A ghost wandered the decrepit halls of the Chaykovskiy Street apartment, its pale, translucent form gliding soundlessly through the shadows. Hollow eyes scanned the peeling wallpaper and cracked floorboards, searching for any poor soul to become its next plaything. A faint smell of decay hung in the air, a comfortable and familiar smell to our ghost.
After mindlessly drifting about, it found something. Yes, something alive and breathing. A person was sleeping in one of the rooms while the rest of the tenants were awake and out for work.
This "someone" in question, was a young man who just emerged out of boyhood. His dark, disheveled brown hair made his thin face look all the more ill. From the stern look of his furrowed brows, he was clearly having some sort of nightmare, a delightful treat for our little ghost. The apparition smiled in delight and scooted closer to the sleeping man, hovering its fingers on his forehead.
Creak.
The sharp groan of wood creaking startled the ghost. In an instant, it vanished into the shadows. Its chance had slipped away—for now.
The man woke up in a sharp jolt, his heart beating loudly as he gasped for breath. He looked around his room, thinking for a moment that someone was watching over him. But there was no one there.
As his heartbeat slowed, Edith slowly succumbed to an indifference that accompanied wakefulness. When he regained awareness, his mind could only muster one thought. "I must do it." This passion for action forced conscience to overpower the weak, senseless part that goes "It's just another day." No longer shall he be passive, he has taken whatever is still left of that passion and turned that it into an order. It's no longer some fleeting fancy. Today, one way or the other, is it.
His desk was cluttered with various trinkets of odds and ends, none of which seemed to hold any real use or value. There was a small leather-bound book with crinkled pages that looked like they came from some careful design. A tray next to it held the burnt ends of joss sticks, surrounded by dark ash from a purification ritual that didn't seem to do him much spiritual good. Then there was the wand—classic and reliable in theory, but utterly useless in the hands of a mediocre magician. One by one, he packed them all into his carry-all bag.
The one object of pride and admiration in his room was a rapier. A magnificent sword that accompanied mankind since before the age of the first god... if the legends of mainstream religions were to be believed. It was a slender steel blade decorated with ornate flowers. This particular sword has followed him since he joined the university. Turns out I won't be dying in the glory of battle with you by my side. Edith chuckled to himself awkwardly.
The rapier was undoubtedly a work of art, but he chose not to bring it with him because it didn't fit his bag. Besides, considering what he was about to do today, it would've been inappropriate to carry it anyway.
A small stack of papers sat on the desk, each bearing a now-familiar and intimidating seal. Their tone had shifted over time, from polite suggestions to carefully worded threats. Pay me back now! Those words appeared over and over, rewritten with slight variations. On any other day, the weight of his debts would have filled him with dread. But today, material concerns seemed meaningless. Even so, Edith felt a twinge of guilt, mostly for not paying back his landlord.
I should wear something formal today. On special days like this, Edith must set a standard. It was obvious that suits were the answer, and though he didn't have the best in his wardrobe, the act of putting it on renewed him in all aspects. Yes, this is the perfect suit, how perfectly romantic. If I'm happy about one thing in my life, it's my tailor's expertise for sure.
Buttoning, smoothing every wrinkle with the hand, don the coat, tie the tie, but through that way this time… tying now, only it returns to its resting position, tugging hard would compensate then… a makeshift garrote.
I shouldn't waste my energy on this, it'll have to go.
Descending the brick-grey, spiraling stairs of the complex, he begins to question if the perfect place he imagined still exists. The cold seeps through his clothes, draining what little warmth remains.
***
It was a cold street.
He was tempted to wrap his suit coat tighter around himself but chose not to. He saw people lingering on the streets, their faces stricken with the exhaustion of hardship. It was easy for the people like him to feel envy and contempt for any meager comfort another person relished in.
He felt no camaraderie in their shared suffering, no pity, not even disdain. Repulsed by the idea of showing weakness in front of others, he straightened his back and kept his numb hands out of his pockets. He stayed on a familiar path, to that perfect place... The sight.
Walking north, he passed the rundown bar that always seemed to echo an odd, chaotic cacophony of noises to anyone outside. He was surprised it hadn't gone out of business, especially with how men bearing the royal seal showed up there daily.
After that, a stone bridge took a left turn, building over a river of frozen toads, left to the mercy of hungry animals. The river stretched endlessly below, its flow framed by the silhouettes of short-towered buildings.
Yellow lights dotted the landscape, masking their true purpose and softening the cityscape into dull, blurred greys. He looked up at the world around him and found a new appreciation for the quiet city he called home.
Yorkovsk was a city that looked like it came straight out of a painting or diorama. It's charming, but just like a painting, it never changes. Always frozen and a bore, it's only fitting that he'll do such a thing in a place like this. And like a painting, it's gathering dust.
Above him stretched the sky, though it was difficult to see it as anything other than a firmament. The dim daylight was only enough for him to see scattering dots of light hovering around the blue sky. They were barely visible, their light drowned by the faint sunlight peeking over the horizon.
It was clear to everyone what those dots of light were. Great spirit-machines that hovered just beyond the threshold of sight. Once known simply as "spacecrafts", they had long abandoned such a mundane title and called themselves "Voyagers".
These voyaging machines drifted with imperceptible slowness, almost invisible against the clouds and the sky that camouflaged them. Their stealth made them difficult to count—six, seven, twelve… twenty? Strange, given their importance to everyone here.
Edith had never been one to appreciate the stars, yet on this day, he couldn't ignore the ominous feeling those flying shapes evoked. And perhaps, a hint of disappointment. Shouldn't today, of all days, be the perfect time to look up at the stars? To imagine new constellations and draw meaning from their patterns?
Edith fancied it was the right of him and the people of Yorkovsk, to gaze at a clear sky, free from the intrusions of light pollution of the city or the vanity of Voyagers. At least, it would've been nice if the stars had shone for him tonight—just this one night.
Those Voyagers, impressive as their craftsmanship might be, were a plague upon the heavens. If all twenty ships were to explode and tumble from the sky, Edith knew he would watch the spectacle with gladness.
How embarrassing... he thought, I almost smiled at such an awful idea.
As if someone had plucked the thought from his mind, a stranger suddenly interrupted him. Edith was startled to see a blonde, unkempt tramp crouched near the railing. His ragged coat and scruffy appearance made him look like one of those frozen frogs preserved in ice.
"Wouldn't it be better if those things were shot down?" the man continued with a crooked grin. "Real shooting stars for once, think of thirty-two wishes in your head."
Edith faltered, realizing he'd miscounted the ships. "I—uh, erm… yeah. Well, it'll be a nice change to belong here." He dryly responds, but can't find himself to walk away.
The man's unwashed smell passes through him with a wind. "Ah, how hopeless, good thing you're not one of them." He weakly points upward to the sky.
One of them? What is he talking about? Edith was confused by this man's manner of speech, but he decided to keep a passive tone to learn more about him. "How'd you know that?"
"Because a whole bunch of good little milch-cows got dumped here because Maman wants another farm, except when they came here their teats all fell out from the cold, no more milk for babies, so they cried to Maman, and she's a good, loose broad so of course she tells their ten Papas to do something about it."
Edith blinked, completely lost. "Are you talking about cows or people, sir?"
"Both. Not that they can tell the difference."
"Oh, I see," Edith replied, though his tone betrayed his bewilderment. He nodded slowly as if agreeing.
"They have factories bigger than this entire world making those damned things and decided this so-called globe of mud is real important. I hope even a kid like you notices that they keep trying to get people here, just to make Maman proud, make their flaccid little cucumbers a little bigger."
"The Voyagers are doing this out of a… mating ritual?" Obviously not! And Edith regrets entertaining him further. Or perhaps this foul-smelling, yellowing-teeth, oddly caked-in-grease, ragged fur-wearing man was simply a part of the ordeal.
"You look like a smart kid. You wouldn't want your brain to see this little charade game as…" he twirls his fingers around as if trying to find the correct word. "Courtship. But that's what happens when your entire race just constantly clings to Maman all day long, pretending to be adulting, because politics is the most mature thing of all, isn't it? Your mama and papa talked and argued all about it, didn't they?"
"…Yes." He lies, realizing now that the man is following him even as Edith picks up his pace subconsciously. "As lovely as was is talking to you sir, I need to be going."
"You know what I miss most? The drink," he said, his tone bitter. "They piss in bottles and hand it to us because they haven't figured out how to build a brewery yet. All the real stuff is locked away in ice." He tilted his head back toward the bar, his face set in a deep frown. "Not even a decent reason to go out like that. Kid's gonna freeze before he even feels good. Go on, take him now," the man muttered.
Edith paused, startled by the parting words. Was this a madman's attempt at comfort? Whatever it was, it touched him more than he cared to admit. But not enough to make him linger.
"This was an enlightening conversation, kind sir," he said, giving the man a small, awkward nod of respect. "But I'll have to get going." I have to get away from this perverted tramp as quickly as possible.
He started running—careful not to slip, careful not to drain himself too quickly. That same creeping sense of despair lingered in the air, unspoken but shared. It clung to the morning crowd, the man he'd just left behind, and, of course, himself. He bit his tongue, swallowing his frustration.
He exhales deeply, warmth finally returning to his body. He doesn't bother wondering about the purpose of this building. His eyes scan the lobby for a stairway, and he ascends without hesitation. How many times had he walked past this place before? Too many to count, it was just that this perfect place has been in the back of the mind all these years.
The slow thaw of his frozen body stings everywhere, yet the pride of making it this far fuels him. The pain transforms into something else: a sharp, electric energy coursing through him. His flushed skin burns, but it's intoxicating, almost like being drunk.
Feeling a strange giddiness, he staggers onto the flat rooftop. It feels like he was meant to end up, it wasn't just instinct that drove him, it was fate. A bird always remembers the way back home, he thinks, gazing at the pigeons scattered across the roof. They've made themselves comfortable, roosting as if they own the place.
"Excuse me, but could you kindly move out of the way?" he says, his voice light with the absurdity of the situation. When they ignore his polite request, he sighs and waves his arms, shooing them off with an almost childlike determination. "It won't take long. Just watch."
Staring at the panoramic view of Yorkovsk atop the rooftop he called friend, he took a deep breath, inhaling the cold breeze through his nostrils. At peace, his mind began to wander. He realized that, despite the fact he could count the days without snow on his hand, he had never enjoyed the simple act of building a snowman, and it was a time that called for that sort of meandering.
He kneels down on the rooftop and takes a handful of it in his hand, crunching it in his fist as it turns to sheets under his fingers, as if he were inspecting the material for quality. He considered it satisfactory enough to start compacting the snow together. After struggling, he managed to create a mound barely reaching ankle-height and with zero anthropomorphic qualities.
There's definitely a way to make this better. A figure this small and slumped wouldn't have a good face at all, and as a spur-of-a-moment action, he didn't think to bring a carrot with him. That was until he came up with a brilliant idea.
"I won't need this anymore, it'll be better for you won't it?" He took the wand from the bag and speared it through the midsection. Lopsided now, the snowman crumbles back to the layer of snow.
"Well Mr. Snowman, I think you can probably make use of that better than I ever can." A weak laugh came out of him. "I know it's natural for people to leave a statement of some kind on the 'what' and 'why', but wouldn't just forget being better for everybody involved? Awfully unfair for them to continue existing even after being gone, isn't it?"
"Now Mr. Snowman, I still believe I should leave something par course, a-nothing would just have a constant question of 'why?' in their heads, a full answer would just leave them constantly thinking about going back in time. But, if it were something a little cryptic, then they'll come to the first answer and be done with it since I would never give them some riddle for them to never solve."
"Part of why I chose you, Mr. Snowman if I can't go through with this. Well, then at least I won't remember you after a few days or so." He kicks up the snow and nearly loses his footing—almost crushing Mr. Snowman in the process—. "Hah… not that I don't care about you at all."
"You'll be the man who dictates it, my partner and friend because when evening comes out, you won't be here at all." He admits to the newly-made thing, feeling strange about how a cruel creator he is. "And hopefully myself too."
Out of the carryall comes the leather-bound book, small enough to fit his palm. The first part of the book was full of numbers and complex, esoteric symbols. If Edith wanted his spell to work, he had to try and reiterate all those equations all by himself. Thankfully, through the miracle of coding, all of the information on the page was condensed into a simple magic spell—a spell made by a friend of Edith's, all those years ago.
Turn the page, and fold it tight. A paper crane will take off in flight. It's a bird that speaks with wings that sail, a little bird on a Paper Trail. Edith chuckled. She always liked making spells that rhymed.
The old, wrinkled paper in the book fluttered across page after page as if it was animated. He drops the animated book at the "feet" of Mr. Snowman. The book, as if possessed by a will of its own, parts open in the middle. Its pages shift as though guided by invisible hands, faint and faded writings growing clearer with each motion. The pages fold themselves effortlessly into paper cranes.
Animated and full of life, the paper birds spring into motion, immediately drawn to Mr. Snowman. They perch on his shoulders and hop around him with playful energy, as if they truly were alive.
To leave something fleeting behind felt fitting for an emanation called Paper Trail. He only hoped Mr. Snowman wouldn't notice his hypocrisy—the lines on the paper cranes were prewritten, failed drafts of a letter he couldn't bring himself to complete. A letter that ends with farewell.
"It really is a wonderful world out here," he murmured. "Apologies in advance..."
He turned to the railing, gazing out at the city and the now-visible countryside beyond. One last breath for this perfect place—the sight above the rooftop.
A man was standing on top of the stone wall in a building next to his.
Someone with the same idea as him? There must be some kind of etiquette about this, after all, how can one possibly follow through after witnessing their fate be played out in front of them? As if awoken from a trance, the realization of the past hour or so sets in.
Oh, oh… this man has seen Edith's melodramatic act, the catharsis between him and Mr. Snowman was just violated, and a sinking feeling has him wanting to scream out. Please sir, don't change your mind now, let us both keep these things to the grave! But instead, that thought only has him scream out. "Wait! Sir! You shouldn't-".
"A special somebody told me to say this: au revoir!" the man interrupted with a gravelly voice before leaping.
Edith bolted toward the stairs, his aching body surging with adrenaline. By the time he stumbled into the lobby, a crowd of onlookers had already gathered, their eyes fixed on him. His mind raced, conjuring the horrific image of a shattered body.
A head caved in, a neck twisted unnaturally, blood pooling and freezing in the winter air.
Yet when he scanned the scene, there was nothing. No corpse sprawled on the pavement, no man staggering to his feet after a fall. Maybe the cold is messing with my mind, he thought, numbing not just his fingers but his sanity.
Still reeling, Edith retreated from the stairs, shock, and guilt tangling in his chest. Pushing his way through the murmuring crowd, he caught sight of a familiar figure—the perverted tramp crouched on the icy street. Despite his reservations, Edith approached. There was no one else to turn to.
"Sir," he said, his voice trembling, "you must've seen that too, right?"
"What's the matter with you kid? Seems…" the drunkard laughs from some joke Edith wasn't a part of. He looked backward and his suspicions were confirmed: the crowd would have noticed Edith on that rooftop, edging closer but not going far enough. And the man. "From this angle, you could've seen someone jumping off that roof over there."
"I only saw you fooling around up there, good job for going the easy way out." The drunkard scoffed, only twisting the wound Edith had felt, that he had to return up there once again. Now he wonders if he ended up being seen as the mad man, and bites his tongue on who could answer that question.