A thin dawn crept over Washington, D.C. The temperature hovered between 4 °C and 7 °C (39 °F–45 °F) still cold for an early November morning.
Soft mist cloaked the streets near the city library, faint steam rose from sidewalk drains, and streetlights still glowed, reflecting on wet, cracked paving stones.
Garret Widen woke on a wooden bench the same public area near the library where he had fought last night. His old gray suit clung to him, the faded white shirt still untucked. But when he lifted a hand to his face, a hollow space greeted him his long scar, so vivid last night, had vanished.
His heart raced. He squinted at a shop window; his reflection was upright, but the coarse stitching on his cheek was gone.
"I must have dreamed it," he thought. Yet last night had felt too real. The man's corpse he had killed… also gone. The narrow alley now appeared empty, as if nothing had happened.
He stood, body trembling, breath ragged, blood in his hands feeling cold and heavy. The residual effects of the weird sight lingered nausea creeping, vision slightly blurred, the world seeming to shift dimensionally. He drew a long breath, attempting to steady himself.
Hunger drove him to walk, seeking spare change to buy bread. The morning sidewalk was moderately crowded with commuters, mail carriers, and a few sleeping homeless leaning against lamp posts. Garret moved slowly, the wrinkles in his suit more noticeable, loosened buttons sagging, his breath fogging in the cold. His left hand gripped the loose black tie at his neck.
At a street corner, he saw a man drop a bill and some coins about $2.50. The man walked on, unaware. Garret hesitated, then bent to pick it up. His chest tightened: was this theft? Yet he justified it: "I need to eat. Perhaps this is a small fate."
With the money, he bought a warm loaf from a sidewalk vendor around two dollars, the aroma of flour and butter clinging to the morning air. He carried it back to the same wooden bench where he had encountered the mysterious figure last night. Pigeons gathered in the plaza, wings flapping lightly, pecking crumbs that fell.
Garret sat. His hands still shook. He watched the birds: gray pigeons roaming freely, fearless. The shadow of the black crow from last night lingered in his mind. A faint caw echoed in the air? He wasn't certain.
Then someone sat beside him. A man with a different appearance than any he had seen pale skin, slender build, flat black newsboy cap, long brownish-gray wool coat, white shirt, mustard-yellow tie evoking early 20th-century vintage style. Garret stared, wary and curious.
The man nodded slowly. "Good morning, Garret Widen," he said, voice low and calm. "You and I still have much time."
Garret recognized him another form of Michael Mortem, though younger, leaner, identity hidden beneath the disguise.
Garret opened his mouth. "Why… why did you give me this ability? What is this weird sight?"
Before he could finish, Michael extended an object to him a weathered revolver, its cylinder slightly rusted, wooden grip worn.
"This will be useful for you," Michael said. "Use it if you must."
Garret stared, hands shaking, fear, responsibility, and confusion warring inside him. "But… why this?" he asked. Michael only smiled faintly, tipped his cap, and said: "I have other business. Remember thirty days. And then forever." Without hesitation, he stepped to the edge of the plaza, disappearing into the city crowd as if he had never been there.
Garret remained on the bench, bread in his lap beginning to harden in the cold air. He drew a deep breath, white mist escaping his lips. The revolver felt heavy in his cold fingers. Pigeons still pecked at the ground before him.
He glanced at the sliver of sky visible between tall buildings: a fleeting black shadow the crow, swooping northwest.
Garret lowered his gaze, staring at the vanished scar again. "What have I become?" he whispered, nearly inaudible.
Around him, the world moved normally people heading to work, bustling sidewalks, rolling suitcases to the metro, the rumble of buses. But inside him, the world had changed: rules shifted, the line between life and death blurred, and the weapon in his hand was a symbol that he was no longer passive.
He took a bite of bread, the cold butter and flour tasting like the first moment of grounding in a fractured reality. His body trembled not just from cold, but from the awareness that he was now on the threshold of something immense and unavoidable.
The missing corpse, the vanished scar these were not relief, but signs. Signs that not only time was moving, but reality itself was bending.
Garret gripped the revolver tighter, pigeons watching silently. Footsteps approached, then receded. Reflexively, he closed his eyes for ten seconds avoiding a vision that might appear at any moment. No flashback came. Yet he knew: the revolver, Michael's shifting form, the scar's disappearance all part of the thirty-day game.
He rose slowly, bread in hand, revolver in his coat pocket. He walked toward the metro station, counting each heavy step, thinking: life is not over. And then forever.