Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Now the act of seeing begins your work of mourning.
And your memory is ready to show you everything,
Having waited all these years for you to return and know.

Only you know where the casket of pain is interred.
You will have to scrape through all the layers of covering
And according to your readiness, everything will open.

John O'Donohue

Steven lived his life inside a fishbowl.

It was rather nice, as far as fishbowls went, but it wasn’t anything special; it looked like what everyone imagined a fishbowl to look like, small and round and with nothing more to its name than a litre or so of tap water, a few handfuls of sand, and a decoration or two to keep the fish entertained.

There was no fish though. There never had been. It was just Steven, alone amongst the sand. All of this was just for him. 

It was quiet, inside the fishbowl. Calm. He could wander around the edges a hundred times and never hear another voice. Nothing could ever disturb him there. 

That didn’t mean there were never any disturbances.

Sometimes he caught glimpses of movement outside the fishbowl, and sometimes even mumbled snippets of conversation. Steven could never make out any of the words being said, or even who was saying them, the water and glass surrounding him muffling and blurring everything outside, but he still found himself sitting at the edge of the fishbowl, hoping to learn more about the people on the other side of the glass.

It was the only kind of entertainment he got most days. For all the peace the fishbowl brought, it was also rather dull. There wasn't much inside of the glass walls; apart from him, there was only the small wooden house in the far corner, the sharp point of what looked to be a buried piece of marble, a few pieces of fake kelp and finally—and perhaps most importantly—a sarcophagus lying in the centre.

When he wasn’t listening to the world outside, Steven liked to lie beside the sarcophagus and stare at it, just like he was doing now. He wasn’t sure why he felt so drawn to it. There were no hushed words or shimmers of motion or really anything about it that should capture his attention so forcefully, and yet once he started staring at it, he could not draw himself away.

It was unlike any sarcophagus he’d ever seen. It was not made of stone or gold, as most were; instead, it was made of obsidian, the surface reflective enough for him to make out the fine features of his own face. The hieroglyphs and scenes that covered the sarcophagus were engraved into the surface and then painted over in a shimmering gold, creating a rather striking exterior.

The most strange thing, however, was the depiction of the deceased which the sarcophagus held. Their eyes were closed, unseeing, and the arms were not crossed against the chest, but rather the hands were cradled together. It looked almost like someone who was merely sleeping.

“What do you dream about?” Steven whispered to it, a question he’d asked it many times before. “What secrets do you keep inside?”

His reflection only blinked at him.

Without meaning to, he reached out his hand to the seam between the lid and the bottom of the coffin, and tried to pry the two apart. He frowned, confused by the action, but did not pull away. There was something inside. He wasn’t sure what exactly, but it was something he needed to get out.

He sat up and with both hands, he tugged at the lid. When that did not work, he tried shoving it off, but no matter how much force he put into it, it did not budge under the weight of the surrounding water. 

Steven huffed, annoyed. There had to be some way of getting this open. Maybe if he had some help, he could—

“Please lock me away and don't allow the day,” someone sang, sudden enough to make Steven flinch. “Here inside where I hide with my loneliness.”

He whirled around, his eyes darting all across the fishbowl for the source of the voice. It sounded like it was coming from beside him, as if it was right next to his ear, but there was no one here except him. Well. No one he could see. He frowned at the sarcophagus and wondered if the sound was coming from within it somehow.

“I don't care what they say I won't stay. In a world without love.”

Oh. It wasn’t coming from the sarcophagus. It was coming from the outside.

A blink, and the world around him melted away like wax. Another blink, and the dreary colours of reality settled into place. He stared up at the ceiling of his flat, and felt the pleasant heaviness of the blanket surrounding him ground him in place.

Of course. He’d been dreaming again.

The alarm continued to go, uncaring of his drowsy mind. The sound made his head ache, and not for the first time, he missed being able to wake with the sunlight. He reached out and fumbled for his phone, tapping blindly at the screen. After a few missed tries, he managed to turn it off, the song cutting off mid-word. 

In the silence, he slumped back onto his mattress and contemplated closing his eyes for just a few more minutes, before deciding not to take the risk. He'd already been late to work a few too many times by making that mistake, and he was really making an effort to not have that be a common occurrence. 

He got up, and started his usual morning routine, eating a bowl of porridge and then getting dressed as the telly mumbled in the background. He wasn’t particularly focused on what was playing—something about an artefact being stolen from the Met—but the background chatter was nice. It made the flat feel more lively than it was, less lonely. It wasn’t the only habit he had to keep the silence at bay.

“We really need to do the washing soon,” he muttered to himself as he buttoned his shirt up. “I’m running low on clean clothes to wear.”

The telly mumbled something about the police still looking for the culprit of the theft. Currently, there are no leads on where the statuette may be or who may have stolen it. It has been a great loss for the museum, who consider the artefact their unofficial mascot.

Steven shrugged on his jacket. “I know, I know, I shouldn’t have let it get this bad, but I really don’t like using the laundry they have here. There’s always someone down there and they always ask me such strange questions. I never know how to answer.”

If anyone has any news about the whereabouts of the William the Faience Hippopotamus, please call the authorities. The Met wishes only to see the safe return of the little hippo back to its rightful home.

“Yeah, I s’pose that’s no excuse,” Steven said. “I’ll make sure to do it tomorrow, promise.”

He switched the telly off before it could reply, and slung his bag around his shoulders, ready to start another day at work.

There was just one last thing he needed to do before he left.

He ventured over to the window and picked up the spray bottle that sat beside it. With it, he spritzed the row of moon cacti that lined the window sill with a good amount of water.

He couldn't remember what had led him to purchase the small collection (or even when he’d purchased them to begin with), but he’d found himself very fond of the vibrant little plants. They were lovely to look at, and they were hardy enough for him to trust that they wouldn’t die unexpectedly. ‘Course, he could’ve gotten fake plants to avoid such an issue, but he found he liked the act of watering them, rare though it was. It felt nice caring for something else.

“I had that odd dream again,” he murmured to the cacti, quiet enough so only they would be able to hear. “The one about the fishbowl. I told you about it last week, remember. Bit strange, innit, to keep dreaming the same dream."

Though, it wasn’t so much the fact he’d had the dream more than once that was strange, really. It was more so that it was the only dream he could ever remember. All the rest faded away the moment he woke up, the only sign he ever dreamed at all left behind in the tears on his face or the rabbit-fast beat of his heart.

He was glad he didn’t remember those dreams. Even just the remnants of them left him tired and cold, and feeling very, very hollow. 

“I suppose it’s not a bad dream to remember,” he said, shaking away the memories of bad mornings. Today had started off well, and he didn’t want to ruin it. “I don't think I'd mind being a little fish; it seems peaceful. I’m sure there isn’t much that troubles them.” He set the spray bottle aside and smiled at the cacti. “There we go, little guys. That should be enough to tide you over for a few days.”

His smile faltered ever so slightly at that. A few days...He was glad the cacti was hardy enough to survive a few days of neglect, but it left him feeling a bit unneeded most days. Not that he wanted them to be dependent on him, but...well, it would be nice feeling like he was important to someone, even if that 'someone' was a few small plants.

"Maybe I should get you a friend?" he mused, eyeing the spare space on the window sill. "Something a bit different, yeah?"

The cacti, unsurprisingly, had no thoughts on the matter. But that was okay.

Steven was used to the silence.

Despite his timely manner, the bus still managed to arrive later than he hoped, and by the time he rushed inside the museum, it was a few minutes past nine.

Donna was already in the middle of getting it ready for the day, stocking the shelves with new merchandise. She glanced over to him, having heard his hurried footsteps, and gave him a nod of acknowledgement.

“Sorry I’m late,” Steven said before she could bring it up herself, his shoulders already curling up in preparation for a reprimand.

Donna gave him a small smile and waved him off. “3 minutes late isn’t late. You’re fine.”

Steven blinked. "Oh." He straightened, and rubbed his thumb along his bag strap uncertainly. "Right, yeah. I'll. I'll get to it then."

Donna nodded and returned her attention back to her work, looking tired but content as she arranged the figurines. Steven lingered for a moment, shifting from foot to foot, but when she said nothing else, he hurried off to the counter, deciding to not waste this rare respite from her irritation.

He put on his nametag and got the shop and register ready for opening. Before long, people were bustling in, chattering about the exhibitions they'd seen.

It was a quiet day, for the most part. A few school excursions came through the gift shop, and there were one or two rather packed guided tours, but that was the usual kind of hubbub the museum got, nothing he couldn't handle. If the crowd ever got too much, he simply let his mind drift a bit and pretend he was somewhere else. 

It was nearing the end of his shift that he noticed a woman lurking by the counter, looking apprehensive as she eyed the merchandise that sat on the shelves behind Steven's back. He shuffled along the counter to get closer to her, and gave her a wave.

"Hello," he called cheerily. "Can I help you?"

The woman jumped at the sudden voice, but settled quickly. She drew closer to the desk with a sheepish smile. "Oh, hey. Sorry. Guess I've been skulking 'round a bit too long, yeah?"

Steven smiled politely. "Maybe a little. Do you want help with anything?"

"Oh, um. Yeah, actually. I don't want to be a bother but could you help me pick something out?" she said. "I'm looking for something for my girlfriend. She's a huge history buff, and she's got a soft spot for, well, soft toys. You got anything like that?"

"We have plenty of soft toys," Steven said. "Was there anything in particular you were looking for?”

The woman bit her lip. "I'm not really sure. She likes a whole bunch of things; I wouldn’t be able to narrow it down to one thing, honestly. So maybe just something cute, I guess?"

"Well, we've got the ones on display, or, if those don't tickle your fancy, we also have these." Steven pulled out a box of plushies from under the counter. "This is some of the new stock we got sent over last week. Take a look."

The woman perused it quietly. "Oh, this one's nice," she said, pointing out one of the hippo plushies. "Who's that meant to be?

"Oh!" Steven said, lighting up. "That's one of the Egyptian deities. You can tell by her headdress. There were actually quite a few deities who took inspiration from hippos, but this one specifically is...is..."

Steven faltered. He knew the name, he knew he knew. He could see the shape of it in his mind, the sounds it was supposed to make, but it kept slipping away before he could form the word into anything solid. 

The silence drew on, and the woman raised an eyebrow. Steven smiled nervously. 

"I...Um. I'm sorry. I can't quite remember." 

The woman shrugged. "Hey, it's cool, mate, I don't expect you to know everything. I mean, I work at a café, doesn't mean I know everything about coffee beans." 

"Yeah, 'course," Steven said with a strained laugh, hoping she wouldn't notice his growing discomfort. 

The woman picked the soft toy up and read the tag. "Says here she's ⸻, goddess of women and children. Oh, yeah, that's perfect. I think Elsie'll like this a lot." She tucked it under her arm and pulled out her wallet. "I'll just get this one, thanks."

Steven gave her a vague smile. "Card or cash?" 

The rest of the transaction went smoothly. The woman paid for the hippo, and Steven remembered to wish her a good day as she left. Once she was gone, he pulled the tray of soft toys towards himself and picked out one of the remaining hippo plushies. He pulled the tag towards himself, straining to read what was written there.

All it accomplished was giving him a headache. He winced and set the hippo back down, pressing his hand over his eyes as he rode through the wave of pain. Once the worst of it had passed, he reached down to where he’d set his bag and pulled out his water bottle. He went to take a drink, only to fumble it in his grip when he noticed Dylan approaching. He set it down and gave her a little wave, hoping it didn’t come across as awkward as it felt.

"Hey stranger,” she said, leaning on the counter. “How’s business?"

“It’s, um, fine. Managed to sell one of the larger replicas today.”

“Ooh, nice job,” she cheered. She punched him lightly in the shoulder. “Look at you. A proper salesman, you are.”

Steven smiled bashfully. “Well, I didn’t do much, really. I did give them some facts about the piece, but I think they’d already made up their mind before coming to the counter.”

He winced as his headache reared up again. He took a small sip from his bottle and rubbed absentmindedly at his forehead, hoping the combined efforts of the water and the massage would scare the last of the pesky headache off.

Dylan raised her eyebrow. “Another headache, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steven said with a grimace. “Not sure why they keep happening.”

“Bad night’s sleep?” 

“No, I’ve been sleeping fine. And drinking plenty of water.” He raised his bottle to demonstrate. “It’s just my brain that’s being a twit.”

“Maybe you should start investing in some Nurofen.”

Steven shrugged non-committedly. He was happy to accept headache medicine when his coworkers offered it, but the thought of going to the chemist to get a packet for himself made him uncomfortable. There was something so...clinical about those kinds of places. It always made him feel so small.

“Or,” Dylan went on, “if it starts being a real problem, I know a few GPs who could help. You want me to write their numbers down?”

Steven drew back from the counter. "Um. I should probably get back to work," he said, not looking her way. "I don't want Donna putting me on inventory again. She hates when I get sidetracked."

“Donna?” Dylan echoed, confused. “Is that your—”

As if summoned, Donna chose that moment to pop her head around the corner, a box stuffed with toys in her hands. She didn’t look upset at the fact Steven was distracted; she simply gave him a brief smile before turning her attention on Dylan.

“Hey, could you help me with the rest of the boxes? Just got a new shipment in and I’d like these all in storage before we knock off.”

“Sure thing,” Dylan said. She turned back to Steven and gave him a two finger salute. "Have fun manning the fort."

Steven watched Dylan until she disappeared, frowning all the while. Why had Donna asked her to help pack the new stock in? That wasn’t her job. 

Another customer came up to the counter before he could spend any more time wondering about the oddity. He planted a smile on his face and shoved the concern down to where it wouldn’t bother him.

It wasn’t really that important anyway.

With a wave of thanks to the driver, Steven hopped off the bus. It wasn’t his usual stop, and he had to take a moment to get his bearings in order to map out which direction he needed to go. He waited until the bus had pulled away to cross the street and once he was sure he was definitely on the right street, he started to make his way towards the plant shop he knew was closeby.

He’d never been in the shop himself, but he’d seen it in passing on his trips to and from the museum. It seemed nice from the outside, with a cheery and colourful banner that read ‘Florecer’. He knew it wasn’t the brightest idea to judge a shop by its cover and all that, but he had a good feeling about it. More than a good feeling, really. Something about it felt...safe, he supposed. Like it was a place he could escape to when the world got too much.

It didn’t take him long to reach the shop, and he smiled upon seeing it.

The bell jingled as he opened the door, and at the sound the owner looked up from the plant he was tending. He was wearing a bright pink suit, and his floral-print name tag read ‘Andrés’. Upon seeing Steven, he beamed, with what seemed to be genuine delight. 

"¡Hola, Cacto Viejito!" he greeted. "Hace tiempo que no te veo. ¿En qué puedo ayudarte hoy?"

"Oh. Um." Steven tried to summon all his memories of learning Spanish from when he was a kid but all that came to mind were a few, rusted over phrases. "No, gracias. Sólo estoy, eh, mira. Mirando?"

Andrés gave him a baffled look, but seemed to understand the gist of what Steven was trying to say. He smiled and nodded. “Let me know if you need help,” he said, in English now. Steven's Spanish must have been pretty bad afterall.

The moment Andrés was out of sight, Steven grimaced, annoyed at himself. Why had he said that? He actually did need help; he had absolutely no idea of what plant to get or what he needed to do to keep it alive. But he couldn't ask for help now, that'd be silly. He'd just wait until he spotted something he liked before bothering the owner again.

As Steven trailed down the aisles, he read over the tags of each of the plants. There were forget-me-nots, poppies, pheasant's eye, rosemary, zinnia, daisies, jonquils, and on and on it went. There were far more than he expected, and he eyed the rows of plants anxiously. How was he supposed to choose just one? What one would be the best for him to keep?

Maybe now would be a good time to ask Andrés for some help.

As he turned around to go over to the counter, a splash of orange caught his eyes. Curious, Steven ventured over to the plant. The flowers were peculiar, with a strange bulging shape that tapered off into a mouth-like opening. He stared at the flowers, unable to shake the thought that he’d seen it before. He reached his hand out, expecting glass to bar him, but his hand kept going, coming to a rest along the edge of one of the oddly-shaped petals.

"You like that one?" Andrés said from behind him.

Steven did not startle, and he did not turn to answer, unable to draw his attention away from the flowers that seemed almost to swim amongst the leaves. The orange was so vibrant.

"It reminds me of something," he mumbled. 

"Ah, yes, well, it should,” Andrés said. “See, this little fellow here is called the goldfish plant, because—as I'm sure you noticed—its flowers look very much like one when they are in full bloom."

There was a flash of something across Steven's vision, of glittering scales and a sunken boat, but the image was gone before he could reach for it. A headache bloomed behind his eyes, but it could not distract him from the lingering traces of what he’d seen.

"I...I had a goldfish," Steven said, not sure if that was true or not. It felt almost as if it was an idea left behind by a dream. But if it was a dream, then it must have been a good one. 

Andrés laughed quietly. “Didn’t we all at some point.”

Steven didn’t answer, wincing as his headache sharpened. Every time he tried to reach for the glittering fragment in his mind, the pain flared brighter, as if the memory was the hot surface of a stove. But he persisted, unwilling to let the shimmer fade away altogether.

“What was it named?” Andrés asked, once it was clear Steven would not answer. “Let me guess. Goldie? Or perhaps Bubbles?”

"I...I think he...he was named—"

“—no, no, he’s gone, he’s...he’s...”

Steven blinked, the foreign words inside his mouth falling away. For a moment, he couldn’t quite comprehend what had happened, his thoughts foggy and strange, but eventually he managed to pull his mind out of its stupor, enough to take stock of where he was.

He wasn't in the plant shop anymore; he was inside of his flat, sitting upon his bed. He had a faint memory of walking home, but he wasn’t sure if that had happened today or some other day, or if he’d simply dreamed it altogether.

It wasn't just the scenery that had changed though. His body felt...strained. Tired. Like he'd just run a very long marathon, and was only now feeling the aftereffects. He took in a deep breath, and willed his heart rate to fall into something less frantic.

He should have been scared. He should have been worried. But he wasn’t. This wasn’t the first time this had happened.

He’d started thinking of the lost time as ‘jump cuts’. It seemed as fitting a name as any. He would be playing out a scene, acting out the role as he was supposed to, and then time would skip forward suddenly, cutting out the moments that had passed along the way. Everyone else had the luxury of knowing the story that had played on inbetween, but him? All he could do was pick up the thread and do his best to continue playing along with the story as if nothing was missing, never letting on for a moment that he’d forgotten whatever had come before. 

The jump cuts were jarring at the best of times. And at the worst...well, it had caused a few problems. 

He sighed. It was only when he went to rub at his forehead that he realised he was holding something between his hands. He frowned, glancing down.

Upon his lap sat the goldfish plant that he’d seen in the shop. Or...what he supposed was the goldfish plant; if it wasn't for the stickers on the side of the pot telling him what is was, he wouldn't have recognised it. All the flowers that had drawn his eye to begin with were gone, plucked clean off. 

“Oh, that’s a shame," he said, "but I s’pose it’s fine. They'll grow back, and then it’ll be like having my own pet—"

He paused as a strange, almost wet sensation in his left hand caught his attention. Frowning, he lifted up enclosed fist and slowly unwound his fingers. Steven's eyes widened.

In his palm, lay the torn and squashed remains of the flowers. 

Steven awoke with a yelp, his arms reaching up immediately to protect his head.

“No! Stop it!" he screamed, as he kicked the duvet off of his legs, desperate to be out of its hold. 

He didn't understand why he was doing any of it. He couldn't remember what the dream had even been about. All he knew was that he needed to get away from something. 

He tucked himself in the corner of the mattress and clenched tightly to his arms, mumbling constellations under his breath, letting his thoughts focus on nothing but the sounds, the names, what they represented. It was mostly muscle memory at this point, the order always the same, but the repetition was comforting and calming. 

The fear continued to burn through him like a fire, but just like a fire, it needed fuel, and in the absence of the dream that had caused it, it seeped out of him until all that was left was the thud of his heart and the ache in his head. 

As it drained away, so did his energy, and he laid himself down, rubbing his hand against his chest to soothe the last of the spiky tension inside of him away. 

It must have been one of the really bad dreams. The kind he was glad he didn't remember.

He rolled his head to the side to check the clock on the nearby side table, the red display blurry and hard to read without his glasses but still legible. It told him it was almost half past nine. He hummed blearily and rolled over, closing his eyes in the hopes of snatching up a few more minutes of rest before he had to get up for work.

Wait...work. He had work today. And work started at—

Steven’s eyes shot open. “Oh shit!”

He leapt off the bed, but in his haste, he didn’t notice that his feet were still tangled up in the duvet until he felt the tug of it pulling him back. Unprepared, he tripped forward, just managing to spare himself a knock on the head at the last moment. The landing was still far from pleasant, his knees getting the worst of it. Despite knowing he needed to get out and get going, he made no efforts to move, taking a moment to simply lie there and groan.

Today wasn’t going to be a great day, he could just tell.

After he’d taken enough time to feel sorry for himself, he pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the twang of pain that shot down his right leg. That was going to bruise, no doubt. Still, despite the pain, he pushed through it, rushing to and fro through the flat to get through his morning routine.

The hour being as late as it was, he didn’t have time to do everything, skipping breakfast to make himself a cup of tea to go. His morning shave also fell to the wayside in order for him to get dressed as quickly as possible. He ended up having to wear his clothes from the day before, the rest still unwashed. He made a note that he’d do the laundry when he got back from work. No more putting it off. It had to be done, whether he liked it or not.

He was in the process of locking the door behind him when he spotted the goldfish plant on the window sill, looking as sad as it had the night before. He hadn’t known what to do with the flowers, so he’d laid them inside the pot, so it simply looked like they’d fallen off and not...whatever had happened.

“Sorry little fellow,” he said. “I’ll water you when I get back, promise.”

He pulled the door shut and jogged down the hall, only to rush back a moment later to lock the door, fumbling with the key and cursing under his breath all the while. Once he was sure the door was definitely, 100% locked, he made his way down the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

He’d only made it out the door to his building when he noticed the bus he needed to catch was already at the stop and in the process of pulling away.

“Bollocks! Wait, wait, hold on!”

He rushed after the bus, waving frantically for it to stop. Thankfully, the driver seemed to be in a giving mood, because the bus slowed just enough for Steven to catch up. He hopped on and thanked the driver profusely, who just nodded gruffly and waited for him to pay. Steven fished out his wallet, tucking his tumbler of tea in the nook of his elbow so he had both hands free to pull out his Oyster Card. He tapped it on, and the driver gestured for him to make his way further down the bus.

It was rather busy, with all the seats taken. Steven shoved his wallet back in his bag, and pressed his tea to his chest, trying to make himself as small and unobtrusive as possible as he navigated through the crowd of people who were standing. He managed to find a mostly empty spot, but all the closest hanging straps had already been taken by the other passengers, so he settled for gripping onto one of the rails on a nearby seat.

After the hectic rush of the morning, the moment of stillness was a relief. Steven let himself breathe, and took a sip of his tea, the warmth calming him. There was no doubt he’d still be late for work, but right now, there was nothing for him to do but wait to arrive, so he let himself drift off into his daydreams.

He had a favourite one he liked to revisit, whenever he had a quiet hour in the day. It was about a desert, and the desert was the night sky, the black sand making up the inky nothing, and the small pieces of quartz making up the stars. Steven tended it like a garden, arranging the constellations however he saw fit. Today, he arranged the stars into the shape of a scarab, its wings outstretched.

He’d just started to make his way over to the dune that had always reminded him of a bird’s skull to arrange another set of constellations when he noticed, right in the corner of his eye, a wash of colour amongst the black. Turning, he saw the red sparks of a flare burning in the distance, making the quartz shimmer like rubies in the sand. When he squinted, he could just make out the shape of the woman amongst the red hue.

In a voice that sounded far closer than it should, she said, “Wake up.”

Steven felt a tug at his shirt, right on his collar, but there was no one close enough to touch him. He frowned at the woman. “What?”

“Come on,” she said, harsher now. “Wake the hell up!”

The bus jerked to a stop suddenly, and Steven was ripped out of his daydream and sent stumbling into the back of another passenger. The woman managed to catch herself on one of the handles, keeping the two of them from sprawling to the ground, but the damage had already been done. The tumbler lid got knocked off in the impact, and Steven watched in horror as the tea spilled out, right onto the woman’s shirt. Her white shirt.

"Hey, be careful," she hissed. "They have handles on here for a—are you fucking serious? Did you just spill coffee on me?"

"It’s tea," he stammered out, before grimacing. Now was not the time for corrections.

The woman shot him a disgusted look, and tugged at her shirt to inspect the mark. “Tea, coffee, I don’t care! Look at this stain!”

“I’m sorry.” He pulled his sleeve up over his palm and reached out towards the stain. “Maybe I can rub it out and that can make it—”

“No, no, you idiot,” the woman said, batting his hand away. “That’d only make it worse.” She groaned. “God, I can’t believe this. Do you have any idea how expensive this shirt was?”

It looked like every other white shirt he’d ever seen. Steven swallowed, unsure of what to say. He’d never been very good with dealing with angry customers, but at least he could always rely on Donna to come along and sort out any issues if they got too out of hand. He was alone on this.

“I really didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

“It being an accident doesn't change the fact my shirt is ruined! The dry-cleaning for this will cost a fortune!"

Steven drew back a step, the bus suddenly feeling much smaller than it already was. He bumped into the side of another passenger, and with a rushed apology he stumbled back towards the woman, who was glaring at him as if he’d burned her house down. He didn’t want to be anywhere near her, but he had nowhere to go. He was penned in.

His breathing started to pick up. If he couldn’t escape, then he had to hide. Had to get away some other way.

He focused his thoughts inwards, letting the outside world go faint and faded as he sunk down into the ocean that was his own mind. It drew him deeper and deeper into its depths, to where it was quiet and still. As he sunk down, he reached out for something, for some idea he couldn’t quite grasp and yet instinctively knew to seek out.

But whatever he was reaching for wasn’t there. It was like reaching out into a dark room, expecting to find a wall, and staggering when all you found was more emptiness. Where there should have been something solid, something to hold onto, there was only a vacant spot.

There...there should have been something. There should have been. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he did. He floundered, the once calm ocean growing chaotic around him as he struggled in place. He couldn’t go any deeper, but he couldn't swim up either. He was stuck. He was drowning. It was too much.

Please, help me.

The confusion allowed the woman’s cruel words to filter through. “Don’t give me that dumb look! You did this; it’s only right you pay to fix it!”

Please. Please, someone. 

But of course no one heard. No one came to his rescue. He was alone. He’d always been alone.

“Are you even listening to me? Christ, did your mother teach you any manners?”

Steven went blank.

The body kept fidgeting, he could feel it, could feel the thud of his heart, but the emotion behind it was gone. Like whatever cord connecting him to the surface had been snapped. And with that cord gone, the others soon followed. His thoughts, the words in his mouth, even the simple act of breathing, it all became untethered from him.

All he could do was float in place.

The woman kept yelling and yelling, but he wasn't there to hear it. He wasn’t sure anyone was. It was just the body’s autopilot, nodding when it needed to nod, apologising when it needed to apologise. He made no attempts to take back control. The ocean was lonely and cold, but it was safe. Quiet. Just like his fishbowl.

He wasn’t sure how long he floated there, just outside of his body, but eventually, the currents seemed to draw him closer and closer to the surface. He wasn’t even aware he was in the middle of placing a plush on the shelf until he felt someone nudge his shoulder. 

He jolted, surprised by the sudden sensation. Then he went still and tense, too afraid to turn.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” someone said behind him.

His shoulders loosened, relieved. It was someone else. He raised his head to look at...hm. What was her name again? It was right there, on the tip of his tongue. What was it?

“I know you’re busy,” she said, looking sheepish, “but I have an appointment at quarter past I need to get to, so I’d really appreciate it if you could put the last of the boxes away for me. I should be back in an hour though so don’t worry about locking up.”

There was something not right about her. About who she was supposed to be. Her hair was wrong. It was meant to be brown. And her voice wasn’t right either, the accent shaping the words strangely. He stared at her, unable to understand what he was missing.

She raised an eyebrow. “Steven? You alright?”

He blinked. Steven? Steven. That was him. He was Steven.

“Hm?” he said.

She waved her hand in front of his face. “Hey! You’re not sleepwalking, are you?”

Steven blinked again, and the last of blurriness washed away. Dylan was standing in front of him, a few boxes piled up in her arms. She frowned at him, and he frowned back at her. That only made hers deepen.

“You okay, mate? You’ve been a bit, uh,”—she made a vague gesture with her hand—”out of it today. Like you were in another world.” She leaned in. “Did you smoke something?”

Steven rubbed at his eyes, slightly disoriented. “No?”

“That sounded like a question.”

“No,” he said with more certainty. “No, um. Just a bad sleep, I s’pose. Bit hazy, yeah.”

There was still a certain hollowness to him that made all his movements feel wrong. Like he was the puppet and the puppeteer all at once. He pressed his hands to his chest, squeezing it hard, hoping the pressure would anchor him enough for the strange feeling to go away.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Almost one o'clock,” Dylan said. She eyed him for a moment. “Are you really okay?”

Steven nodded vaguely. He’d been...away, he supposed he could call it, for nearly 3 hours. But it didn’t quite feel like a jump cut. Now that he had his thoughts together, he realised he could remember the time in between. Not clearly, and not particularly cohesively, but it was there, perfectly slotted between the moment on the bus and now. Like he’d been there the whole time and yet not there at all. 

He could remember apologising to Donna for being late. He could remember working, stocking the shelves. He could remember having his lunch break with Dylan, asking about what she was planning to do on the weekend.

He could remember it all, but he couldn’t remember doing any of those things himself. They might as well have been store-bought memories; he didn’t feel like he’d made them at all. He'd been nothing but a bystander to his own actions.

He rubbed his head. “Sorry. I didn’t sleep well.”

Dylan made a face. “Yeah, you already said that.”

“Sorry,” Steven said again, grimacing.

She shook her head. “It’s okay. We all have those kinds of days.” She looked down at her wrist watch and winced. “Shit. I really need to go. You good to do the boxes?”

She hefted the boxes into his arms before he could answer. He stared, unsure what to do with them. She’d said something before, hadn’t she. He searched his memory of the last few minutes. “To...put them away?”

“Yeah, in the storage room. Not the big one, the little one. It’s more of a glorified wardrobe than a room, really. But the keys for it are on top.” She gestured at the ring of keys she had placed atop the boxes. “There's nothing particularly valuable in there, so you should be fine to go in.”

“Um. Sorry, where’s that?”

She quickly rushed through some directions, which she ended with, “You’ll know it when you see it, trust me.”

People were always saying that, but it rarely rang true, he’d found. He supposed most people had a different idea of what something was supposed to look than he did.

Dylan smiled, not seeming to notice his lingering uncertainty. “Thanks for this, mate. The rest of the boxes that need to be put away are over there,” she said, pointing over to the counter. “Okay. I’ll be back in an hour.”

She hurried off towards the exit, and Steven glanced around the shop, trying to remember the directions she’d just given. Right turn, left, down through, uh one of the exhibitions? Grey door, says ‘Storage’. Yeah, just like a half dozen doors in this place did. The museum was far too big for just one. What if he somehow put the boxes in the wrong one? Bollocks, why couldn’t she have asked someone else? Why was she even asking him to do this? She was a tour guide, why was this even one of her jobs?

He sighed. Well, he might as well try and get it done. He was just about to make his way over to the storage room when Dylan’s head popped back around the doorframe.

“Oh, I nearly forgot! Make sure to keep the door open,” she warned. “That one tends to lock itself if it closes. I’ve asked plenty of times for it to be fixed, or even just to replace it with a double-sided lock, but you know how it is around here. Nothing gets done unless it’s profitable. So keep it open while you’re in there, okay? Cool, alright. See ya.”

She disappeared again, and once he was sure she wasn’t going to come back with any last minute warnings, he started his search for the storage room.

After several rooms and a few wrong turns, he finally managed to find it, or what he supposed must be it, tucked in the corner. He set the boxes down by the door and used the key he’d been given to unlock it, pocketing it once the door clicked open. The room was incredibly dark, its placement in the corner leaving it far from any of the nearby windows. He reached in and patted the wall until he found the light switch, flipping it on.

Dylan had been absolutely right; it really was just a glorified wardrobe. The shelves that lined either side of it made it even smaller than it already was, and Steven grimaced at the sight. It certainly didn't look like an inviting space. Thankfully, he’d only have to make two or three trips at best to get all the boxes inside. All he had to do was make sure he didn’t get the door jammed.

He leaned in, peering around the room for any sort of obstruction he could use to prop the door open. Luckily, he didn’t have to look far: there was a small wooden doorstop right beside the door frame, with a little note written on it that said ‘Remember to use me!’ Dylan must have left it there just for this, he realised; he nudged it under the door, making sure it was secure before he made his way into the room.

He wasn’t sure where the boxes were meant to go, so he went to where the shelves were emptiest, right at the end of the room. He set the pile onto the ground, and then one by one hefted them up onto the shelf.

He’d just about reached the end of the pile when the light above him flickered. Steven didn’t pay it any mind until it flickered a second time, severe enough to dim the whole room. He frowned at it, then shook his head, irritated but not surprised; he was used to the lights flickering around him whenever he was at work. It was yet another problem in the museum that no one had gotten around to fixing. His flat had the same problem.

There was a creak of wood against tile. That made him pause his movements, and in the silence that followed he listened out for the sound. There was another creak, but it almost drowned out entirely by the howl of wind that accompanied it. Steven shivered at the chill as it swept past him, and when it settled he squinted around the room, confused. How was there wind in here? Was there some kind of vent along the walls?

It was only when the creak came again that he realised where it was coming from.

The door. The door was closing.

And he was on the wrong side of it.

“Wait, no, no, no!”

Steven rushed forward to stop the door, but by the time he was close enough to reach it, it was too late. The door came to a close with thud, and all too dooming click.

“No, no, shit,” Steven hissed, jiggling the handle as he tugged as hard as he could at the door. But it wouldn’t budge.

He was locked in.

“Nonono,” Steven said, his ribs tightening around his lungs. He banged on the door, hoping someone nearby would hear him. “Let me out! Let me out!”

The light flickered again, cutting out for a moment before coming back on. Steven went tense, staring up at it apprehensively. The shadows in the room danced along with the wavering light, creeping in closer and closer as the light dimmed further and further. And then, with a hiss, the light sparked and went out.

The darkness swallowed the room whole.

Steven yelped, and in his panic, he bumped into one of the closest shelves. Something crashed to the ground, which only made him panic more. He scrambled away until he felt the wall against his back, and pressed himself against it.

“No, no,” he whimpered through gasps. He sunk down and cradled his arms to his chest.

The room was too small, too small, there wasn't enough air, he was trapped, he was never getting out, he needed someone to help him, please, please, come and help me, I need you, I need you M—

Another howl of wind brushed past him, and Steven flinched away with a whimper. 

The wind only got worse, the shelves rattling like chains around him. Steven curled in himself, tucking his head against his knees and closing his eyes to pretend the darkness was by choice. The sound, however, could not be escaped, even when he covered his ears. It was just too loud to ignore.

But amongst the clatter and banging and the sound of rain, there was a whisper of something. At first, he thought it was simply the wind. But as it went on, he realised it was a word that he was hearing, being repeated again and again.

“Lock. Lock. LOCK.”

With each whisper, the word got louder and louder, until it was impossible to believe it was nothing more than the wind. Someone was in here, and they were speaking to him.

“LOCK,” the darkness insisted. “LOCK.”

“I, I, I can’t open it,” Steven stammered out between gasps. “The key doesn’t—it doesn’t work on this side.”

“LOCK.”

“I can’t open it! Go away! Leave me alone!”

“Steven?”

He went still. That hadn’t been the whisper.

Steven blinked his eyes open, and lowered his arms away from his head, peering out warily from his safe place in the corner.

The wind was gone. The room was quiet. But most importantly, the door was open. Dylan stood silhouetted, the light streaming past her to illuminate the wrecked shelves. He could barely make out her expression, but it was clear she was shocked.

“What the hell happened in here?” she said.

Steven swallowed and shook his head, unable to speak. He didn’t know, he didn’t know, none of it made sense. What had that voice been? Because it had only been him in the room. And...and...

He’d...no. No.

He didn’t...what had happened? He backtracked through his thoughts, trying to remember what he'd been thinking. But there was only an irritating absence where the memory should have been. 

Dylan tried flipping the light switch on, but all it gave was a sad click. She hummed, and muttered something about bad electricians before giving up.

“Come on,” she said, gesturing for him to make his way over to the door. “Don’t want the both of us getting locked in.”

Steven realised what a sorry sight he must look, curled up in the corner, and he quickly scrambled to his feet and followed her out of the room.

Whatever had happened in the darkness had left him utterly exhausted, and the moment he found a free chair, he slumped down into it.

Dylan took the chair beside him, watching him intently. “You don't have to feel embarrassed about telling me this, okay, I just need to know: did you have a panic attack?”

Steven fiddled with his sleeves, unable to look her in the eye. “I...I think so.” That sounded right. He got stuck in a small space, and the darkness had tipped him over the edge. “The doorstop didn't work. The door...um. I got stuck. I couldn’t get out. And. And the light.”

“You claustrophobic?” she said, saving him from having to explain any further. 

Steven nodded. He'd never thought of himself as such, and couldn't recall any other times he'd been distressed by a small space, but it sounded right. It certainly explained his over the top reaction. Didn’t make it any less embarrassing. He swallowed and pulled his arms closer to himself, still too overwhelmed by what had happened to really put his thoughts together coherently. Dylan sat beside him, allowing the silence to linger.

“Alright,” she said eventually, patting herself on the knees before pushing herself up. She started to make her way out of the room.

“Wait,” Steven called out, alarmed. “Where are you going?” Was she going to tell someone about the mess he'd made? Was he going to get punished for this? The thought made him go tense. 

“I’m going to go clean the room up,” she said.

Steven took a moment to process his surprise at the answer before he went wide-eyed, and jumped to his feet. “What? No, no, you don’t have to do that. It’s my mess, I should clean it up.”

“It’s not your fault for panicking, okay.”

“But I—”

“Have clearly been having a rough day,” Dylan finished. “I'm not going to give you hell for that. Just take a beat. Maybe have some tea. I’ll get this sorted."

Steven went to argue again, but she quickly shot him down with a look. He bit his lip and looked away, squirming uncomfortably. It didn’t feel right, having someone else fix what he’d broken. Because he must have broken it, right? It’d only been him in that storage room. It was his fault and his fault alone.

But he really was tired. Having her help would be quite nice.

"Um. Well. Thank you, Dylan. I really appreciate—"

She lifted her hand, cutting him off short. "Wait, sorry, did you just call me Dylan?"

Steven squinted. "...Yes? That's your name, isn't it?"

"No. It's Jemima." She brushed back her wild red hair to uncover her name tag, which she pointed at as she gave him a bemused look. “Jeez, man, you’ve been here, what, two weeks, and you still don't know my name? That’s cold.”

Steven blinked. What? But...that couldn't be right. He peered at the tag on her shirt, and sure enough, it said ‘JEMIMA’ in big, bold letters.

"I’m sorry,” Steven stammered, “I could have sworn—”

"Nope, always been Jemima."

"I, I wasn't trying to be rude.”

“I know,” she said, gently now, if still a touch amused. “I'm not offended, honest. You did say on your first day here you have awful memory.”

Steven entangled his fingers together. “I did?”

Dy— Jemima laughed, clearly thinking he was making some sort of joke. “Yeah. Mind like a sieve, you said.”

"Um. Right." Then he paused. "Wait. Two weeks? No, that's—I've been here a year ."

"It sure does feel like that, huh."

"No, I mean I really have been here for a year. I got the job last autumn. I remember that much at least."

Jemima's amusement shifted into something unreadable. She stared at him for a moment. "Uh, yeah. I think you should probably head home, mate. Get some sleep. Sounds like you need it, bad.”

Steven flinched back, hurt at the dismissal. 

She gave him a forced smile and then walked away, leaving him alone. He curled in on himself tighter, and with no where else to go, he made his way back to the gift shop.

As he wandered down the halls, he thought about the expression on her face. The...concern, he realised now. Like she was worried about what he’d said. But why? He had gotten the job here a year ago, hadn’t he? He could remember the job interview and everything. It’d been awful, and he had certainly not been at his best, but he managed to score the position nevertheless. He’d been so proud of himself. Surely he was remembering that right.

Except....Dylan wasn’t Dylan. She was Jemima, with curly red hair and a freckled face. All this time, he’d been getting her name wrong, seeing what he wanted to see. Thinking she was someone that she wasn’t.

He'd known he was looking at what was different, that it hadn't been what he knew. But it was like everything was jamming in his brain, getting labelled with the wrong thing just so it would be the particular brand he expected it to be. So he wouldn't have to acknowledge that something had changed.

And that terrified him. What else hadn't he been perceiving right? What else was his mind lying to him about?

Lost in his thoughts as he was, he didn't watch where he was going, and didn't see Donna until it was too late. He rammed right into her, hard enough for the two of them both to topple over onto the ground. Steven managed to gather his wits quick enough to scramble to his feet, but Donna, surprised by the impact, sat on the ground slightly dazed.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Steven said frantically, reaching over to help her back to her feet. “I wasn’t paying attention, and I know I should’ve, Do—”

Steven snapped his mouth shut before he could finish that sentence. Was Donna even her name? He had been so sure that it was, but after everything with Dyl—Jemima, her name was Jemima —he wasn’t so sure anymore. As his boss brushed her shirt down, he peered at her name tag. A wave of dizziness rushed over him as he read it. 

“I’m sorry, Selena,” he said, stumbling over the name. "I...um. I didn’t. I.” He floundered, unable to find any words. He couldn’t even look at her. His head felt like it was cracking in two. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Selena said, giving him a kind smile. “I know you didn’t do it on purpose.”

Oh god. She wasn’t Donna, why had he ever thought she was Donna. They weren’t even alike, in any way.

She placed a hand on his shoulder, and gave him a concerned look. “Are you okay? You look a bit peaky.”

“Yes,” Steven said. He swallowed and drew away from her hand, curling his own together tight enough to leave crescents on his palms. “I think I might be, be a bit sick.”

Selena nodded, her worry shifting into sympathy. “Well, in that case, why don’t you go home for the rest of the day? We should be able to manage the late afternoon crowd. Just rest up and let me know this evening if you’ll be okay to come in tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” Steven said, his voice faint. “Thank you.”

He rushed away before his headache could get any worse. 

By the time he got home, he was ready to fall on the bed and not get up again for the rest of the night. He almost did just that, but was stopped when he spotted the pile of laundry in the corner, desperately waiting to be cleaned. 

“Right, the washing,” he muttered, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

He really couldn’t put it off any longer. It needed to be done. So, with a long sigh, he piled the clothes into a basket and made his way down to the communal laundry room.

There was someone already down there, and Steven hesitated in the doorway, eyeing the woman apprehensively. He’d really hoped it would just be him. Today had already been so draining, he really didn’t have any energy left to talk to anyone. But he couldn’t turn back now.

He made sure to steer himself to the washing machine furthest from her, and started to pack the clothes inside, not caring to sort them by colour like he usually did. He set the machine for a cold water wash, and was just in the process of inputting the timer when he heard shuffling footsteps behind him.

The woman was watching him. He could feel her eyes on his back, and he shivered, but did his best to ignore the sensation, pointedly focusing on fiddling with the buttons and dials.

“Hey,” the woman called. When Steven didn’t answer, she stepped closer. “Hey. Hey!”

Knowing he couldn’t ignore her any further, Steven glanced her way. She took the acknowledgement as an invitation to get closer. There was something nervous about her, her eyes darting over to the door as if she was afraid someone would catch her speaking to him. Her antsy behaviour was enough to make Steven feel antsy as well.

“Did you do it?” she whispered.

Steven squinted at her, lost. “What?”

“Is he gone? Did you get rid of him?”

“What?” he said again. “Rid of? What are you talking about?”

The woman returned her own look of confusion. “Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what?” No, actually, that wasn’t important. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

She stared at him. “You didn’t do it, did you? That’s why you’re pretending.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steven said, frustrated now. “Can you leave me alone, please?”

“You promised me you’d get rid of him,” she said, stepping in front of him. “You promised. You’ve helped everyone else, why not me? What’s wrong with me? He was hurting me. He deserves it. He deserves to die.”

Steven couldn’t take anymore of this. He turned off the machine, and pulled out his barely-washed laundry, bundling it back into his basket. He could have left it to clean and waited until it was done to return, but he didn’t want to risk bumping into the woman again, or anyone else for that matter. He couldn’t deal with anything else today. He was done.

“I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not him.”

He stormed off before she ever had the chance to reply.

The fishbowl was quiet, and it was comfortable, and Steven found himself sinking with relief into the sand. He curled in on himself, taking in a long and soothing breath. This was nice. Why would he ever want to be anywhere but here?

Outside, there was a crash of something being thrown, and then a yell, but Steven did not move from his spot, content to ignore the sounds. They weren’t important. The outside wasn’t of his concern. There was another crash, louder.

“Shit! Shit!”

“Shh,” Steven chastised.

"No, you shh. Go to sleep."

Steven cracked open an eye, curious. He was used to hearing voices on the other side of the glass, but this time it was far clearer than it usually was. He peered through the glass, trying to see whoever was going on the other side. From the blurred shapes he could make out, they seemed to be pacing to and fro. Or was it the room that was moving? How strange.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," the voice hissed. "I'm not supposed to be here."

"Why not?" Steven asked, pressing his cheek into the sand. He felt very drowsy all of a sudden.

The voice didn't seem to be paying attention to him, muttering angry words under their breath that he couldn't understand. "Everything should've been better. You were supposed to be happier without...fuck!"

There was another crash of something being thrown, and Steven sighed. "That won't help."

The room went still, and it was quiet for a time. "She can help," the voice said eventually, this time without anger. "She can help you."

Steven hummed, too tired to talk now. He was sure the person on the other side of the glass would find a way to fix whatever it was that was wrong. They seemed like someone who knew how to do that. Shame he couldn't have talked to them longer, but he was struggling to stay awake now. So, with some regret, he closed his eyes and let himself drift off.

The next morning was far nicer than the one before, much to Steven’s relief. He woke from a dreamless but restorative sleep, and was glad to find he’d awoken on time. Steven enjoyed the comfort of his usual routine, with just enough time to give the goldfish plant a good water before he had to leave to catch his bus.

His usual bus was as busy as ever, but the woman from the day before wasn’t in sight, much to his relief.  He was also lucky enough to score himself a seat for a change, and he laid his head against the window, letting himself daydream again—this time of ships and pyramids—until he reached his stop.

He made sure to avoid Dylan and Donna as he made his way to the shop. He was still rather embarrassed about his behaviour from the day before, and he wasn’t quite ready to talk to them about it yet. He would eventually, when he was comfortable. For now, he just wanted to focus on work. 

Friday was always one of the busier days at the museum thanks to the later closing time, so he wasn’t surprised when the shop quickly became crowded with students on class excursions and tourists looking for a novelty to take back home with them. The day passed like usual, and while he was still tired from the day before, he managed to handle the crowd as well as could be expected. He only had to deal with one angry customer, which was quite the win, he thought.

Eventually, his lunch break came, and he packed up his bag in preparation to go round to the museum’s cafe. He’d heard some of the security guards raving about the new range of vegan cakes they had for sale, and he wanted to try them out.

As he wandered out of the shop, he noticed there was a woman standing just outside of it, peering curiously at some of the books that were laid out on the exterior shelves. 

There was nothing about her that should have made him stop and pay attention, but that was what he found himself doing. She was wearing a thick jacket, her hands shoved in the pockets in an attempt to stay warm, even though it wasn't all that cold in here. Her curly hair was tied by, allowing him to see the light freckles on her face, and the rich darkness of her eyes. 

Oh. She was rather pretty. Really pretty actually. Steven watched her, enamoured by her eyes and her smile. He wasn't sure why, but when he looked at her, he thought of sand and stargazing and the smell of cardamom. But more particularly, there was a feeling of comfort.

How strange, to think that of someone he’d never met.

When she glanced his way, he sent her a pleasant smile. 

Her eyes did not gloss over him. She didn't send him a quick and polite smile in return. She didn't glance over her shoulder and wonder if his smile was saved for someone else. 

She didn't do any of the things he'd learnt to expect. 

When she saw him, her eyes lit up, in what could have been surprise or recognition. Without even a moment of hesitation, she started to make her way towards him. 

Uh. Okay. Steven shuffled nervously from foot to foot. Not exactly the reaction he'd been expecting, but he could handle this. He was pretty good at talking when he needed to be. He could—wow, she was walking really fast. He didn't realise he'd made such an impression. Should he wave? She was raising her hands and—

The woman threw her arms around him and pulled him into a big hug. Steven stiffened at the sudden touch.

"Um," he said, every script he'd been writing up in his mind to use now shredded to pieces. "Hello?"

The woman didn't seem to notice his discomfort. "Oh thank god, you're okay. Why didn't you call me sooner?"

Steven wasn't really sure what to take from any of that. "Call...you?"

"Yeah, call me," she said, pulling away to give him a stern look. "You both promised to not go radio silent on me. Do you have any idea how much it worried me when I came home from my mission and you weren't there? I thought something might have happened."

Worried? Why was she worried about him? Steven withdrew from her. “I. Um. I think you might be mistaking me for someone else."

The woman stared at him, clearly taken aback. She glanced at a band of tourists who stood closeby and then leaned in. "Are you working undercover right now?" she whispered. 

Steven backed away from her even further, which only made her frown deepen. 

"I really do think there's been a mistake," he said, smiling as politely as he could. "I think you might be looking for someone else."

The woman gaped at him. "Steven," she said. "What are you—why are you pretending you don't know me? What's happening?"

"What? I'm not pretending."

She scowled. "If this is some kind of twisted joke, it's not funny. I—"

"It’s not," Steven cut in, hoping to assuage her anger, and just a tad bit annoyed that she thought he would lie about something like this. "I really don't know who you are. Should I?"

She stared at him, eyes wide. Then she shook herself, a different expression settling onto her face. "Can Marc hear me right now?"

"What?" Steven said, startled by the question.

"Marc. Is Marc here?"

Steven glanced around, confused. "I'm sorry. I'm a bit lost right now." he said. "Who's Marc?"