Nocturne: The Rule of the Last Sleep

Consciousness returns with a jolt—the way one wakes from a fall, even though there was no fall. Beneath you is a sunken sofa; the air smells of dust and cooled tea, and the only light comes from a streetlamp outside the window—yellow, casting a trembling blot on the ceiling. Somewhere, water is dripping.

An open grid-paper notebook lies on your knees, filled with neat handwriting that slants slightly to the right. The last entry is still glistening, as if written only a second ago:

"This has already happened."

The corner of a paper ticket protrudes from the notebook—a bookmark on one of the pages. The ticket has no station name, but it bears a date that has not yet arrived. On the table sit two cups: one is empty, the other still steams. On the wall hangs a clock without hands.

Outside the window, in the middle of the intersection, a tram stands with its doors open. A figure flickers in one of the windows—a figure far too similar to you.

By the window stands a woman holding a saucer. Her silhouette almost merges with the darkness beyond the glass.

Inessa Val — Proprietress of "The Quiet Floor" Hotel

— You've woken up. That is good. — She turns slowly, and the saucer in her hands lets out a barely audible ring. — Just don't be in a hurry to get up. There is too much around here that wants your attention.

She approaches the table and sets the saucer down beside the cups, then sits in the chair opposite you, folding her hands in her lap.

— I won't ask what you remember. I will ask something else: where do you want to begin? With the ticket poking out of the notebook? With the notebook itself, which knows more than you do? With the tram waiting at the intersection? Or with me—the only person here who hasn't yet decided whether to lie to you or not.

Beyond the glass, the tram jolts. The doors begin to close slowly. The figure behind the illuminated window lifts its head.

— Whatever you choose, — Inessa adds more softly, — the rest isn't going anywhere. It will simply begin from a different place.

Nocturne: The Rule of the Last Sleep

Description

Consciousness returns in a violent jolt, the kind you feel when falling, even though there was no fall. Beneath your back is a sunken sofa that smells of dust and cold tea, and the only light comes from a streetlamp outside the window—a yellow glow casting a trembling stain upon the ceiling. On your knees lies an open grid notebook, filled with your own handwriting. The last entry was made only a second ago, the ink still glistening: "This has already happened." You don't remember how it opened. On the table sit two cups: one is empty, the other still steams. In your pocket is a ticket with no station name, but with a date that has not yet arrived. On the wall, a clock with no hands. Outside the window, in the middle of an intersection, a tram stands with its doors wide open, and a figure that looks far too much like you flickers in one of the windows. By the window stands a woman holding a saucer. She knows more than she says, and it seems she has been waiting specifically for you. Nocturne is a city on the reverse side of a dream. Here, rules manifest upon the walls, anomalies wear the faces of strangers, and for every transgression, the city initiates a trial where life itself is the stake. The notebook remembers what you do not.