The city was alive by sunrise, the streets packed with horses pulling carts, soon to be shopkeepers setting up camp and crossing the busy stream to their usual hideouts. Even from under horse hooves and trampling feet, everything Sartore thought he saw had beauty to it. The gilded path ahead of him was clear; a line drawn between those early travellers to the docks. Sartore hopped onto a range of white wooden boards, relishing the cool breeze, then hopped onto the wide railing that stood over the dock.

And there was the ocean. His little lake from back home could fit in what he saw many hundreds of times over; and the water continued off the horizon, and pouring out to nowhere. The dark and azure scales of water surface shifted infinitely in every direction all moving at once, beckoning to one harmonious force.

Sartore imagined seeing a large sea creature, like the one fabled to live at the bottom of the old Lake, leaping out of the water and falling back in with little disturbance. Sartore went a step further and imagined a leviathan that better fit the size of the ocean, but panicked a little at the thought.

And the sunrise—

—had already ended. Like someone turning out the lights, the golden shading disappeared. The small, white and murky circle of the sun already hung up in the clear blue sky. He’d missed it. An even deeper panic set into his heart, like the feeling of a memory just out of reach, on the tip of the tongue, but despite the shock, Sartore could breath a little easier with a word of solace: Find the sun.

“Get out of here, rat!”

Sartore scrambled back, teetering on the railing. A bald, burly man faced him with gritted teeth, brandishing his mop. Sartore’s heart was beating in his head, chest, and every vessel.

“Get out of here, or I’ll swat you off and scrape you off the docks!”

Oh yes, Sartore thought. The docks. Now that the aggressive man mentioned it, the docks themselves were pretty far under him, twenty, maybe thirty feet below.

“Get!” The man said, swinging the mop at Sartore. Sartore leapt off before the man could connect and ran down the wooden boards.

Sartore emerged on the other side of the rushing stream of people a few moments later. There were a few closed shops and an array of dark windows that watched the sidewalk. Sartore turned and watched the old man, mop in hand, hobble down the pier.

While the sudden panic had gone, the tremors in front of him remained. It was, he discovered, a lot of people rushing past him now, more than he’d ever seen. The largest gathering he’d ever witnessed would have been the feast—

What feast? Sartore thought. His mind blanked; but the street and its people continued to roar, and his heart stuttered.

But the wisp of a smell gave him some comfort. Somewhere on the left trailed the scent of fresh bread, flowing from the front door of a shop with the name “Saveli’s” hanging over its door. Sartore drifted there, pulling down the knapsack from his shoulders and pulling out some cash—

—but it was gone. Gone for some time now, he realized. He felt for the missing strap on his shoulder and turned to it, but nothing appeared. Somewhere in the woods, he thought. The city’s exit seemed awfully dark to him now, a verdant, many-toothed maw. And no matter how close they were, the blur of the faceless mob spat at him. Sartore found a small corner large enough to crouch in beside the bakery, and sat there, legs pressed against his chest.

And soon enough, even the memory of the knapsack faded.

Sartore could hear the crowded chatter through the walls, and the sound of steam rising over it all and fogging up the windows. The sweet smell of dough came in waves whenever the front door swung open. Those leaving would only afford a quick glance at Sartore before walking away with a spring in their steps. The occasional human would break off a corner of bread or confectionary and drop it into Sartore’s lap; Sartore looked dumbly at the crumb, and waited to eat it.

As the sun reached higher into the sky, so too did the shadows grow darker. The streets cleared soon enough, and to replace the constant shuffle came dark silhouettes emerging from the corners. Disgruntled characters with too many layers of clothing, young and old, carrying all of their belongings on their backs, the shadows long on their faces. They spat, shuffled along, scratched at their wild beards.

“You could be doing a lot better, kid.”

Standing a foot from Sartore’s corner was exactly one of those figures. He wore a faded green jacket that dropped to his knees. His beard looked like dirty black cotton candy. Sartore could tell everything in his eyes: greedy.

“I’m doing fine right here,” Sartore replied, taking a small bite of one of those bread crusts. The figure’s eyes flashed, and he gave his best attempt at a comfortable smile.

“You see all these people?” he said, waving his hand at the others. “Each of them would’ve made a lot more in bread if they were in your shoes. Do you know how easy it would be? All you had to do, all you had to do, was look up at the rich folk passing by and pout a little, beg a little, just for a little food, and they would’ve given you their hearts and souls. But instead you’re sitting here letting your opportunities go to waste. And they walked right past you like you were a mangy cat!”

Sartore considered the words briefly, then turned back to the man, expressionless.

“Oh you damn child! You’ll have to pay for that.” The man stepped forward, and Sartore realized that he had few avenues to escape—although no panic accompanied the thought.

“What do you want?” Sartore asked. The man considered the question for a moment.

“Give me your shoes.”

Sartore untied them and handed them to the figure’s outstretched hand.

“These are nice. Good material, I think. I think I can sell them for a good price. But you were gonna keep wearing them out like the brat you are.”

Sartore said nothing.

“I’ll leave you be. Disrespect me one more time, though, and I’ll have to take everything else.”

And the figure left.

And sometime shortly thereafter, as the street became mostly uneventful, Sartore fell asleep.

He knew only that his dream was some sort of memory, but not one he could remember. He stood in front of what must have once been a village, now uprooted and flattened. Bodies lay half-buried in the wood. Beside Sartore was the only house that remained intact. That one in particular rang some sort of bell, but the noise was quiet. He began to cry, hoping for something or someone to free him from this prison.

That time was still to come.

Sartore awoke as the sky began to darken, dried tears on his cheeks. There were more city-dwellers shuffling about now. The fog of sleep still clung to him, and kept part of him, the old part of him, in perpetual slumber. He rose, stretched his back and rubbed his eyes, and looked out at the shore.

This is it. Finally. Here. The sun.

Sartore walked to the same place he’d sat before, and watched. But as the sun descended, so too did his spirits. There was a brief flash of colors, and then a darker, milky blue, and then night. And the night was cold. The tears might return soon, Sartore thought to himself, but there was one thought that would satisfy him, as far as he could be: there would always be tomorrow.

Find the sun.

But there was nothing to find here. Perhaps on the horizon, but not here. Not—

“Hello, child.”