The storm had not let up. It had been days since the rain first began to feel like something more than just a passing inconvenience. Now, it was an ever-present force, soaking into Elia's skin, into her thoughts. She had always been drawn to the rain—its rhythm, its promise of something old and ancient—but now, the water felt like a reminder. A constant, living reminder of the power she carried and the danger that followed.
After leaving the Flooded Library, Elia had spent the rest of the day in silence, mulling over the visions she'd seen—the fleeting image of her mother's face, her mother's voice, the strange pulse of the umbrella as if it were alive. The umbrella. It felt like a weight she couldn't escape, no matter how much she tried to ignore it.
And then, there was the warning Vito had given her—the memory could consume her if she wasn't careful. She had already begun to feel the pull, the quiet tug at her mind, every time the rain fell.
Now, as the evening shadows stretched across the city, Elia made her way to the Waking Market, the place where those who trafficked in memories and forgotten things gathered in secret. The Waking Market was an underground bazaar, hidden beneath layers of city streets, where traders, weavers, and forgers of memories came to deal. It was a place that thrived in the liminal spaces—where the line between the past and the present blurred into something else entirely.
Vito had warned her about the Waking Market. It was dangerous for someone like her, someone connected to the memories of the city. But Elia knew she had to go. She had to understand what was happening to her, and she had to learn more about the Guild. The Waking Market was the only place where people still spoke of the Memory Weavers, the ones who had fought against the Guild, and there might be someone who could help her—someone who knew how to fight back.
She arrived at the entrance, a narrow alleyway tucked beneath an old neon sign that flickered weakly, casting strange shadows on the ground. The air smelled of incense and wet stone, thick with the mingling scents of rain and something metallic. Elia hesitated for a moment, her fingers tightening around the glass umbrella, but then she stepped forward.
The Waking Market was alive with movement.
The first thing she noticed was the noise. Voices, a mix of languages, of laughter and low conversations, rising above the hum of the rain. Stalls lined the walls, each one laden with strange trinkets and objects that made Elia's skin crawl—the bottles of mist that held memories, mirrors that reflected people who weren't there, books whose pages turned without being touched.
There were people here, too—figures huddled in shadow, their faces hidden beneath hoods, their eyes glowing faintly with the light of memories they had traded or stolen. They moved with purpose, but there was a tension in the air, a palpable sense of something unseen, watching from the corners.
Elia moved through the crowd, her senses alive with every step. The rain beat down harder outside, but inside the market, it felt like a different world entirely—a place where the rain's power didn't reach.
She stopped at a stall that seemed to shimmer in the dim light. The merchant, an older man with silver eyes, looked up from the ancient scrolls he was unrolling. There was something otherworldly about him, as though he had lived in the city long before it had even begun to remember itself.
"Ah," the man said with a low, raspy voice. "Another seeker. You've come for answers, haven't you?"
Elia didn't answer immediately. She wasn't sure if he knew who she was or if he was just one of the many people who wandered the market looking for something. But the man's piercing gaze felt too knowing, too calculated.
"How did you know?" she asked, her voice tight.
The merchant smiled, revealing sharp teeth. "The Waking Market doesn't let anyone pass unnoticed. The rain speaks, child. It speaks to those who listen. And you have been listening for far too long."
Elia's grip tightened on the umbrella. The rain. It had always spoken to her, but now she wondered—was it leading her to this place?
"I need to know more," Elia said. "About the Guild. About the Memory Weavers. And the umbrella."
The merchant's eyes flickered with interest. He leaned forward, his voice dropping lower. "Ah, the umbrella. That is a dangerous thing to speak of so freely in these parts, girl. It's been a long time since anyone came searching for the old ways. The Guild has nearly erased all memory of it, but they fear what the Weavers could do."
"Who are they?" Elia pressed.
The merchant hesitated, then nodded to a nearby mirror, its surface clouded with mist. "They were the keepers of the city's true history. The ones who could preserve memories, untainted, unsullied by time or desire. They were the rainmakers, the ones who balanced the flow of the city's memories. But their power was too great. Too dangerous."
He leaned back, his voice lowering even further. "The Guild was formed to stop them. They wanted to control what people remembered, to twist the past into something more useful, more malleable. So, the Weavers were hunted, one by one. Erased. Forgotten."
Elia's mind raced. She felt the weight of his words settle into her chest. Her mother had been one of them. And now, she was somehow connected to this fight.
The merchant's silver eyes glinted in the dim light. "You are a Weaver, aren't you? Just like your mother. The umbrella you carry, it is more than just an object—it's a link. A key to the past, yes. But also to your memories, your identity. The Guild will stop at nothing to take it from you."
"Then how do I stop them?" Elia demanded.
The merchant's smile was tinged with something dark. "You must go where the memories are most concentrated. The Heart of the City. There, you will find what you seek, but you will also find the price of power. The Guild cannot be defeated through force alone. You must learn to wield the umbrella in ways they never expected."
Elia felt a chill run through her as the words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. She wasn't just fighting for the city's memories. She was fighting for her own, for the past that was slipping through her fingers.
The merchant's gaze softened. "Be careful, child. The rain will guide you—but it will also drown you if you are not prepared."
Elia nodded, but she knew one thing for certain—she couldn't turn back now. The Guild was hunting her. And she had only just begun to understand what was at stake.