Chapter Text
( prologue ! )
"Sometimes it feels like this whole place is holding its breath, waiting for something that's never coming."
A chill clings to the edges of the street, stirring loose papers across the uneven cobblestones. Althea tugs her coat tighter around herself, the worn fabric barely cutting the sharpness in the air. Above her, crooked lamplights flicker half-heartedly, throwing weak halos onto the cracked sidewalks.
It's evening, but the sun had slipped away hours ago, leaving everything soaked in a dim, misty gray. The city always looks older like this, as if it is trying to fold in on itself—bricks sagging, iron fences rusted and leaning, great windows boarded shut or grimy with dust no one bothered to wipe away.
A group of children crosses the street ahead of her, laughing too loudly for how empty the road is, their school uniforms muddy at the hems. A nanny in a smart gray dress snaps at them to keep up. None of them notice the half-collapsed archway they hurry beneath, the stone carved with things no one bothers to translate anymore—sigils of griffins and strange beasts, worn smooth by rain and time.
Althea slows her steps without thinking, letting her fingers drift over the crumbling wall as she passes. It's rough and cold against her skin. In another life, someone would have prayed here, made wishes, or left offerings to things with names people don't say anymore. Now, it's just another forgotten corner. Another piece of a world that no longer believes in itself.
'Like a storybook missing half its pages,' she thinks, tracing a faded spiral with the edge of her thumb.
Somewhere farther down the street, a train bell chimes, low and distant. A soft reminder of schedules, of grown-up things like bills and social contracts, and polite smiles at dinner tables. In this world, magic isn't something you trust—it's something you hide away in museums under glass next to ancient coins and broken spears.
She huffs a breath into the cold, watching it fog the air. Althea isn't supposed to care about any of it. She's supposed to move on, like everyone else. Be respectable, be smart, and build a life on things you can hold in your hands. Not on stories and ruins and forgotten gods. But she cares anyway. Half the time, she thinks that's her biggest flaw.
The little café she likes—Merriman's—glows ahead, its windows steamed up and welcoming. Golden light spills onto the sidewalk, stretching long and thin. She ducks inside, the bell overhead jingling as the door swings shut behind her.
Warmth envelops her instantly. The place smells like coffee and sugar, familiar and safe. A low murmur of conversation rolls around the room, cut only by the soft clatter of mugs against saucers and the occasional scrape of a chair across the old wooden floor.
Althea unwinds her scarf and moves to the counter, brushing rain from her sleeves. Her favorite barista, Jonah—with his unruly hair and sleeves rolled up past his elbows—offers her a tired grin.
"You're late today," he says, sliding a mug across to her without needing to ask for her order.
She wraps her hands around it, grateful for the heat. "Had errands. Got distracted."
Jonah smirks, wiping his hands on a rag. "Let me guess. Some crumbling alley with creepy statues?"
Althea lifts a shoulder, sheepish. "Something like that."
"You're gonna fall through the sidewalk one of these days and disappear into a secret world," he says, leaning an elbow on the counter. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
'Wouldn't be the worst way to go,' she thinks, sipping her drink.
Instead of saying it out loud, she just smiles faintly and moves toward her usual seat by the window. The chair creaks under her as she settles, pulling a battered notebook from her bag. The cover is scuffed from being carried everywhere, the pages stuffed with loose sketches, half-finished poems, and bits of old folktales she collects like other people collect coins.
Outside, the city moves slowly, like something dreaming underwater. A boy pedals past on a rusted bicycle, scarf streaming behind him. Across the street, a pair of old men argue over a game of chess set up on an overturned barrel.
Althea flips to a blank page and taps her pen against it, thinking.
She's always been drawn to the parts of the world people try to forget—the parts that don't fit neatly into books or polite conversation. Places where the air feels heavier, like it's holding memories too stubborn to fade. She's not sure why. Maybe it's because she feels a little like that herself sometimes, as if she's carrying pieces of something no one else remembers.
The words don't come easily tonight. They rarely do when her mind's restless like this. Her thoughts keep drifting, slipping away like smoke before she can catch them.
"You look like you're about to write the next great tragedy," Jonah says when he swings by her table to wipe it down. His voice is light, but his eyes are kind.
She snorts softly, twirling her pen between her fingers. "More like a shopping list for regrets."
He laughs under his breath and moves along, leaving her alone with the low hum of the café and the scratch of her pen across paper.
'Focus,' she tells herself. 'Just.. start somewhere.'
She writes: The city was forgetting its own magic. Simple and true. Maybe a little too true.
Outside, the mist thickens, blurring the edges of the streetlights until they look like floating orbs in the dark. The world feels quieter now, like it's listening and waiting.
A strange ache settles under her ribs, a yearning she doesn't have a name for. Not quite loneliness or hope. Just something.
Althea taps the end of her pen against her notebook, staring out the window.
Somewhere deep inside, buried under layers of caution and routine, she still believes there's more to the world than what everyone else sees. She has to believe it. Otherwise, all the old stories would've died for nothing.
Her gaze drifts upward, toward the heavy clouds hanging low over the city. For a moment, she imagines something stirring up there—some ancient thing waking up after a long, long sleep. The thought sends a ripple of something down her spine.
She pulls her coat tighter around herself and looks back at her notebook. The page is still mostly blank, but she's used to that. Every story has to start somewhere, even the forgotten ones.
The bell above the café door jingles again, a little sharper this time, and a blur of bright skirts and dark curls sweeps inside.
"Finally found you," the girl announces, breathless and triumphant, weaving her way between tables.
Althea looks up from her notebook, a faint smile already tugging at her mouth. Mae Thatcher—impossibly vibrant, somehow always a little too loud for the city's sleepy gloom—drops into the seat across from her with a dramatic huff, setting a neatly wrapped package on the table between them.
"You weren't answering your messages. I was about two minutes from filing a missing person's report," Mae says, peeling off her gloves with theatrical annoyance. "You know this place has, like, no signal, right?"
Althea flips her pen closed and leans back, hiding her amusement behind the rim of her mug. "Maybe that's why I like it."
Mae rolls her eyes. "Of course it is. You and your doomed romanticism," she slides the package closer. "Anyway. Happy late birthday, you hermit."
The paper is crinkled at the corners like she's been carrying it around too long. Gold twine holds it together, a crooked bow slipping loose as Althea pulls it apart. Inside, nestled in tissue paper gone slightly translucent from the cold, is a music box.
For a moment, the rest of the café falls away.
It's beautiful. Not in a polished, pristine way, but in the way old paintings are beautiful. Worn but alive. The wood casing is dark and warm-toned, carved with ivy and curling vines that frame a tiny, delicate figure in the center: a princess in a flowing gown, head tilted slightly as if caught mid-dream. Her paint is faded, the pinks and blues washed soft with time, but the craftsmanship is undeniable. There's a weight to it, a gravity that makes Althea's chest ache a little, even before she winds the key.
"You have to hear it," Mae urges, bouncing in her seat. "It plays 'Once Upon a Dream.' You know, the haunting version. Thought it was fitting, since you're basically the last living person who reads fairy tales."
Althea traces a finger along the edge of the box, feeling the tiny nicks and grooves worn by decades of hands before hers. Something about it feels familiar, or maybe just right.
Carefully, she turns the key. The mechanism clicks faintly, and after a beat, soft and dreamy music lilts from the box.
"I know you, I walked with you—" crrrk "—know the gleam in your eyes is so—"
Skip—stutter—whir "—sweet—no—no—gleam in your—eyes" click "gleam in your eyes—"
The melody falters again, wobbling like a candle in the wind before struggling back to life, slower and almost mournful now.
"I know it's true that visions are" snap "sel" silted static "of all" whirring grind "dreams—"
The notes collapse into a shivering mechanical sigh before the music sputters out entirely, the box falling still in Althea's hands.
Mae's face crumples. "Wait—what? No, no, it wasn't doing that when I bought it!" she leans forward, poking at the box like she can physically shame it into working properly. "It played perfectly. Like, perfectly. I tested it three times."
Althea gently places it back on the table, thumb stroking along the vines carved into the lid. Even broken, it's still the most beautiful thing she's ever been given.
"It's okay," she says quickly, before Mae can start apologizing more. "I love it."
"But it's busted!" Mae protests, her mouth twisting into something between a pout and genuine distress. "I can find something else. I should've gotten you that poetry collection you wanted or—or a new sketchbook, or—"
Althea shakes her head, smiling small and real. "No, really. I like it," she nudges the box so it faces her fully, admiring the way the light catches on the tiny figure's hair. "It's.. kind of perfect, actually. Even if it doesn't work right."
Across from her, Mae slumps dramatically against the booth cushion, still sulking a little but visibly relieved.
"You're too nice to me," she mutters, tucking her gloves into her coat pocket. "Most people would've thrown it at my head."
Althea laughs under her breath, the sound barely audible over the low murmur of the café. "Don't tempt me," she says, lifting her mug in a half-salute before taking a sip.
The music box gleams on the table between them, its surface worn by years but still rich with color under the café lights. Althea lets her gaze linger on it, heart tugging toward something she can't name—a feeling almost too fragile to examine closely.
Maybe it's silly. Maybe it's just sentimentality. But part of her wonders if things like this, things that survive long after they're broken, might still be carrying pieces of old magic. The kind no one believes in anymore. The kind that doesn't need to be perfect to still be powerful.
Mae's voice cuts through her thoughts, light and teasing again.
"You're gonna stare it into coming back to life, huh?"