Timepieces

Echoes

One night in summer 2020, I stayed up late watching a nature documentary, and went to sleep thinking about Dian Fossey. Nine hours later, I woke up with Echoes. I don't normally get stories from dreams- they're too unreliable and twisted to produce much of anything- but I managed to extract this story pretty much intact. Good luck; let me know if you manage to figure it out.

There's someone following me.

I have to keep looking behind me to make sure she's there, make sure she's watching everything I'm doing. Make sure she knows what to do.

Whenever I look behind me, she darts out of sight behind a building or a sign or a lightpost. She doesn't fit behind a lightpost. I remind myself not to hide behind lightposts in the future. Then again, I doubt I'd have to hide.

"She" doesn't sound right. I should be thinking about a better pronoun. I realize I have to think carefully. If what I choose ends up catching on, I'll be setting a very important convention.

But I don't have time now to invent a new convention. I decide to use the first thing that comes to mind.

I'm trying, hard, to remember the route. Yesterday morning- or was it this morning?- I went over a map of the city several times, but the memory is no longer fresh, and I have to close my eyes to visualize the map again. At the same time, I'm trying to avoid walking directly into anything that could cause injury, and I'm endlessly confused by thoughts of Her. Naomi.

I tried to enjoy myself, and ended up walking into a paradox.

Abruptly, without realization, I reach the end of the sidewalk. It's the feel of those yellow bumps under my feet that alerts me that I'm approaching the street. I silently thank Sage for forgetting to buy me shoes.

I stare at the looming letters of the name of the street, white on green. There's been a typo, and unlike the other numbered streets, this one has been labeled 9Th, with the large "Th" positioned next to the numeral. It's the kind of mistake that no one cares enough about to fix. As long as the sign still makes sense, troubleshooting the smaller problems is unnecessary. It makes me wonder whether what I'm doing is a mistake.

A pictograph appears on the grid-shaped walking light. A glowing, green figure, walking to the left. At home, the pedestrian walks to the right. The difference is miniscule, but it's still a reminder that I'm away from home, endlessly confused, and out of my element.

I wait. Counting to seven. A truck speeds by, running the red light. Behind me, Naomi lets loose a gasp of relief. I'm relieved too; I remembered. Just the first in a long series of things to remember. I don't want to risk changing what I saw. This is new to me.

Crossing the street feels important. I'm this much closer to my goal. If only I can keep extraneous thoughts from my mind for the next several minutes, everything will become easier to remember.

The clothes that Sage bought me feel safe. They make me look like a much-different person, not someone I would normally recognize. Leggings, a T-shirt, a hoodie, socks. From behind, it's impossible to tell who I am.

I shouldn't be glancing over my shoulder this much; it's risky. I should know that Naomi's going to be there, that She hasn't lost my trail. I should remember. But I don't know if my memory counts.

I gaze up at the apartment building before me, mentally checking the address against every reference in my mind. It fits, every time.

I take one last look, savoring it for some unknown reason, before stepping inside.

I hold the door- for Her.

--

Sage is infinitely patient. Holding the pipet, easing its contents into the solution. Using tweezers and chloroform for nothing more significant than a stir bar. Watching her solution eddy and swirl, tending its every move with such precision and care.