Chapter 1 The first crack
The news broadcast blared from the old radio in the corner:
“Symptoms include fever or chills, cough, shortness of breath or difficulty breathing, sore throat, congestion or runny nose, new loss of taste or smell, fatigue, muscle or body aches...”
“Anyone experiencing these symptoms is advised to go to the hospital immediately.”
“Everyone is encouraged to wear face masks and stay at home to avoid getting infected.”
“...Those with severe symptoms have fallen into comas, with no clear indication of when they might wake up.”
–
“Fuck that, just another problem on top of everything else,” I muttered under my breath, tearing off the dust-covered mask that had been suffocating me for hours. I had been sanding the walls all day, my hands aching, my face streaked with sweat and grime. The coarse sensation of the dust clung to my skin like a second layer. I took a long gulp from the water jug I’d brought with me, feeling the cool liquid soothe my dry throat. My eyes drifted to the clock. Finally, it was time to clock out of this godforsaken part-time job.
I hastily gathered my tools, wiping off the dirt and sweat that had settled into every pore of my skin.
“Hey, Ash! Come on! Let’s go!” one of the guys shouted over his shoulder as he disappeared through the doorway. His voice echoed in the near-empty worksite, not caring whether I followed. He was always like that—desperate to clock out, like spending one more unpaid minute here would kill him.
I trudged back to the small apartment I rented just outside the university. The accommodations near schools were cheap, but the price came with its share of compromises. The rusty gate screeched as I pulled it open, its sharp, grating noise adding to the weight of the day. When I stepped into the courtyard, the familiar aroma of coffee greeted me—rich, dark, and intoxicating. The kind of smell that could make you forget everything for just a second. I saw the landlady and her daughter sitting on the porch, cups in hand, their laughter carried on the breeze.
“Asher,” the landlady called out, her voice friendly yet pointed. “Just a reminder—next week is the deadline for this month’s rent.” She smiled, but her eyes had the same knowing look they always did.
“Thank you, madam,” I replied, trying to muster a smile as I started up the stairs.
“Oh, also! A letter came for you,” she added, motioning for her daughter to hand it over. The envelope was plain, unremarkable, but somehow heavy in my hand.
I nodded my thanks and hurried up to my room on the second floor. The building was painted an odd shade of pink, but it was the best place I could afford. The creaky wooden furniture—a small dining table, a few chairs, and a bed—all had the same rough charm. Dropping into one of the chairs, I let the exhaustion wash over me. The weight of the day pressed down on my shoulders as I closed my eyes, just needing a moment to breathe, to shake off the heaviness of everything.
After a few minutes, I reached for the lamp by my side, its soft light barely illuminating the small living room. The letter still sat in my hand, and I finally opened it, curious but already bracing for the contents.
“Dear Asher,
How are you doing? This is Sister Marydeth. I hope you’re safe and healthy. We miss you here dearly.”
I frowned, the words swimming in front of me. Miss me? They were writing as if I had been someone special, as if my time there had meant something. I hadn’t felt much love or attention back then, so why now? I kept reading, and my fingers tightened around the edges of the paper as I skimmed the next part.
It was about my origin, something I had never asked for. My breath caught in my throat as the words sank in.
