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  December 21, 2012 – Old Acorus Park, New Babylon – 4:00 PM

  I stood on the Pink Bridge.

  It wasn’t pink. Just a name someone gave it ages ago – the kind that sticks, even if no one remembers why. Maybe it was my dad who told me that. Maybe I made it up.

  I don’t remember anymore.

  Either way, I liked that it had a name. Names make things real.

  The bridge wasn’t much. Two shaky planks stretched over a thin stream that called itself a river. No rails. No signs. Just enough wood to dare you across. On either side, two little hills slouched under trees, separated like the parted palms of hands that had once joined but had to let go.

  The afternoon air bit at my cheeks, cold enough to turn my breath into small clouds. I exhaled slowly, watching the haze drift before me, dissolving into nothingness. Then I dropped my Hello Kitty backpack – the same one I’d had since first grade, patched up with tape and marker doodles, and dug around inside.

  My fingers found a crumpled sheet of red paper, soft at the edges from too many folds. Then I sat down in the middle of the bridge and began my craft.

  Crease, turn, fold. Crease, turn, fold. There was something steady in that rhythm. When I finished, I held up the boat – my best one yet – and let the fading light illuminate my masterpiece.

  If I were small enough, I would’ve climbed inside, sailing it on my own instead of watching it drift from the bridge. I looked downstream. Far below the hill, past the sleepy trees of the park, the river curved toward the darkening horizon – toward the Endless Sea.

  Yes, that’s what I wanted.

  To let the river carry me all the way down, past the park and the temple, past the harbor at the edge of town, to the sea.

  And then that feeling came, that ache. A quiet kind. It settled in my chest as I remembered the truth:

  I wasn’t small enough.

  But back to my boat. It was a thing of beauty, really. A tiny, delicate little miracle, made by my hands. Made to carry something important away.

  From my backpack, I pulled out a black Sharpie – cap chewed, ink running low – and pressed it to the side of the boat. In tiny, pretty letters, I wrote: ‘The Pearl of the Blue.’

  Underneath it, I added my initials: MS. Molly Sparrow.

  So, if someone ever found it, out there in the sea, or maybe someplace else, they’d know who it belonged to, the one who sent it away.

  The voyage didn’t go the way I’d hoped.

  It was supposed to be perfect – a quiet goodbye, a clean launch. But the boat didn’t even make it five feet before it got stuck on a stupid branch. I climbed down from the Pink Bridge and stood at the edge of the stream, trying to stretch my arm far enough to grab the stick.

  My fingers skimmed the water. Almost. Not quite. I tried again. And again. One more almost, and I nearly slipped in completely. The water looked like it had frostbite. So I gave up. Sat down in the mud and stared at the poor little boat, caught in a swirl just out of reach. The water spun it slowly, like it was trying to decide whether to let it go.

  That’s when I got my genius idea.

  I kicked off my yellow boot – the left one, the one with the smiley face sticker that never quite came off – and stretched my leg out over the water. One last chance. All or nothing.

  And I got it.

  I pinched the stick between my toes and yanked it back. The branch came loose, the boat twitched, and then – just like that – it was free. Off it went, sailing again like it never got stuck at all.

  I grinned so hard my cheeks hurt. Then I realized I was freezing. My sock was soggy, my fingers were red, and I couldn’t feel my ears.

  I shoved my boot back on and pulled my wool hat down until it nearly covered my eyes. As I stood up, I noticed this old couple staring at me like I was some weird little statue, part of the scenery.

  I stuck my tongue out at them.

  Then I ran back up to the bridge. My Hello Kitty backpack was still there, waiting for me, like it knew I’d be back.

  Then it hit me. I’d told Ethan I’d be back in a minute.

  I bolted.

  The path through Old Acorus twisted under my feet – damp leaves slick from last night’s rain, tree roots curling out like they were trying to trip me. The cold wind was slicing through my coat and stinging my cheeks. My breath came in little white bursts, my red curls streamed behind me like fire unraveling from my head.

  I could see the hill up ahead – the patch of grass we’d claimed as our own, right at the edge of the park. The oak tree we always sat under was crooked and knotted, its bare branches scratching at the sky.

  And there he was: My big brother Ethan, exactly where I left him.

  He was tucked under the tree, coat open like he didn’t even feel the cold, back against the bark, knees drawn up just enough to balance the hardcover brick of a book resting across them. His glasses – always a little too big – had slid down to the tip of his nose, and his eyes flicked left to right, fast and focused. He didn’t blink. Didn’t look up.

  Didn’t notice me at all.

  I collapsed next to him, almost dying, gasping for air, heart doing drum solos in my chest.

  Ethan turned a page.

  “Why are you panting like a dog?” he said, still not looking.

  I rolled over onto my back, still wheezing.

  “I saved the boat,” I said between gulps of air. “It was stuck, and I saved it. With my toes.”

  “Congratulations,” Ethan muttered, still reading.

  “I think it’s gone to the Endless Sea,” I said quietly.

  He didn’t answer. But I saw him glance up again, just for a second – like maybe he believed it too.

  Then, out of nowhere, I was struck by the urge to run away from home. Not far. Just to the Pink Bridge. I’d live underneath it, become a troll, demanding a symbolic toll from anyone who crossed. The bridge was too small for a troll, but I didn’t care.

  We stayed there for a while, not saying a word, just breathing. The kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty. Above us, the clouds began to blend – purples and grays folding into one another, as if the sky were pulling up its blanket for the night.

  It was going to rain that night.

  “All right,” Ethan sighed. “We need to go. Dad’ll be angry if we’re late.”

  “Are we watching a movie tonight?” I asked, hopefully, as I helped him up. He brushed himself off, grass stains blooming green on his knees.

  “I need to study,” he said. “And don’t give me that look – it’s a school night. Are you even done with your homework?”

  I started smiling. That slow, devilish kind of smile. The one who said, ‘Of course not, and you already knew that.’

  We left the park together – well, he walked. I skipped-hopped across the gravel path, leaping over puddles like a champion. Then down the railway, through the shortcut alleys and side streets, back toward our neighborhood.

  The first raindrop hit my shoulder. The second one tried too, but I was quicker – I yanked my umbrella from my backpack, yellow and speckled with tiny banana cartoons, and ducked beneath it. Ethan’s was plain black, of course.

  The drizzle turned into a downpour. The street shimmered under it, empty except for us. Or at least, it felt empty. Like the world had slipped into another layer – just me and Ethan and the hush of falling water.

  I paused for a second, tilted my head back, and let the cold drops tap against my cheeks. They ran down to my collarbones and disappeared under my scarf. Somewhere nearby, the water trickled back into the stream – maybe the same stream from the Pink Bridge, maybe a different one. It didn’t matter. It sounded the same.

  That feeling came back. Quiet, slow. Like the moment between breathing in and breathing out.

  Ethan glanced sideways at me, then smirked and started to recite:

  “Molly Sparrow’s

  Boat on the narrows

  Into the sea she goes,

  Molly-poly-oly!”

  I stared at him in outrage. “That doesn’t even rhyme!”

  But he just smiled.

  It was a fifteen-minute walk home from where the railway dropped us, sometimes twenty on rainy days like this one. I tried to find a clever way to hold my umbrella while still hugging myself tightly, but my arms got tangled. I looked ridiculous.

  As usual, I regretted going out in the cold. I knew the rules. If I went to bed chilled, the chances of sleepwalking would go up. I always told myself I’d be careful. But Ethan said he wanted to go to the park, and I wanted to go with him.

  That rainy day... I remember every moment of it. Ethan was nineteen. I was only eight. That rainy day, down by the pink bridge.

  And then the night.

  Strands of auburn hair kept slipping out from under my wool hat. I pushed them back, stubbornly, again and again. We passed a big green trash bin, the kind that always smelled faintly like metal and soup. A piece of cardboard was propped against it, and beneath it, a cat was hiding – eyes glowing in the final lights of the day, curled in a little loaf of survival.

  I had never been allowed to adopt a pet. I wondered what life with a cat might be like. Then I thought about a cookie I once ate. My thoughts wandered the way they always did, one idea tumbling over another, until—

  I bumped into someone. I stumbled back, my umbrella tilting sideways as I gasped.

  There was a sharp, sour scent – it burned in my nose like smoke and rust and something I wasn’t old enough to name.

  The man before me looked like the kind of person the world forgot on purpose. Bearded, filthy. Even the rain seemed to avoid him. His hair was crammed beneath a threadbare knit cap, and his grayish-green coat hung on him like it didn’t want to be there either. In his hands, he clutched a newspaper so soaked it peeled apart like dead leaves – no way anyone could read it now.

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  He stared at me, dazed – and then something in his face lit up, like lightning behind clouds. Sudden. Feverish.

  “Oh, heavens above, to witness—no, to collide!” he muttered, his voice ragged, teeth dark and crumbling. He took a step toward me, speaking louder now – so loud the rain couldn’t drown him out.

  “Sir, we don’t have any money,” Ethan said sharply, already stepping between us.

  But the man shook his head violently. “No! You have to listen! He took our memory, but HE can’t take our eyes! WE SEE. I see you. And you will see all of us… You’ll kill all of us.”

  His hand shot out and grabbed me.

  Ethan yelled. I think he tried to hit him, maybe pull him away – I don’t remember the words, just my brother’s tone, high and wild and scared.

  But I remember the man’s words.

  “The day of Judgment is near,” he growled, shaking, “but no-you won’t judge us. Nor the false prophets.

  It will be the earth. Yes... The earth will rise from its bed, from its grave of blood… It will swallow us whole. Wrath of infinity. Like thousands mortars made of vines…”

  His grip tightened. His face was inches from mine.

  “You… you hear Him, don’t you, Tangerine?”

  My breath caught. The world tilted.

  He turned, suddenly, looking toward the bushes like something had whispered there.

  “They’re watching us,” he hissed. “Every shadowed corner. Talons. Paws. Cursorials.

  They’re there.

  Waiting for you.

  Waiting for you to stand at the highest place…”

  His voice unraveled. And then, just as suddenly, he stopped.

  A faraway look spread across his face, soft and strange, like someone switching off.

  He let go, turned, and walked away, as the rain kept falling. Ethan grabbed my hand. Neither of us spoke.

  We ran the rest of the way home.

  Our apartment was on the sixth floor of the building. But for now, Ethan and I sat in the lobby – half-soaked, shoes squelching, jackets dripping onto the tile – watching the rain through the glass doors. It felt like the almost of home. Safe, but not quite there yet.

  “Are you alright?” he asked. His voice was soft, but I could hear the worry stitched into it.

  I just nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “That… he was just so crazy.” He looked down at his shoes. Even then, I knew he felt guilty.. Like he couldn’t protect me.

  “But he was harmless, you know that, right? Those people… the ones from the harbor district… they can be like that.”

  I didn’t answer. Instead, I asked, “Can you sing me that song again?”

  And so he did.

  His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, echoing in the tiled lobby like something from a dream.

  “Molly Sparrow’s

  Boat on the narrows

  Into the sea she goes...

  Molly-poly-oly...”

  The front door of our apartment greeted us with a handmade sign taped slightly crooked to the wood – a piece of stiff pink construction paper, curling at the corners, covered in doodled rabbits and my careful, uneven handwriting:

  Here live Molly Sparrow and some other people.

  My parents thought it was adorable. Ethan didn’t.

  The door creaked as it swung open – the kind of old, soft creak you barely notice until you’ve lived somewhere long enough for it to become part of your life’s soundtrack. The smell of home wrapped around us right away. We stepped into a wide double room that served as both a living room and a kitchen. The living room was a maze of cozy clutter – shelves stacked with art books and cracked pottery, a crooked standing lamp that leaned like it was listening, and sculptures from Mom’s collection perched on every flat surface. They were strange and beautiful – twisted stone figures with too many limbs, or none at all.

  The walls were covered in framed photos: birthdays, vacations, blurry candid shots of Ethan and me from years ago.

  At the far end of the room stood a wide glass window, supposed to provide a view of the city.

  In reality, it offered a close-up of someone else's wall – just another patchwork of concrete, rusted pipes, and satellite dishes. Even the skies were blocked by buildings on buildings on buildings.

  But just to the left, framed perfectly between two towers, there was one window. Her window. The ballet dancer. She lived alone, I think. Always practicing, always graceful. Sometimes I watched her for whole afternoons, imagining she was dancing for me alone.

  A narrow hallway split the living room from the kitchen and stretched toward the bedrooms and bathroom. My room was the one at the very end.

  We dropped our backpacks by the entrance with twin thuds and kicked off our shoes. The security system let out its usual warning beep, but Ethan silenced it with muscle memory before it could scold us.

  Rain slammed against the big window in slow, rhythmic waves. It made everything feel far away – muffled and gray, like we were underwater.

  I rubbed my hands together, fingers stiff and red, and headed to my room to change into the warmest clothes I could find: fleece pajamas with dancing foxes, and the fuzzy socks with little grips on the soles. Then I returned to the living room, dragging two extra comforters behind me, bundled like offerings. You could never be too safe from cold.

  Ethan had wandered into the kitchen. He was reading a note stuck to the fridge with a cat magnet – our mom’s neat handwriting in blue pen:

  Dinner is in the oven. Use the mittens this time! If anything happens, call the restaurant.

  She always wrote “if anything happens.”

  They were already out on their date night – one of those mandatory “reconnect” things their therapist had told them to do, or at least that’s what Ethan had told me. I didn’t know much about that stuff. I just knew they used to fight a lot, and now they didn’t.

  Ethan came back and flopped onto the couch beside me. The TV was on, but only static snow danced across the screen – the antenna always went weird when it rained too hard.

  “You look like a wet, sad hippo,” he said, patting my head like I was a pet he regretted adopting. His hair was just like mine – thick and curly – but cropped short and brown like Mom’s.

  He pulled his textbook into his lap and went back to studying. I sat beside him under a pile of blankets, watching the television flicker like it was trying to tell me something.

  Then I got bored.

  I dragged my feet down the hall and into my room. It was dim and familiar – soft shadows under the bed, the hum of the radiator like a faraway beehive. From my backpack, I pulled the stack of red paper and returned it to its place on the bottom shelf, tucked beneath an old shoebox full of erasers and buttons.

  I stood there for a moment, staring at my walls.

  They were covered in drawings – wild, overlapping murals of creatures and towers and oceans, stretching corner to corner. On the corner, there was a drawn figure I called “Mr. Shady,” a blob made out of stars and shadows. He was my favorite drawing.

  My mom had once bought me poster boards and canvases. I never used them. Too neat. Too clean. The walls were better. The walls felt mine. I pulled open the drawer under my bed and took out my favorite pencils – half-worn black and red ones, their ends chewed and labels rubbed off. I knelt down, scanning the surface until I found it: a small patch of untouched space, hidden between a flying wolf and a snail with a castle on top of his shell.

  That’s where I started.

  Two eyes, huge and red.

  They stared at me as I drew them, round and watching, wide and waiting. I didn’t know who they belonged to yet. I just knew they were looking.

  I paused, pencil in hand. I wasn’t sure what to do next.

  So I left the markers where they were, slipped back into the hallway, and returned to the living room to see if the TV had started working again.

  When I came back, Ethan was on the landline.

  “Please call me,” he said quietly, his back to me. “Alan, please. I lo—”

  He stopped.

  Then he hung up.

  I didn’t say anything.

  It wasn’t my secret to ask about.

  He turned around, probably trying to figure out how much I’d heard.

  “So,” he said, shifting into a smile. “Leftovers. How about we pick a movie and eat popcorn for dinner?”

  I lit up like it was a real holiday.

  I don’t remember when I fell asleep. Probably halfway through the movie, curled up beside him on the couch, my head slipping sideways on his arm.

  He pulled the cassette out when it ended – that soft click-whirr – and carried me down the hallway, whispering something about how heavy I’d gotten.

  “Biggest kid in the world,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

  He tucked me into bed without turning on the light.

  I lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, listening.

  The rain had stopped.

  Outside, New Babylon sang its usual nighttime lullaby – distant sirens, soft engines, the hush of wind between towers. It all folded together into one quiet, familiar song. Wrapped in my green blanket, I fell into sleep, warm and safe.

  I was standing on the Pink Bridge.

  In one hand, I held my umbrella. In the other, my backpack, and around me stretched absolute darkness – thick and endless, like the world had been erased.

  The bridge was the only thing left. Floating in the void, untouched, familiar.

  But I turned away from it and stepped off.

  I hesitated for a moment, standing on nothing. My feet were bare. I didn't know where I lost my boots.

  The darkness beneath me felt… solid. Not like a floor. Almost like water. Or something in between. Something that I stirred when I moved.

  I kept walking. And with every step, I felt more certain. More sure that this was where I was meant to go.

  When I finally looked back, the Pink Bridge was drifting into the distance, swallowed by the void. It didn’t vanish. It faded, like something being forgotten.

  Then the darkness began to ripple.

  It dribbled and churned like thick ink dropped in water. Shapes began to rise from it – not quite people, not quite shadows. They glowed faintly, flickering like smoke and old film. Like memories.

  And then the voices came. Some I recognized. Some I hadn’t heard yet.

  They echoed past me, around me – sharp and gentle, angry and kind. Whispers from the past. Shouts from the future. Laughter that hadn’t happened yet.

  I moved among them, quiet and unseen. They didn’t notice me. But I noticed them.

  And they all seemed to be running – moving deeper into the dark, away from something I couldn’t see. Something still hidden, waiting.

  A large white dog appeared suddenly at my side. Its fur shimmered faintly, like it had borrowed light from some place far away. It didn’t bark. Just looked at me with clear blue eyes – calm, almost knowing – then turned and bolted toward the dark horizon.

  I ran after it.

  And as I did, the horizon began to glow. Just a little. A pale thread of light, stretching wider with every step.

  Then the trees appeared.

  I was no longer in the void – I was in a clearing, deep in the woods. The ground was soft with moss and layered leaves, all of them damp and rotting underfoot. In the center stood a wooden cabin, slumped and forgotten, half-buried beneath a thick layer of deadfall. Its roof sagged as if it were trying to collapse in on itself.

  Beside the cabin stood a tree.

  It was completely engulfed in flames. But the fire didn’t crackle. It didn’t move. It just… burned, frozen in place, like a photograph taken mid-roar.

  I saw then that it was a fruit tree. The fruit had all fallen. Dozens of red orbs littered the ground beneath it – sunken, bruised, rotting.

  I crouched and picked one up. It was red, shaped like an actual heart. Warm in my hand.

  My fingers pressed into it, and thick juice spilled over my skin, dark and heavy, like blood.

  And then I felt it. A weakness, sudden and deep – like the fruit was feeding on me instead of the other way around.

  Like it was pulling something out of me.

  I flung it away.

  The moment it hit the earth, it crumbled to ash – and with it, the tree crumbled as well, collapsing into embers and splinters.

  Then came the scream. Not of pain, but of fury, a terrible, vengeful howl that shattered the air and drove the clearing into darkness. The splinters of the tree lifted around me, dancing in slow spirals, catching invisible light as they spun. They looked almost like crystals.

  I raised my hands without thinking. The pieces rose higher, and then they scattered outward, to every edge of the sky, like something had been released.

  I didn’t understand it. But in that moment, I had never felt so proud.

  And then – there was light. And the sounds of waves. I opened my eyes.

  I was standing in the middle of the sea.

  It was calm.

  Still.

  Endless.

  There was nothing else in the world but me and the ocean.

  But something felt wrong. I looked down and understood. I was standing on the water. I could feel the wetness, the movement of the waves beneath me. But I didn’t sink. It was like standing on the soft center of an inflatable castle – little give, a little sway. Like the shadows I walked on before.

  I reached for my backpack, filled it with seawater, and took a sip: salty and awful. I spat it out and tossed the bag away. It sank before I could catch it.

  Immediately, I regretted letting it go – I’d never tried sailing my paper boats on the open ocean. The water shimmered, the sky above was bright and clean, a picture of the perfect summer day. I wondered if I could walk, if I could just keep going.

  I would be my own ship, sailing until I reached the promised shores of another place. So I lifted my right foot, and in the moment I stepped forward –

  I sank.

  The sea swallowed me whole.

  The sky vanished. The light disappeared. And everything churned into blue.

  I tried to swim upward, but I couldn’t. I was sinking fast, the ocean pulling me down like a stone. Fear struck me like a hammer. I screamed, kicked, fought—but still I sank. The world around me turned hazy and blue. The light thinned with every second as I fell deeper into the deep.

  Far off in the water, I thought I saw my mother and father–dancing, embracing, smiling. Frozen in time, like figures trapped in glass.

  The sea grew darker. But strangely, my fear began to disperse, and peace settled over – quiet and absolute, like everything around me.

  One last flicker of light passed by overhead, and then I was wrapped in darkness again, pure and soundless. My feet touched something solid: the black sand of an ocean floor.

  And from that silence, came another light, pouring out like revelation. The light of the night skies. Galaxies spun above, spiraling inward and outward like schools of silvery fish caught in a dance. They illuminated the seafloor: a black desert rising into ruins. Pillars broken in half. Statues eroded by time. Everything ancient. Everything forgotten.

  That’s when I realized I could breathe.

  Though I was completely submerged, I was breathing. My hair floated around me in long, hunting tendrils. And then the sound came.

  At first, I mistook it for a ship’s horn. But it was more than that—deeper, louder. It rang through the ocean like a bell carved into the bones of the world. A voice made of pressure.

  A presence.

  I opened my mouth, suddenly aware I could speak.

  “Is someone there?”

  It was all I could manage. The fear returned – slower this time, but heavier. Cold, sinking into my stomach like a stone.

  Something was here. Watching me. I wasn’t alone in the deep.

  “Please… show yourself!” I called into the dark.

  And he listened.

  The light changed, flooding the ocean.

  And I saw him. Not all of him. He was too vast, too ancient… too present.

  He had no edges. No beginning. No end. Just pieces. A scaled face, a body that stretched across the horizon, disappearing into galaxies and black holes, as if space itself had wrapped around him. But he was older than the sea, older than the stars.

  And then he opened his eyes.

  Red light poured from them, spilling across the ruins, staining the ocean floor in crimson. His pupils were narrow and black—wells with no bottom. And they were looking directly at me.

  “Good morning, my tangerine,” said the sea.

  And I woke up.

  I didn’t open my eyes at first, but I was aware of everything. First, I was soaked to the bone. My pajamas clung to me like skin.

  And the world was on fire.

  Explosions cracked through the air, and screams split the dark. The walls of my bedroom shook like something was clawing at them.

  I sat up in bed. The red digits on my clock glowed: 4:00 AM.

  I stood on the mattress and looked out the window. Nothing but smoke. Smoke and light. Orange. Red. Wrong. The noise grew louder. I stepped down onto the floor. My feet squelched against the wet carpet. Something was wrong. Something had happened.

  I ran to the front door and pounded on it with my fists. It wouldn’t open. Then I heard a voice – Aunt Miriam. She lived across the street. She was sobbing in terror as I screamed her name. I kept pounding until, finally, Ethan and her opened it and threw their arms around me, holding me tight. Shaking.

  “The city… the whole city…” Miriam whispered, frozen in place.

  I ran past them into the living room. Ethan yelled something, which I chose to ignore. I think it was "don’t look."

  And before me was our living room window. Its glass was gone, shattered. My feet hurt so bad.

  The buildings that blocked the horizon were gone now. Now I could see far, so far–across what used to be the city and into the burning horizon.

  The stars were falling, and my world had collapsed.

  I stood before the ashes of New Babylon.

  The Bar on the Abyss, an interactive fiction game set in the same mythos. That game and this novel share a timeline, a multiverse, a pantheon. They echo each other, but you don’t need to play one to understand the other.

  eshcohen.tumblr.com