⚜️Chapter 3⚜️ 🖤Memoir of Smoke🖤Word Count 3.9k~
You both sit in silence; confusion and uncertainty grip you tighter in your chair. You can feel a cold line of sweat forming at your brow and the base of your neck. Henri takes notice when you wipe it away with the back of your hand.
“You alright, kiddo?” It came out just above a whisper, and when you looked up, you were met with his tired brown eyes searching yours. When you didn't respond right away, you felt a warm hand rest atop your own, still clutching the orb and shaking slightly from adrenaline.
“I think...I’m fine.” You tried to give him a reassuring smile, but you know it probably didn't look all that convincing. The hammering within your chest wasn't calming down either. Your palms were starting to get clammy, and an uncomfortable heat slowly crept across your face and down the back of your neck. Impossible to ignore, no matter how hard you tried to steady yourself. Your tongue swept nervously across your lips, the flushed, supple skin tingling with something electric and unsettling. Even the air around you felt too warm, too close, charged with tension you couldn't quite name.
Calm down. Ground yourself. You thought of a little trick V had taught you when you were younger and had night terrors. It worked more often than not. Looking away from Henris warm eyes to scan the familiar surroundings, you go still and let your eyes flutter shut. A heavy hand still resting on yours.
A soft pendulum ticking somewhere- find it. Your mind lurches beyond its confines, a silent ghost of your own making. Above Henris workbench. An old brass clock with tiny vines painted in gold along its face, its glass cracked from falling off the wall recently. Good, okay. Something mechanical clicks and chirps from behind you- the birds. Their tiny copper wings flutter in the cage by the front door. One more- Hissing. Search now. It's specific. The room in the back, beyond the thin frayed curtain that smells of sawdust, its always warm and dimly lit. An old, worn corner table by the closet. The gas lamp. Its handle had been broken off long ago. Clear paste drips in dried droplets from past repairs. The milky globe foggy from constant use. The hissing sharpens as your mind reaches towards it. Got it. Now, Open.
Your eyes open, and a small gasp escapes your lips. You're met once again with the familiar warmth of brown, worry-torn eyes.
“Deary?” Henri's grasp on your hand tightens ever so softly, and there's an urgency in his voice.
You muster your best soothing smile and slip one of your hands out of his shaky ones before resting it back down softly. “It’s okay, I-I'm okay this time, I promise.”
Henry leans back in his chair, the wood giving a small, tired creak beneath him. The sound lingers in the quiet of the room, filling the space between the two of you for just a moment.
“You uh-worried me there for a moment, kid.” His voice is softer, less certain than before, as if he's still replaying what had just transpired. He exhales through his nose, shaking it off faintly, but the concern is ever-present on his features.
“For a second there, I was worried I'd rushed in the orbs making and presented it to you too soon.” His gaze drifts away for a moment, somewhere over the clutter of the room, like he's measuring his own decisions in the air. The worry shows plainly now in the crease of his brow, not sharp or stern, but softened by something more protective. Careful, almost reluctant. You know in his mind, he's trying not to overstep, all while being clearly unsettled. His demeanor makes your heart ache.
“I'm sorry if I worried you.” The apology comes out quiet, not polished or rehearsed. Just honest. He shifts slightly in the chair again, the wood answering with another low groan, and his hands settle in his lap. It's his turn to stay grounded. To stay present. For you.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Henri says softly, his tone gentle yet edged with regret. “I only wish I had more answers for you. For now, though, maybe it’s best we give the memory-retrieving device a rest, hm?” His gaze flickers to the orb in your hands. A quick, uneasy glance, before he swivels in his chair and moves back to his cluttered workbench. With steady hands, he slides open a deep drawer and retrieves a small wooden box. It's plain and tarnished by age. He opens it and waits silently, inviting you to finish the task.
You cradle the orb, feeling the cool weight sink into your palms. Its glow has faded to a dull, lifeless sheen, and the subtle hum that once buzzed against your skin has gone completely silent. Yet, even dormant, it unsettles you. A strange twisting in your gut, as if your body recognizes a threat your mind cannot name. Suppressing a shiver, you nod at Henri in mutual understanding and slowly lower the orb into its new confinement.
“What was… all of that?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper. You watch as Henri sets the box carefully on the floor beside one of the workbench legs, moving with a deliberate gentleness, as if the slightest jostle might spark an undoing.
“That,” He murmured, “is a fair and understandable question, but it's also one I can't answer, again unfortunately.” The workshop gave a small mechanical groan. He notices the subtle downturn of your features. Almost as if defeat is etched upon your brow.
“But that doesn't mean I can't help you process what's happening.” He gives a warm, reassuring smile and places a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Now, do you remember how it felt? Anything that stuck out to you?” He leaves the space open for you to explain.
“All of it. It felt like falling asleep without sleeping. Like my body disappeared but my mind stayed, just in a different place.” Henri's hands were calm in his lap as he sat intently listening to what you had to say.
“You said something about it not feeling like yours. Can you explain? Just to help me understand.” You nodded without saying anything, trying to remember details.
“The place was dark, but busy. I was standing on the pavement, on a street somewhere, and it was wet, as if it had just rained. The air was…static. Prickly, almost. People, I think, were passing quickly, like time had been…sped up. Their faces were blurry and distorted. They could've been human? Or…A.I, perhaps, I-I’m not sure, sorry-”
“No, no, don't apologize, just keep going if you can.” Henri was leaning forward with the same look of concern, but this time out of pure curiosity. You swallowed the lump formed in your throat and nodded.
“A figure. There was a figure, cloaked in shadow. I couldn’t make out any features. No face, no eyes, just a presence. But I knew it was watching me. I could feel its attention across the darkness.” You swallow, reliving the memory. “Then the ground beneath me changed. It stopped feeling solid. It went soft, almost liquid, and something started pulling at my legs, dragging me down. Black, oily tendrils wriggled out from below, winding up my calves and digging into my skin. It wasn’t painful; it was like they were searching for something inside me, and it felt profoundly wrong. I just remember being so afraid, but I couldn't scream.”
You pause, staring at your hands, knuckles white as you grip the fabric of your pants. “And then, just as suddenly, it was over. The figure, the noise, everything was gone. I’m afraid that's all I can tell.”
With that, you looked back up to the old man sitting across from you. Waiting.
Henri didn't answer immediately.
The shop settled into one of its strange silences. Somewhere deep within the walls, gears turned with tired persistence. Pipes clicked softly as heat crawled through them. One of the copper birds in its cage twitched with a tiny metallic chirp before going still again.
Henri sat across from you with his hands folded carefully together, eyes lowered in thought. Not avoiding your gaze, just considering.
At last, he exhaled through his nose and leaned back in his chair with a faint creak.
“Well, that certainly is concerning.” He murmured.
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “That doesn't help, Henri.”
“No, I suppose it doesn't, all things considered.” A tired smile tugged briefly at his face before fading again. He looked older suddenly. The warm eccentricity he usually carried around with him was dimmed beneath something heavier. He rubbed at his jaw, the salt-colored stubble making a faint, scratchy sound.
“You said the place was dark and staticky. Artificial, almost.”
You nodded slowly.
“And the people?” He questioned again.
“They moved strangely.” You frowned, trying to pull the memory back into focus without reliving it. “Not like humans, exactly. More like…” Your voice faltered. “Like they were unfinished.”
Henri's fingers stopped moving. You noticed it immediately. Tiny things always gave him away.
“Unfinished?” He repeated thoughtfully.
“They were blurry and moving too quickly when I tried to look at them. Like the memory didn't want me to see.” You swallowed. “Or like, there wasn't anything there for me to see.”
Henri stood slowly and crossed the room toward one of the cluttered shelves lining the back wall. Glass jars rattled faintly as he searched through them. “Ah-ha.” He said quietly, more for himself. His half-hunched form moved over just the slightest as you watched him reach for a small kettle atop one of the other shelves. Seeing him struggle slightly on his tiptoes pulled at something in your chest, making you smile. He turned and slightly held up his findings. A glass bottle of dried tea leaves and a silver kettle. He rarely used either, but you remember seeing the kettle set out from time to time when the weather cooled.
“How bouts’ we take a break from all the questions, and have a nice spot of tea, hm?”
“That actually sounds really nice.” Relief loosens the tightness in your shoulders, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Fingers lightly tugging at the hem of your shirt, then trailing softly up the length of your arm.
Henri shuffles toward the little wood-burning stove tucked in the corner, the kettle rattling softly in his grip. You watch him move. Slow and careful. Familiar. His presence a comfort against the unease still buzzing beneath your skin. The shop fills with the subtle sounds of preparation: the clink of ceramic cups, the rustle of tea leaves as he measures them, the gentle splash of water. The scent of dry herbs drifts into the air, mingling with the perpetual aroma of metal and old paper.
You stand and drift toward the window, absently tracing your finger along the glass. Outside, the circus town stretches in a tapestry of brass and neon, all gleaming gears and patched canvas tents stitched with copper wire. The late-summer light slants golden across the rooftops, catching on tangled wires and the intricate arches of steam-powered bridges. The cobbled streets are busy with the usual parade of acrobats on mechanical stilts, masked vendors hawking glowing sweets from wheeled carts, and a few clockwork animals weaving between the crowds. Banners flutter from gaslamp posts, their bold colors faded by sun and time. Overhead, a haze of steam and faint electric sparks hangs in the air, buzzing gently against the sky’s deepening blue. The air hums with distant laughter, the pulse of machinery, and the far-off calliope song drifting from the main boardwalk. Even now, as the morning begins to wane, the town feels alive. Restless, vibrant, and strange, as if it never truly slows.
Henri sets the kettle on the stove and sparks the flame. He glances over at you, eyes thoughtful. “You did well, you know. Facing all that.”
You let out a breath, eyes trained on a pierrot popping balloons filled with luminous confetti as people passed.
“Thanks, Hen.” Turning your frame to face his back at the stove, still busy with the tea.
“Look, Henri, I don't want you to feel like you did the wrong thing by giving that to me. It was very thoughtful, and I do intend on using it again, just maybe not too soon. After, well-after that, I want to learn. i need to know.”
The tea kettle whistled, and Henri turned down the flame. The sound of cups clinking together signaled you to make your way back to your chair.
“And I don't regret it, not in the slightest.” He carefully hands you the small white cup and takes his seat. The warmth radiates off its ceramic and makes its way up your arms, leaving prickles in its wake. Steam curls upward in thin, twisting ribbons, carrying with it the scent of something earthy and floral.
“You’ve grown into a very smart young woman, and I wouldn’t have given it to you if I weren’t certain. You’ll know when the time is right again. And hopefully by then, you’ll be prepared.”
You both take a cautious sip from your cups. The tea is hotter than you expect, and you blow across the surface before tasting it. There’s a gentle warmth to the flavor. It's subtle, and layered with hints of wildflower and something faintly citrus, brightening the earthy base. The floral notes linger on your tongue, soft as velvet, while a faint sweetness settles at the back of your throat. Every sip soothes, as if the gentle blend is coaxing the knots from your chest and inviting a soft calm into your bones. You feel lighter, a quiet comfort blooming inside you, steadying your hands and thoughts alike. For a moment, all the sharp edges of worry dull, replaced by a tranquil clarity that makes the strange morning feel a little less heavy.
Things had settled in around both of you, the usual quiet of midday. Sunlight filtered in through the glass windows, painting pale bars of gold across crowded tables and shelves overflowing with brass parts, tangled wiring, and small, clicking automatons. Dust drifted lazily through the air like suspended glitter.
Nothing screamed for attention.
But you couldn't help your eyes from drifting to the wooden box near Henri's feet. Your gift lay inside, slumbering. You let your mind wander, close enough you could feel its pull again. Mingling, ever so slightly, as if it were testing the integrity of your restraint.
“You're thinking out loud, my dear.” He said, spectacles low on the bridge of his nose, stirring sugar into his tea with lazy circles.
“I am not.” You tore your eyes away from the box only to let them fall back to it. “Besides, if I were, could you blame me?”
“Well, no, I suppose not.” he admitted gently. “But delving too deep into one's own mind is like brewing tea too strongly; it soon becomes hard to stomach.”
A smile played at the corners of your mouth. “You have something witty for everything, don't you?”
“What do you expect? I’ve lived a long and very eventful life,” he readjusted his glasses with a smirk.
You lowered your cup carefully with a small sigh.
“Do you think I should trust what happens? If and when it happens again. I'm still so confused about who or what that memory was for.”
“I think…” he paused, searching for the right words. “I think memories are complicated things, dear. Especially fractured ones.”
The shop creaked softly. You could hear laughter from children rushing past the window. The midday sun making their shadows long and warped on the glass.
You stared down into the amber liquid swirling faintly in your cup.
The images from earlier still clawing at the back of your mind.
“Whatever happens-” He says carefully. “It's yours to come back from.”
You open your mouth to answer, but before any words can come out, the door at the front of the workshop slams open so violently it cracks against the wall. You and Henri both nearly jump from your chairs at the sudden movement.
A tall blur of brass, fabric, and frantic motion stumbled through the doorway in a metallic clatter of springs and rattling joints.
“THERE you are! Thank the heavens!” His voice cracked sharply from his voice box.
Silas. Or rather, it sounded like Silas. It looked like someone had fed Silas into an industrial laundry machine and threw in several emotionally unstable sewing kits.
One suspender hung completely detached from his shoulder. Burgundy sequins clung desperately to the sleeves of his vest. A long strip of gold ribbon had somehow tangled itself around the collar of his neck and fluttered dramatically behind him. One of the brass plates near his neck twitched open and shut with anxious clicking noises. The small burgundy top hat he usually wore was slightly askew and tilted on falling off completely.
And glitter?
So much glitter. And not tasteful glitter. Catastrophic amounts billowed out from under the random plates that made up his upper body.
“Did the costume department finally revolt? Or are you intentionally accessorizing with debris now? I must warn you, Silas, the pinstripes are suffering tremendously.”
He stared at you now with wild synthetic eyes, before looking down at his own disheveled frame. “I beg your finest pardon, my dear, but this is an emergency! You're to come with me. And quickly, might I add. COME-UP,UP!” He made his way over to you and carefully but urgently removed the teacup from your hands and set it on the table beside you.
-HEY, I was enjoying that, thank you-” You blurted out with scrunched eyebrows, he was already pulling at your hands to get you up. Not paying any attention to your protests. Henri watched on as the scene unfolded rather quickly in front of him.
“Okay-fine, FINE! I'm up.” You quickly shook out of his loose grasp upon standing. Only to have him look at you as if YOU were the one who just burst in basking in glitter and anxiety.
“Will you at least tell me what's got you so...” You take a moment to really scan his form. “…sparkly?”
He scoffs. “It's Colette. Her leg is locked up again, and I can't get her still long enough to get in there and fix it. And even if I did, I wouldn't know what I was looking at. I make art backstage, love.” He holds a gloved hand to his egotistical chest before letting it fall abruptly to his side. “I don't fix locked knee caps! That is why YOU must come with ME. She has an aerial act this afternoon, which is steadily approaching. So please, if you will.” He bounces on his springs while gesturing to the door.
“Calm down, Silas, I’ll go. Let me just-” You paused briefly, mind going to your present under the workbench.
Silas immediately seized the brief silence to start ushering you towards the door himself. One gloved hand pressed insistently against the middle of your back while the springs in his legs bounced with frantic energy.
“Every second we dilly-dally is another second Miss Delacroix spends threatening to throw herself from the upstage balcony!” His metallic voice steaming with urgency.
You blinked. “That sounds a teeny bit excessive, don't you think?”
“You do not know her as I do.”
“Er-before you go, dear… there's something I ought to tell you.” Henri's voice broke through the shuffle of movement near the doorway. “I'd feel better knowing you know.”
Your hand paused on the workshop door handle.
Behind you, Silas gave an impatient mechanical bounce on the coils beneath his legs, gears clicking sharply with every restless movement. “Yes, yes, heartfelt warnings and mysterious wisdom, very touching, really, but some of us are operating on a schedule!” he complained, throwing his arms dramatically in the air.The movement caused one of the loose tools in his satchel to clatter loudly against his hip.
Henri ignored him completely.
Which somehow only made Silas more offended.
You turn back toward the old inventor instead, noticing immediately the subtle shift in his expression. His warmth hadn't disappeared, but it had thinned beneath something more serious now. Thoughtful, careful.
“I don't think what happened here today happened by mere accident.”
The workshop felt quieter now.
Even Silas stopped bouncing.
You squinted faintly, arms hanging loosely at your sides. “I'm listening.”
Henri nodded once, though his gaze drifted momentarily to the box resting near his chair before returning to you.
“When memories are pulled at by an individual, whether it be by accident or simply curiosity, they are not simply retrieved from a dusty cupboard somewhere.” He moved slowly as he spoke, absentmindedly smoothing his overalls' pocket. “Memories are living things, in a sense. They remain tied to the person they belong to. To touch one is to touch the individual themselves.”
A small knot tightened in your stomach.
“But, Hen,” you started carefully, “I already told you, that didn't feel like mine-”
Henri had already shut his eyes before you even finished. A faint shake of his head followed after. Gentle, but firm in disagreement.
“It doesn't matter.” He murmured quietly.
You frowned.
His eyes opened again, sharp despite the exhaustion lining them.
Whether the memory belonged to you once, or belongs to something connected to you in ways neither of us yet understands, it does not matter nearly as much as what you do with it.” He stepped closer , lowering his voice as though the walls may overhear. “What matters is that you trust what happens next. Don't fight every strange feeling simply because it frightens you. Let it guide you, dear…not the other way ‘round.”
You stared at him intently, trying to follow the strange shape of his words. Trying to decide if they comforted you or unsettled you.
Judging by the way he studied your face, he was searching for any sign of confusion or fear.
Probably both.
“However messy,” he continued softly, “however dark…allow it to be so. Some truths arrive broken before they arrive whole.”
The statement settled heavily in your chest.
Henri reached forward then, taking one of your hands between both of his.
Hands worn from years of work. Roughened at the palms and fingertips by tools, heat, and machinery, yet somehow still gentle.
His grip tightens just slightly. “You are very intelligent.” He says with an almost startling sincerity. “Far more than you realize. Use that to your advantage. Observe. Question. Pay attention to the things others dismiss.” A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You've always had a mind too curious for your own safety.”
You smile lightly at the statement. “I don't think that sounded the same in your head as it did in mine, Hen.”
“Perhaps it wasn't meant to.” His expression softened at the sight of your smirk.
“I have faith in you. A great deal of it.” Something about his certainty made your chest ache unexpectedly.
“But be mindful.” he added after a moment, quieter now. “There are things in this place that prey upon curiosity. And there are truths that do not wish to be uncovered.” His thumb brushed once across the back of your hand before giving it a gentle pat. A calm protective gesture. “Proceed with great care, my dear.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Only the distant ticking of machinery filled the silence between you.
And somewhere, beneath it all, too faint to notice above plated steel and crumbling cobblestone-
Something shed a soft, static hum.
