Rain always has a way of stripping a city down to its bones, making it honest for a few hours.
At least, that was Ira's theory. It was a leftover thought from her childhood, back when her father would sit with her on their cramped balcony, sharing a bowl of spicy, cold leftovers usually the instant noodles from the night before that Ira loved for some reason. He used to tell her that rain washed away the fake smiles people wore. Now, as she stood beneath the sheltering lip of the bus stop roof, the air smelling of rust and wet concrete, she realized he was right. People talked differently in the rain. They made promises as if the world was actually listening.
Ira shifted her weight, her thumb idly flicking across a dead phone screen. Her umbrella hung from her wrist, forgotten. She wasn't reading. She was hunting.
A few paces away, a man leaned into his phone, his brow furrowed in a low-stakes argument. "I told you, I'll send it tomorrow," he muttered, his impatience sharp. "Why is there zero trust? I promise."
The moment the word left his lips, Ira felt that familiar, visceral tug. Before she even saw it, the air thinned, and then the thread manifested a gossamer strand of pale blue, stretching from his mouth into the humid night. It flickered like a dying neon sign.
She held her breath. The call ended with a sharp click, and the man turned to his friend with a dismissive roll of his eyes. "She worries too much," he scoffed.
The thread didn't just tremble; it buckled.
Ira's stomach did a slow roll. The center of the blue strand frayed like rotten silk before snapping clean in half. The fragments began to drift, lazy and ethereal, toward the wet pavement.
Her heart hammered. Adrenaline surged through her as she stepped out from the cover. A motorbike roared past, sending a spray of oily gutter water toward her boots. She stumbled, nearly losing her footing on the slick tile, but her eyes stayed locked on the glow.
Focus.
She reached out. The fragments hovered just inches from her fingers, radiating a chill that felt colder than the rain. As her skin brushed them, a sharp, stinging bite raced through her palm. She flinched, teeth gritting. It never got easier. Even after months of doing this, the sting of a broken vow felt like an open needle.
No one looked. To the commuters around her, she was just another girl in a damp coat reaching for thin air. In her haste, a jagged edge of the fragment scraped her finger. "Great," she hissed, wiping the bead of blood onto her jeans. She abandoned the bus, choosing to walk the few blocks home despite her legs feeling like lead a heavy, hollow side effect of the harvest.
Her apartment building looked particularly bleak tonight. The stairs groaned under her weight, and the loose railing wobbled. Inside, she fumbled with the locks, clicking them twice before dropping her bag. The silence of the room was heavy. She glanced at the kitchen counter, where a half-eaten bowl of cold, spicy noodles sat her comfort food, though she didn't have the appetite for it now.
"Get a grip, Ira." She pressed her cold palms against her eyes, forcing her ragged breathing to slow down.
She retrieved the jar from beneath the bed. It was a heavy, scratched thing, but as the lid came off, the room filled with a soft, bioluminescent glow. Dozens of blue sparks swirled inside like trapped lightning bugs. As she opened her hand, the new fragments spiraled in, merging with the hum.
Then, her eyes drifted to the desk.
The red one was there, pulsing. Her chest tightened. That one was a mistake. She had been in the park earlier, watching a boy give a girl a promise he clearly never intended to keep. "You know I care about you," he'd said. The red thread was thick, vibrant, and so hot Ira could feel the heat of his deception from across the path.
When it snapped, the girl's face hadn't turned angry it had gone hollow. It reminded Ira of the day her father left, that same empty expression she'd seen in the mirror for years. She hadn't wanted to touch that memory, but the fragment had followed her anyway.
Red promises are different. They have weight. They fight back.
She picked it up, her fingers trembling. Suddenly, her phone buzzed on the wood. The jolt made her lose her grip; the red fragment tumbled, rolling into the shadows under her chair.
"No, no, no..."
She scrambled onto her knees, bruising her shoulder as she reached into the dark. Her phone buzzed again. And again. By the time she caught the fragment which now felt like a hot coal she finally looked at the screen.
Unknown Number: How many have you collected?
The air left her lungs.
Unknown Number: The red ones aren't safe to keep.
How could anyone know? She stood up abruptly, clutching the jar to her chest like she used to clutch her old teddy bear during thunderstorms.
Unknown Number: You shouldn't be doing this alone. We've been watching you, Ira.
The apartment suddenly felt far too small. The jar began to flicker violently, the blue lights inside flashing in a panicked strobe.
Unknown Number: Broken promises are not meant to be stored. They belong to us.
Us. Before she could move, a knock sounded. Firm. Rhythmic.
Ira froze. Her throat felt as though it had been lined with sand. "Who is it?"she called out, her voice a ghost of itself.
No answer. Instead, a pale gray vapor began to seep through the crack beneath the door. It wasn't smoke it was threads. Sickly, colorless strands slithering toward her desk.
Panic broke her. She backed away, hitting the wall hard.
Her phone vibrated one last time.
Unknown Number: Open the door. Let's talk properly.
The door handle began to turn slowly, deliberately despite the deadbolt. From the hallway, a voice drifted in. "You've collected more than most beginners."
In a moment of pure, unthinking desperation, Ira closed her fist and crushed the red fragment.
The heat exploded up her arm, searing through her chest. The jar on the table shattered as blue and red light collided in a violent storm. The gray threads recoiled as if dipped in acid.
"What did you just do?" the voice outside snapped, losing its calm.
"I don't know!" Ira screamed.
The room tilted. Light swallowed everything. When she finally opened her eyes, the apartment was gone. In its place was a corridor of impossible proportions, walls lined with millions of floating threads.
And at the far end, a figure was approaching. Slowly. Patiently.
As if they had all the time in the world.