?"
He shrugged, the loose thread on his sleeve twirling. "The custodians. The ones that keep the dream neat. They observed her looking too close. They observed you looking with her."
"I wasn't looking with her. I just… chatted to her once."
"It's enough. A glance is enough for them." He glanced over his shoulder, quick and frightened. "They took the marker. The blue. They tidy up. They erase."
Custodian. A fancy phrase meaning janitor, someone who cleans messes. Was Krivya a mess? Was I a mess?
"Are you one of them?" The question rushed out before I could stop it.
He laughed, a dry, crackly sound like leaves. "No. I'm the opposite. I'm the one who trips over the debris and gets blamed." He stared toward the water. "My son was a mess they had to clean up. They performed a horrible job. Left fragments behind. Pieces like me."
It was too much. My skull was pounding. "Who are they? Give me a name. Something real."
"No names," he said. "They're not a club. They're a propensity. A pull in the world toward sleep, toward forgetting. You can feel it, can't you? The pull to stop asking. To go to school, eat dinner, watch TV, forget the bridge, forget her face. It would be easier."
He was right. The draw was powerful, like a warm, numb blanket I wanted to drag over my head.
"Why fight it, then?" I whispered.
"Because once you've seen the crack, the blanket itches." He turned to go. "Be careful, Eryx. Your memories are gone. That's not an accident. That's a cleanup job. They're decent, but not ideal. You might remember. And if you do… they'll come for the rest."
He went away down the muddy bank, his shoes growing dirty, and didn't glance back.
I stayed there, surrounded by joyous kite-flying kids and dazzling sun that suddenly felt artificial, like painted scenery. A cleanup job—on my mind.
I walked home in a daze. Cars honked; I didn't hear them. My thoughts were a storm. When I approached my block, I observed the alley light flickering even though it was day, the bulb still struggling to emit a feeble orange.
I stopped near the trash bins. Big green plastic ones, smelled like rot. My heart hammered as I raised a lid, jerking back when flies burst out. Nothing but rubbish. Then I looked down. The pavement was discolored with grease and filth, and along the wall the earth was scratched, like someone had dug their heel in.
I knelt and looked closer. Something little and sparkling was stuck in a crack. A button—black, with a little silver anchor on it. From a jacket, maybe a shirt. I put it in my pocket, and it felt hot, like evidence.
At home, Mom was asleep on the sofa, an empty teacup on the floor. She looked little, worry-lines etched even in slumber. I walked to my room, closed the door, placed the button on my desk, and stared at it.
An anchor. To hold anything down. To stop it drifting.
Was it from the watcher? From Arjun? From a custodian?
I opened my notebook and wrote everything down. The words seemed wild, like a madman's diary, and for a moment I wondered if that was all this was madness, a chemical ailment pharmaceutical might heal. But it didn't feel like craziness. It felt like waking up in a darker room than I expected.
When my phone buzzed, my stomach fell. An unknown number. A real one.
"Stay away from the river man. He is not a friend."
They were watching. They knew.
I typed back, my fingers stiff. "Who is this?"
"A friend."
"Prove it."
"You have a button in your pocket. Put it back where you found it. It's not yours."
Ice invaded my veins. I went to the window, surveyed the adjacent building—curtains, dark glass, one open window, no one visible.
"What do you want?"
"For you to be safe. Go to school. Forget. It's easier."
The same phrases Arjun used, twisted.
"Did you kill Krivya?"
The pause lengthened. Then the reply came.
"We protect the dream. She was attempting to rouse everyone awake. That is a hazardous compassion. You can't wake a sleepwalker. They fall."
"So you killed her."
"We guided her. Smoothed the way. Made it painless. She's at ease now. You can be too. Just quit digging."
Guided her. Smoothed it. Like easing someone into death.
My phone slid from my grasp and smashed when it hit the floor. This was too large, too incorrect. I hid the button in a mint tin under my socks and tried to remember that night, truly remember—iron rail, flaky paint, river fragrance, Krivya's back, her white hair flowing.
A sensation surfaced. Cold metal. Smooth. Cylindrical.
A syringe.
I woke drenched in perspiration, my hand empty but the recollection thick, and the worst thing wasn't fear—it was the quiet. The curiosity. Like clutching a pencil before a test.
The next day, the world felt too loud, too bright. I saw custodians everywhere, or maybe I was just paranoid. At the police station, Rowan listened, presented a neat story, a simple ending. Suicide. Trauma. Closure.
It made sense.
And I didn't believe it.
Because I could still feel the chilly cylinder in my hand.
By the time I left, I understood something clearly: the fight wasn't to find who killed Krivya. The challenge was to remember what I did on that bridge, and to survive a world that strongly wanted me to forget.