ᴀꜱʏʟᴜᴍ :: ᴛ.ꜱʜᴇʟʙʏ

xi: surviving ghosts

As the topmost sliver of the sun crept over the horizon, Winnow sat on the balcony hallway outside her mother's apartment with her legs hanging through the railings, fingers wrapped around cool metal. She wore only the white dress in which she had slept and a hand sewn blanket pulled over her shoulders, but the touch of the breeze didn't bother her, lost for a moment in the idyllic stillness of dawn.

In the asylum, her sleep had never been restful. She knew nothing of when the sun truly rose or set, trapped behind bars in maximum security; her sleep schedule was dictated only by the sudden harsh blare of the electronic lights whenever someone deigned to turn them on. Over all those months, she had grown so used to lying in the dark, sleeping only when her brain would finally calm and give her peace. It was too rare, and even then she was plagued with nightmares, waking drenched with sweat and trembling in the same heartless dark.

Though she had a bed of her own back in Highgate, the safety of her home with true sunlight filtering through the curtained windows each day, rest still came too rarely. When it did come, it came fitfully, her nightmares driven not only by trauma but by the memory of the cage in which they had kept her for so long. In her dreams, she could hear the screams of the tortured in her ears, growing louder and louder by the second.

The chaos of night had made them so loud she could hardly hear herself breathing, though she did hear enough to know Albie never came home. The memory of their argument made sleep an impossibility, and she lay for hours with her eyes aching with tears.

At least, in this brief window, Winnow had some semblance of peace. Before dawn, there were so few screams. It had become something of a routine, lately, stepping silently past her mother's sleeping form and quietly unlatching the door, allowing the morning air to comb through her hair and cool her feverish skin. By the time the sun rose, the workers and women began to rise: already, she could hear the sounds of them stirring, doors unlatching, parents calling to their children and men bidding farewell as they made for the factories.

But for now, she had peace.

With a soft sigh, Winnow leaned forward to rest her head against the bars of the railing, her bare feet idly swinging above four storeys of empty air. She closed her eyes, but too quickly the images crept in: the watchful eyes and silky voice of Brilliant Chang, the furore by the exhibition hall, James Townsend's hand on her arm, the helpless pain in her brother's face as she had shouted. And that awful mantra so many attendees had cried into the darkness of the night:

Perish Judah.

A shiver crept down her spine, and Winnow opened her eyes again fast, tightening her grip on the bars. Seeking a distraction, she trained her gaze on the ground far below, watched the men and women wind through the open courtyard. It was too early, and most of them spoke in soft murmurs rather than harsh cries, their voices softened by the approach of dawn.

Then a figure cut through the emerging throngs of worker families, distinct in the way he walked as much as the way he dressed: luxurious, wearing a suit beneath a rich grey coat, a gold chain gleaming at his waist. His head was bent, but he still walked with an intrinsic type of confidence which must have been etched into his very bones.