Page 6 of Where Light Cannot Follow

There's no sleep here. No refuge from the accumulated misery of every person I've failed to guide across. If I cannot help this man find his way, his pain will live on in me—another millstone hung about my neck, dragging me deeper into the weight of countless defeats.

Malrec asked why I persist in this work.

More and more, I wonder myself.

Perhaps it's because without this purpose, hopelessness would consume me entirely. And I have a very long existence stretching ahead of me yet, an eternity measured in failed salvations.

I step across the threshold into his imagined realm. His mind links with mine in a sharp collision sending fractures through both. In centuries of guiding souls, I've grown accustomed to slipping into minds like stepping through gossamer—gentle, barely perceptible. This connection feels more like shattering glass than parting silk. That has never happened before. I stumble, steadying myself against the sudden intrusion of his consciousness.

As I straighten, the man passes directly beside me without the slightest acknowledgment. He is every bit as striking as I'd observed, not a single hair displaced, his skin luminous with health, his athletic form evident even beneath the expensive coat that armors him.

A man who wields his appearance like a weapon, then. Likely perfectionistic. Unforgiving of weakness in himself and others.

I catalog these observations with the practiced eye of centuries. This isn't my first descent into a tortured soul like his. Humans aren't as unique as they believe themselves to be. Perhaps two dozen fundamental wounds cause most mortal suffering.

And yet something about this one—this proud, dark tower of a man—has seized my attention completely.

I turn to absorb his conjured city with clearer sight. The moment our minds connect, the details sharpen into heartbreaking focus, not as I perceive the world, but as he sees it. It's devastatingly quiet, filled only with the decisive motion of his footsteps against cracked pavement. His reflection moves like a specter in gleaming windows that reveal nothing else. The scene is as dark and solitary as an empty funeral procession.

There are no shop signs, no vendors hawking their wares, no other souls walking these streets. Just one man traversing a metropolis as if he owns every stone and steel beam. A city built for an audience of himself alone.

A world where he is both king and only subject.

The loneliness of it strikes me unexpectedly—this magnificent, terrible isolation he's built around himself. There’s nothing for me to do now but attempt to break through his carefully constructed solitude. Given how solid his vision appears, it will likely take hundreds of attempts before I register in his awareness. Fortunately, time is one of the few commodities I possess in infinite supply.

4

DANTE

A wet drop splatters against my cheek, and my eyes fly open. Above me is only darkness, necklaced in fog. I lift a hand instinctively. Another drop follows and hits my knuckles before gliding down and slipping beneath my watch. It’s cold like sleet, but viscous, slower than water should be.

I run my hands over my tailored coat, along my chest. My Breitling watch face has stopped at 8:03. I tap it twice, a habitual gesture now pointless.

A shiver courses down my spine, something deep and primal I can’t quite suppress. Then logic reasserts itself. I find myself intact, dressed, and alone, so I shift my attention to the surrounding world.

Manhattan is dark. It’s as if a mythological creature has arrived, sucking away light and leaving cool blue and navy shadows in its wake. Buildings I should know by name and market value stand as hollow silhouettes, their edges bleeding into the fog. And yet they seem unfamiliar, terrifyingly so. The city is quiet as well. Not another soul scurries along the sidewalks, no lit windows pierce the gloom, no bell ringers call out for donations. The perpetual symphony of horns, voices, and mechanical life—the background score of New York I'd long since learned to tune out—has vanished.

The city has been placed in a box, muffled, lightless. And me with it.

I take a step forward. My shoes should click against the pavement. Italian leather slapping against concrete is a sound I've heard ten thousand times. Instead, there’s nothing. The impact registers through my body, but no sound follows.

I stop, staring down at my feet. Take another deliberate step. Then another. Each one lands in perfect silence, the sound swallowed into nothing.

The absence unsettles me in a way I cannot quantify. I stumble slightly, catching myself with an ungainly half-step that would normally produce a sharp scuff against the sidewalk. Still nothing.

My breath comes faster—an inefficient response I cannot seem to control. This isn’t how sound works. This isn’t how physics operates.

Rules, it seems, have been rescinded without notice.

"I've found that gravity seldom shows mercy."

The stranger’s voice hits me wrong. I recognize it, but I shouldn't. I'm not a man who loses track of details, yet the sequence of events leading here fragments when I try to grasp it. I walked home from the office. There was the elevator issue, then Callahan, I followed him outside and...

The rest scatters. I remember falling, but not how I got back up. I remember headlights, but I'm standing here intact.

This kind of informational gap is unacceptable. I don't operate in uncertainty.

"Ah, I see I've registered for you."