Euclid Leaf
Metamorphasis, Genesis, Metastasis
Contents
[Within the sprawling files shared by the mysterious Wallflower, there would be a folded handwritten note. Inside it reads:'You may have noticed by now, the tape recorder no longer replays my message. Another precaution I must include, I'm afraid.
If you wish to take my offer, I shall present you only one chance.
On April 7, three hours before noon, go to the intersection where South Station is located, between Summer Street and Atlantic Avenue. There you will find a contact. They will only wait 15 minutes, so I suggest not coming late. They can be identified by an article in their possession. I shall give you a hint. 'What goes up when the rain comes down? Blue like the sky, and black like the night.' Once you have identified them, tell them Mr. Wallflower has sent you.
If you choose to decline my offer, I wish you all the luck in the world."]
...
A new dawn marked a new day, for most people. However, a city never truly goes to sleep.
This was just the end of another long night.
The late night rain covered the whole of Boston in a faint mist, a sweeping fog that rose above the ocean and skyline. It would appear the sun, too, rose grumpily amidst the shivering cold dew. The rustling waters glimmering rose gold as water ferries departed down the bay for their first passengers in Quincy. The horns, as loud as they are, were drowned out in the restless commotion of the highway already being packed by the flocks of cars.
The rousing streets of a waking city are a callous display of all the shades of humanity. A noisy backdrop underneath the towering structures of concrete and steel. There, vast stages where thousands upon thousands gathered. Whether it be the rosy silence of a school in session, or a stale drowsy office during a morning meeting. The exchanges offered in stoic halls of a national reserve are no different than the festivities found at the carnival, in their importance. Each person had an equal part, in this grand play. It was a script shared by everyone, yet no one knew all the words. Still, despite their ignorance, the spirited actors were guided along in their desire to see how it would unfold. There was excitement in not knowing. But there is also risk. Sometimes the part is one of tragedy, such as the home invasion and unsolved homicide of the daughter of a broken family. Or the play was of a happier tune, a scene of youthful kids prancing around the bus stop, stumbling across the puddles in giggling delight.
Together, these opposing scenes formed the aches and joys of life.
However, at the moment, interrupting the flow of the play, was a woman standing out on Summer Street. In her hands, a pale blue umbrella that was held high overhead.
Her attire might give someone the impression that she was an attendee at a nearby funeral, fitted with a dress suit of all black. A white bouquet was held firmly at her chest like mountainside lilies.
Her pretty, round face resembled that of a doll. Though that may lie, in large part, due to her expression. Or lack, thereof.
It was hard to decide whether her gloominess was a result of the downcast, but her expression reflected the chilling weather. Rock formations by the shore seemed animated with how still and firmly she held herself. There, in the morning rush of the main street, the bustling crowds were like pounding waves. But even the crashing waves of bodies were forced to shift around the woman. People ducked and weaved to avoid a collision. Whether out of courtesy, or fear of responsibility. And much like a storm brewing at the edge the sea, there were a few who showed their displeasure. From their mouths spilled thunderous curses. But she didn't pay attention. Not to them, nor echoes of her favorite chorus playing in her earphones.
As she had been told, the woman remained as a statue.
Her melancholic eyes were completely calm despite the storm surrounding her. But it was clear she was focused elsewhere than the noise of the world. The woman faced the adjacent coffee shop bordering the train terminals, but her stare was not on the people cramped within. But what was between. Her eyes followed the droplets streaking across the glass of the window, as if stuck in a trance. As gravity pulled on them, they slowly left down-facing streaks across the surface.
If it wasn't clear enough, there was something pretty odd about her.
...
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