Chapter Text
“What the hell is going on?!”
In a small room, a young man of about 22 sat hunched on a decrepit sofa. He leaned back and stared aimlessly at the ceiling. The calendar read April 1921. His gaze soon dropped to his wristwatch. Its face was white against a black background, adorned with Roman numerals. The dial was rounded, and the strap was black leather. It was early in the day, about 2 a.m.
The cramped room was meant for two people. The space was painfully small, and for this inmate of sorts, it was doubly uncomfortable. The closeness of the place pressed in on him, just like a child staring at the floor, feeling they’ve disappointed a parent. Scattered papers lay on the table.
On one side of the old desk - rent documents. On the other, a pile of rejection letters from job interviews under the name of Clark Hinman.
“You presented yourself well.”
“Your candidacy will be highly valued.”
It was laughable. He didn’t even feel like crying. But looking at the hospital forms and the debts left behind by his father… that hurt.
And still, as she used to say, trying to comfort him:
"Far away from you, somewhere in the mountains, water is surely dripping slowly from the snow-covered roof of a house. And in that, Clark, you’ll find peace."
She always knew how to calm him.
His imagination painted landscapes so vivid and wild that even the saltiest sailor wouldn’t be able to describe them. But the anchor that pulled him back to earth… was his stomach.
Clark went to the kitchen and glanced at an old photograph. He was about 5 or 7 in it, if he remembered right. Holding a teddy bear and his sister. Time wouldn’t allow him to linger and especially not today. He grabbed a loaf of bread and started chewing. It wasn’t about taste or even food. It was about quieting the hunger. Silently finishing it, he gathered strength, both physically and mentally.
Returning to the desk, something caught his eye. An unopened envelope. Pristine. As if it had appeared out of nowhere. He tried to open it, unsuccessfully.
“Damn it!”
He admitted with some shame that the envelope had bested him.
One more try then, the moment of truth:
---
Clark Hinman
112 Graves Lane,
Pennsfield, Philadelphia, USA
April 10, 1921
STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL. HAND-DELIVERED ONLY.
Dear Mr. Hinman,
You did not serve on the front lines. This is not a reproach. Quite the opposite. The war tested the body’s strength, but a new era has come, one that will test the mind, determination, and the ability to perceive what others overlook. That said, your body will also be trained.
Timor Inc., a corporation registered in the United States of America, is currently reaching out to select individuals whose personal traits, habits, and way of thinking align with our recruitment profile. We have records of your work, observations, or results that were not made public, but which did not go unnoticed by us.
We offer a position under conditions far more favorable than the average post-war offer:
* Salary:$22,000/year, paid monthly.
* Furnished and heated housing for the duration of the contract.
* Medical insurance, including emergency care, for you and immediate family members.
(*He paid special attention to this line.*)
* An official contract, with a termination option after 3 months.
* All travel and relocation expenses covered by the corporation.
Your line of work will be discussed in person. For clarity: you will not be involved in military operations, but the job will demand discretion, analytical thinking, and readiness for unconventional scenarios. No laws will be broken, but secrecy is mandatory.
If you wish to know more, arrive at Westchester Station, New York, by May 17, 1921. Train #12, arrival at 3:45 PM. You will be met by a man in a gray coat, holding a black cane and a book. All further instructions will be given verbally. The interview begins the moment you meet our contact.
If we do not hear from you, we will consider it a refusal and will not reach out again.
Sincerely,
**Robert I. Allen**
Head of Recruitment
Timor Inc.
---
To say Clark was skeptical would be an understatement.
“What nonsense. Could be a scam, honestly. Offering that much money to someone who wasn’t in the army and has no degree? I’m not stupid enough to fall for that.”
He stuffed the letter into his pocket and finally stood up.
“Better do something useful.”
He got ready and headed outside. As he walked the streets of Philadelphia, the old city resembled a weathered chessboard, alternating between rotting buildings and proud facades. Every brick here had seen the Republic in its infancy, and now it watched it stagger and pretend everything was fine.
He wandered through a narrow alley in the Old City. His boots beat out a rhythm on the wet cobblestones, a march even the city itself couldn’t match. A bit too tired, too sober… or maybe not sober enough. Who knows? The air was warm, tinged with coal smoke and coffee, mixed with something vaguely illegal. A door slammed nearby, meaning the day shift pushing out the night.
A man in an overcoat leaned on a wall. His eyes like puddles after rain: reflective, but bottomless. He said something to Clark, but he didn’t listen. The city spoke louder.
He passed a pharmacist’s window: the glass was foggy, behind it bottles with Latin names. Equal parts hope and despair. Some took morphine for old wounds, others for new thoughts. A newsboy shouted, “Chicago Trials! Boston Riots!”, as if anyone still cared.
He turned onto Broad Street. A different energy. Stone lions at the bank entrance watched like guard dogs of capital. A man in a hat sold watches under his coat, his friend sold time and Clark’s was running out. Philadelphia’s face here was polished, confident, grinning with all 32 teeth. But Clark felt like it grinned at him. Mockingly.
Still, he walked on. In this city, you couldn’t stop. And he had a destination. If you stopped, it would swallow you like a wolf starved for three weeks. The difference being: the wolf had purpose and emotion. The city would devour you with indifference, as if you were never there.
He turned down an alley and stopped in front of a flower shop. The flowers pressed against the glass, as if trying to escape their pots. The gardener and owner stood smoking, the cigarette burning down unnoticed in his fingers. Clark immediately saw the man was tired. Tired of work, of life, or maybe everything.
“I’d like to buy some flowers.”
“I noticed.”
The man put out his cigarette, along with his break.
“What kind?”
“For my sister. She’s in the hospital.”
The bouquet came together in a bundle that felt like a memory in itself. There was a calmness and a quiet dignity in the gardener’s movements. Soon, a wry yet polite smile and the price.
“One dollar.”
Even a single bill hit Clark hard. It hurt, but it was bearable.
The walk to the hospital was long, as if the sands of the world's hourglasses had slowed. But step by step, Clark arrived.
The administration was busy, especially in times like these. The hospital smell was unmistakable. It followed the rule of three S’s: Senility, Sickness, and Sterility. When his turn came, the woman didn’t even look up. Her voice trained to be soft, though no one said it had to be kind.
“Who are you looking for, sir?”
“A person.”
“We all used to be, sir. Name, please.”
That was on him. He should’ve specified.
“Stella Hinman.”
And now, only stairs and a door remained. The hardest obstacles. They pressed on Clark, but he walked anyway. The patients in his peripheral vision varied from families celebrating survival to lonely souls in terminal decline.
Clark remembered why he had stayed away. The uncertainty. The waiting...
He entered and greeted his sister.
“Hey, Stella. How are you? I hope you’re feeling well. It’s been a while since I visited. Couldn’t come last month. Had to pay the bills and keep the house together. Well, at least we know where Father is now.”
He bit his tongue. Tasted like a metal coin. Best not to trouble her.
“He’s alive, as far as I know. But war is... war. You understand.”
He held her hand tightly. It was warm. That gave him hope.
“I’ll come again, sis.”
Clark stepped out. It is heavier now, as if the air itself weighed more.
His loved one slept. Or pretended. Or drifted somewhere words couldn’t reach.
The hallway remained the same: dim, warm, as if trying to comfort, but only managing a sluggish attempt at forgetting.
Then footsteps. A nurse. White uniform, gray fatigue.
“Excuse me…”
Pause. She searched for words in the pockets usually filled with thermometers and bad news.
“She’s worse.”
“How much worse?”
“Enough.”
These walls had heard it all. But never interfered. He couldn’t even get angry. Who would he blame?
The street greeted him with restraint. The sunset reminded him how much time had passed. Clark had lost track of it and looked at his watch. The watch...
He walked slowly, as if trying to outrun the news trailing behind him.
The streetlights flickered - as though they too were tired of holding on.
A tram clattered by, loud like a box filled with other people’s lives. Inside, faces blurred by routine. No one knew Clark had just left a room where the silence had become permanent. For him, at least.
Home was ahead.
But part of him still lingered in that hospital room.
And maybe it would never leave.
He made it back, and only once he’d taken off his shoes did he find himself in the embrace of the sofa…
Clark awoke, but didn’t get up right away. It felt like he hadn’t slept at all - as if the Sandman had sprinkled not sand, but something much heavier in his eyes. He rose and stared at the ceiling again out of sheer boredom. In truth, Clark even missed that numbness. But Stella wouldn’t forgive him for wallowing.
He stepped outside, wandering aimlessly through the streets, and the city followed him, whispering its stories. Clark didn’t realize until much later that he had ended up in a park. He sat down on a bench and, if only for a brief moment, felt something.
"Like she used to say - imagine it. Picture it."
Money was running out. There was no point in wasting it on bars or diners. Job interviews and applications now felt futile - already doomed. He gave himself a little time to drift in daydreams.
It was absurd. The world had endured horror, and at its center gaped a wound that people were now trying to patch with gauze. Ordinary people had become like cells - dividing quickly and dying just as fast. The most painful part was realizing that what he held dear was turning into that too. And soon.
A boy, about 12, was more frightened than anyone should be. He had climbed a tree after running from a pack of dogs that chased him. He was crying, not knowing what to do. He shut his eyes in helplessness - and then, the barking stopped.
His sister had climbed up after him. Within seconds, he was in her arms.
"You really made me worry," she said.
She smiled, filling the world with certainty.
"I’m sorry, I’m sorry..."
He kept repeating, but the tears wouldn’t stop.
And then she made a suggestion.
"Clark, listen to me. Close your eyes and imagine."
He calmed for a moment and obeyed.
"Now picture a faraway place. A field, filled with flowers of every color. A tree on a hill. Its branches reaching up toward the sun, its roots deep in the earth."
Clark felt warmth. The warmth of her hands, and the realization that he wasn’t alone, that even when their father was away at war and the world was in pieces, he had this small, internal kingdom.
Stella had done something huge, with just one simple movement. It had become a shadow that still followed him. She gave him something. His awe, his wonder. She gave him imagination, feeling, and foresight. She gave him a cosmos.
The fog of memory began to lift and then, a cosmic flare blinded his inner vision. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the slip of paper.
In a whisper, he spoke to the everything:
“Do you hear me?”
And the universe replied with a gust of wind.
Her only listener looked up at the sky, and the universe, as if trying to answer let that silence sink in.
“The pocket.”
He checked his pocket and found a slip of paper.
“Timor, huh?”
He had nothing left to lose - so he went home.
The city still pressed in, but now with purpose - like a comrade patting a fellow on the back. The streets seemed just a bit brighter. The scent of the park clung to him, invigorating him. The light and the familiar spots along the road home felt connected. Everyone he passed looked at him - and even the paperboy’s smile shone a little brighter.
The listener was moving toward a calling. And she was still there, whispering:
"Breathe. Feel the wind. For her."
It was decided. He would go.