The morning light was dull, but there: sunrise was long gone. Overslept was an understatement. Maisero picked an outfit blind from his closet and slipped it on, deemed it agreeable enough, then stepped into the living room and lifted his briefcase from the floor. He opened it and withdrew the used pages, dropping them on the ground with the others, and took a new ream of paper with him.

He only paused after gripping the knob of the front door. Most of the joints in his hands were throbbing. So was much of his back. It always came in the morning, and although he walked it out on his way to the library, it always returned the next day. It was only morning stiffness, he thought, and pushed the thought aside.

Maisero twisted the knob and stepped into a wet morning. Fog had taken up the sunlight’s airtime. Although the houses across the street were there, they were difficult to make out. Good, he thought; no need to worry about the eyes of his neighbors. The heavy air against his skin, by comparison, was a minor inconvenience.

As Maisero finished locking the door behind him, he remembered his walk to the pier the night before. The dirty child that had been standing there, watching the fading sun and the rising moonlight. Strange thing, he was, but no better than a rat. The child would have already left by now, anyway, Maisero wondered. There was a small pang in his chest, but an easily ignorable one. Off to the library.

“Hello?” a voice peeped. Maisero hoped a second later, after regaining consciousness, that none of his neighbors had seen him jump like a startled cat on his porch. His hand was clamped back on the doorknob. The voice had come from under the stairwell. It had to be an intruder, waiting for him to let his guard down; or worse, a savage, intelligent animal, here to devour him; or even worse, some sort of demon here to punish him for his sins! Maisero smiled weakly. Still, he made no reply, and hoped the voice would stay quiet.

“Hello? Anybody there?” Maisero groaned silently, then took a violent step back. Eight small and slender fingers, dirty and greasy in the moist air, took hold of the wooden boards. Above them emerged a familiar face.

“Hello, sir,” the boy said, eyes wide and almost laughing. The boy was shaking, and his arms were covered in gooseflesh.

“How did you find me? Did you follow me last night, child? I will not—”

“No, sir, I promise I didn’t. When you left I went wandering in the city for a place to sleep, and I found this street, and I thought this little spot here was—cozy—”

“This? This—this is my corner, and you better get off of it and my grass immediately!”

Now the boy’s smile grew a little wider. He got onto his feet and hopped onto the street, hands held behind his back. Now that he’d mentioned it, the grass of his front yard was growing as spotty as his head.

“Sir—”

“Hmm? What’re you still doing here? Go back from wherever you came!”

Now the boy’s face fell, and a real pang stung in his chest. The boy’s cheeks were as dirty as his hands. His clothes were too, and the holes in them weren’t serving much purpose either. His first line of thought was a classic, tried and true: find the authorities and hand the boy over. Not your responsibility. But another voice, quieter but further lodged in his mind, shoved the other out of the way: Just take the boy with you! What will he do, take your things? You have nothing worth losing. That strain was a thought for another day, but something about it started to cool his head.

“What did you say your name was, boy?”

“Sartore.”

“Sartore. I’ll have you follow me, if you will. I’ll be taking you to the library. You, however, must follow me. If you get lost, get distracted, or for any reason deviate from my path, I will not turn back to save you. Understood?”

Sartore nodded, and he grinned. Maisero noticed now how the boy’s lips trembled; how the boy’s body trembled. But—no matter.

Sartore followed Maisero through the twists and turns of the alleyways. Maisero kept as close to the shadows cast by the surrounding buildings as possible, head bent down. Sartore’s legs didn’t have Maisero’s reach, but he could keep up.

Eventually the stone walls and structures disappeared, and the pair arrived at the base of a long staircase, made of shining marble, topped by the library. The roof was held up by long pillars, and the sun was nearly blinding on its front face. Sartore thought it captured the same glow he had seen so long ago over the city.

A day ago.

“Hurry up,” Maisero said, and started upwards. Sartore thought he almost lost the old man, and leaped forward to catch up. A few of those steps were enough to wind Sartore, but when he looked up at Maisero, he saw him entirely untroubled.

At the top, Maisero finally turned. His face had hardened, having reached his empire.

“Let’s go,” Maisero part shouted down at the nearing figure of Sartore. Finally achieving the top himself, Sartore took a moment to pant and spit on the marble floor of the library’s entrance. Maisero grimaced, but kept silent. Sartore scurried up to Maisero’s feet when he had regained some strength, and waited there. Maisero took one gnarled hand and grasped the black handle of the library entrance, and pulled it back.

The door creaked open. The dust in the library shimmered like specks of gold in the intruding light. Maisero shoved Sartore in and let the door shut heavily behind them.

“Keep quiet,” Maisero whispered, then moved forward himself. Sartore watched him fix his eyes on one of the tables, and there set up camp, dropping his briefcase and withdrawing a few sheets of paper. Sartore drew his breath, held it as Maisero’s eyes set on him. Sartore stepped forward.