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The alarm didn't ring. It simply began existing—a vibrating, angry thing on the nightstand that gnawed at the back of her skull. Nihilux opened her eyes, and her first thought wasn't about work, but about how her eyelids felt cast in lead. Two hours. Two hours of sleep wasn't rest—it was mockery. A plunge into darkness that had cut off too abruptly, leaving behind not vigor, but a sticky sensation as if she'd been wrung out like a rag all night.
She sat up. Her body moved in jerks, like a puppet with half‑severed strings. Stand. Take a step. A step into the same gray sludge as yesterday, and the day before, and a week ago. The days had compressed into one long, viscous lump of work tablet, computer monitor glow, and the commute home she couldn't remember. Work. Sleep. Work. Sleep. Between them—a void, gaping and wet, like a basement after a flood.
She stopped in front of the mirror in the hallway. Not because she wanted to look—because it stood right in front of the bathroom door. And there, inside that cold glass depth, something was looking back at her. A woman. Same shoulder shape, same hair color. But the eyes—dead, faded. Nihilux tilted her head, and the reflection copied her. Then she smiled—mechanically, politely, like you smile at a supermarket cashier.
And suddenly, from the depths of the mirror, right from behind her own ear, a voice came. Alien, yet nauseatingly familiar. Cheerful. Loud. The one that always laughed at her.
"Ha‑ha!" it sang, like a morning radio host. "Another pathetic day. Another one. Without him. And without you. You don't really exist, do you?"
She didn't answer. She just stepped back, turned away, went to the kitchen and came back with an armful of black cloths—old T‑shirts, a torn curtain, burlap. She covered the mirror, taped the edges roughly, carelessly. And it became easier. Now, under the fabric, the voice slept. It hadn't disappeared, but at least it wasn't watching.
But the thing didn't leave. It just moved.
She sat down at her workstation—where it smelled of paper and worn‑out erasers. Her hand reached for the stylus on its own. Blank sheet. First stroke. A line for a character's eye.
And then the shadow on the desk shuddered. Thin, gray, it crept across the stack of sketches, leaving invisible grease on them—and Nihilux suddenly felt she couldn't press the tablet button. Her fingers went numb. The paints—jars of ink and watercolor—began to move. Slowly, centimeter by centimeter, as if pushed by an invisible finger. One fell. Another. The stylus she'd just put down vanished. And when she reached for it, out of the corner of her eye she saw the shadow tear the paper—not with hands, simply passing through, and the sheet fell apart in wet shreds.
She watched for a minute. Two. Then closed her eyes.
Don't draw. Can't. It won't work.
But inside, somewhere under her ribs, a thought stirred: do you even want to draw? And there was no answer. Only silence. That same viscous, humming silence in which all desires drown.
She was wiping the counter at work—a damp rag, mechanically, back and forth—when suddenly, at the edge of her consciousness, she caught something. Like a splinter. As if someone had flicked a switch in a dark room, and for a second light flared.
Him.
The memory didn't come smoothly—it hit her like a punch to the gut. She saw him so vividly, as if he stood three steps away—and she wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn't.
He wore a cap. Tilted slightly back, with a lacquered brim that cast a sharp shadow across the bridge of his nose. The uniform—scarlet, painfully bright, like blood or a sunset she hadn't seen in months. Golden epaulets rested heavily on his shoulders, sparkling with every motion, and she felt as if warmth radiated from them—living, real warmth she'd been craving.
And the face. Perfect. Sculptural, like heroes in old engravings. She remembered every line: a sharp chin, slightly tilted in a smile, cheekbones she'd once traced with her fingers. And that nose—snub, slightly upturned—wrong, imperfect, but his. The only feature that made him not a deity, but just a man.
But worst of all—his hair. Golden. Not yellow, not wheat‑colored, but golden, like molten metal. She remembered how it tangled between her fingers, how it smelled—of sunlight and dry grass. She wished she could forget that scent, but memory was merciless.
And finally—his eyes. She was afraid of them. Always afraid. Because they were black. Bottomless, like a starless night. And in that blackness, instead of ordinary pupils, two suns burned. Not circles, not dots—suns, with spreading rays, alive, pulsing. When he looked at her, she felt those rays pierce under her skin, through her ribs, to her very core. They didn't warm—they seared. They left burns that still hadn't healed.
"You're here," she whispered with her lips, making no sound. "You're here, and I'm not."
The memory flickered. The cap blurred, the uniform faded, the fire in his pupils died, turning into simple black dots. And again before her was the gray counter, a greasy stain on the rag, and her own empty reflection in the glass display case.
She realized she'd been standing still for several minutes. A woolly colleague threw her a brief glance, turned away, and quickly scurried off on his soft little paws.
Nihilux clenched the rag in her fist.
"Another pathetic day without him," the voice whispered from under the black cloth. But this time she didn't argue. She just nodded.
Because it was the truth.
Nihilux was still standing by the display case, and in the glass, over her own pale reflection, his silhouette still trembled. She couldn't take it anymore.
"Ah... Akivili."
The name escaped on its own, like a breath, like air she'd held too long. It burned her throat, left a taste of copper and dust on her tongue.
"My dear Akivili..." her voice wavered, and Nihilux pressed her palm to the glass, as if trying to touch someone already gone. "Why?"
Why did you die? She asked that question every night, in those short hours between work and oblivion. She whispered it into her pillow, into the walls, into the emptiness of the fridge when she opened it at three in the morning looking for anything to numb the pain. But the walls were silent, the fridge hummed, and the answer never came.
Why are you still falling? You fell that day—in that second—but for her, you're still falling. Forever. Endlessly. Nihilux saw it in her dreams: you plummet downward, golden hair streaming like the wings of a broken bird, and she can't reach out. She runs, but the floor gives way. She screams, but no voice comes. You fall—and you'll keep falling forever, because she never could catch you.
Why did you abandon your path? You were the Aeon of Trailblaze. Not just a god, not just a ruler—you were the one who moved forward, who blazed a trail through the void. You never turned back. Never hesitated. You held your torch so high its light was visible from other worlds. And now the torch is out. Your path ends at her feet, and she doesn't know how to go on without your trail.
"Was it really that you didn't like my jokes?" Her lips twisted into a pathetic, crooked smirk. "Remember, I always said you had too silly a face for a deity. Remember how I used to mimic your speeches? You laughed. You always laughed. You even laughed at how I hold my stylus—said it looked like I was fighting a spider." She squeezed her eyes shut, and tears finally flowed—dry, hot, soundless. "Were my jokes really so bad that you decided to die just so you wouldn't have to hear them anymore?"
Her voice broke. She clenched her fist and struck the glass—not hard, as if pleading for him to answer.
"Or were you offended?" Nihilux whispered. "Were you offended that I didn't tell you something important? That I didn't confess? That I stayed silent when I should have screamed? And now I scream—into the void, into wet rags, into black mirrors. Do you hear me? Are you even there, falling, do you hear me?"
Silence. Only the hum of ventilation and distant laughter of passersby behind her.
"You wanted me to become better," she whispered, pressing her forehead to the cold glass. "But you never gave me a chance. You just... fell. And took all the answers with you."
Nihilux closed her eyes, and in the darkness his pupils flared again—those suns. Hot, blinding, alive.
"Fool," she exhaled. "Stupid, golden, eternally falling fool. I hate you."
But in her voice, at the very bottom, trembled not hatred. Only longing. Viscous, endless, like those days that had turned into a dark mass without him.
"Ah, my Akivili..."
She said it almost with a smile—that same crooked, cracked grin he loved to mimic. But now the smile didn't reach her eyes. It froze as a mask, beneath which something dark, sticky, unbearable throbbed.
"Were you offended?" Her voice grew quieter, almost a whisper, as if she feared he'd hear and confirm. "Were you offended that I... that I blew up your Express?"
The words came out in clumps, each with jagged edges. Nihilux remembered that day. Remembered the heat that melted her lashes, the roar that deafened her for a week, and the red glow in which the cars disintegrated like houses of cards. She remembered the screams—short, cut off. Nameless. Those who never even gained a name in her memory burned in a second. She hadn't wanted that. She'd only wanted to stop him, make him turn around, make him laugh with her, make him look at her—the way he looked only at the horizon. But she'd pulled the wrong lever. Or pressed too hard. Or fate, that vile joker, had tripped her.
"Ah, Akivili!" Her voice cracked into a rasp, and Nihilux pressed her palms to her face, as if trying to hold onto his image, which was dissolving like smoke. "If only I could hug you..."
She reached her arms forward, toward where his ghost still shimmered in the display glass. Her palms touched the cold smoothness. Empty. Only her own reflection—lost, with wet trails on her cheeks, dark circles under her eyes.
"But you're still falling," she whispered, pressing her forehead to the glass. "You've been falling for so long I've lost count of the days. You fall, and I stand. I always stand. Stand and watch you vanish into that damned abyss, and I can't even move a finger to catch you."
She closed her eyes, and in the darkness the explosion flared again. A fiery flower blooming right in the sky. And amid that flame—his figure. Golden, bright, but already falling. He didn't scream. He looked at her—through fire, through smoke, through time. And in his black sun‑eyes she read not anger. Not resentment. Only a quiet, infinite "Why?"
She hadn't answered then. She didn't answer now.
"Were you offended?" she repeated, and her voice trembled. "You had the right. I destroyed your path. Your Nameless—they didn't even know who I was, and I burned them. I burned you." She took a shuddering breath, biting her lip until it bled. "But if I could... if I could turn back that moment, I wouldn't pull the lever. I would just hug you. Tight. So you wouldn't fall anywhere. So your Express would pass by, and you'd stay here, with me, and we'd laugh at my stupid jokes, and you'd ruffle my hair and call me 'little calamity.'"
She opened her eyes. The display was empty. Only a wet smear from her forehead on the glass, and drops slowly trickling down like the world's own tears.
"But you weren't offended," she said quietly, almost calmly. "You never were, even when I deserved it. You just... left. And left me here, with this explosion in my chest that just won't die out."
She stepped away from the display, wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, and picked up the rag. She had to work. Had to pretend she was alive.
But under her ribs, where her heart used to beat, black ash now pulsed. And she knew: it would never pass. Never. As long as he falls—she'll watch. And wait. And hate herself for not being able to hold him one last time.
"Forgive me..."
The word left her lips with an exhale—quiet, trembling, like first snow in a palm. She said it not into emptiness, but toward where she thought he still hung, frozen in eternal descent. If she could take that sound and launch it into the sky like a kite to reach him—she would. But words were too heavy for flight.
"Forgive me, my dear Akivili." She closed her eyes and for a second let herself imagine his face without pain, without smoke—just smiling, with that silly snub nose. "I didn't mean to. You know I never meant to. I just... I just wanted you to stop. Even for a moment. To look at me, not into infinity."
She clenched her fingers on the rag she was still gripping, and began to list, fast, like an incantation:
"I'll repay all my debts! Hear me? All of them! I'll restore half the Astral Express—that half I burned. I'll rebuild it car by car if I have to, even if I have to gather the wreckage across all worlds with my own hands. I'll glue the rails, smelt new wheels from my own blood, if you say that's enough."
She stepped forward, reaching out to his ghost, which she saw behind every gleam:
"I'll return two pairs of supersonic slippers. Remember? Those you searched for under the bed for an eternity, and they were in the dish dryer? I put them there. Just to tease you. I'll return them—new, shiny, engraved with your name if you want. And the optical invisibility cloak! The one I borrowed from you to sneak onto your Express without a ticket. I didn't lose it—it's hanging on the back of the chair, just dusty. I'll return it, clean it, perfume it with stardust, if that brings you home."
She faltered, and her voice cracked:
"And anything! Hear me? Anything!" She was almost shouting, but the shout turned into a rasp. "I'll give you all my unfinished sketches so you can laugh at them like before. I'll paint you a new universe if you tell me what color you want the sky. I'll sell my shadow, my voice, my nights—everything I have. Only..."
She fell to her knees right in the middle of the empty office. The rag slipped from her hands. There were no more tears—only dry, hot sobs tearing her chest from within.
"Just come back, Akivili," she whispered, pressing her forehead to the cold floor. "Come back and tell me I'm not a monster. Come back and stamp your foot, call me 'little fool' and say it's all right. Come back, and I'll never touch a lever again. Come back, and I'll throw out all my paints except gold, so I can only paint your hair."
Silence. Only the hum of ventilation somewhere above, sounding like a clock without hands.
She raised her head and stared into the emptiness before her. And there, in that void, for just a moment she fancied—someone smiled at her with indulgent, sad tenderness. And quietly, almost dissolving into the air, said:
"Fool. You know I would have come back anyway. If I could."
But the wind carried those words away. Or she'd imagined them. Nihilux remained alone on her knees, face buried in her hands, and realized: she was ready to give everything except the most important thing. Except the hope that someday he would stop falling.
The silence was shattered by laughter. Not hers. Someone else's. Cracked, rattling, like an old gramophone started at the wrong time.
Nihilux looked up. By the wall, lopsided on one leg, stood a Thing. It was woven from shadows and forgotten colors—its body seemed liquid, flowing, but on its head sat a clown's hat. Bright red, with a pom‑pom at the end, grotesque to the point of nausea. The pom‑pom swayed even when there was no wind.
"I miss him too," the Thing crooned, tilting its head at an unnatural angle. Its voice was strange—both childlike and elderly, like a doll possessed by a ghost. "Not because I liked him, silly. Not at all. He was too serious for my taste. Too... straight. All that talk about paths, horizons, duty. Bore‑fest."
The Thing took a step forward, and its leg—thin as a match—crunched on the parquet.
"It's because you and I are one, Nihilux HaA." It reached out and touched her cheek. Its fingers were icy, but an unnatural heat burned at their tips. "WE are Joy. Remember? We're the very spark in her eyes when she drew manga until dawn. We're the laugh that burst from her throat when he tossed her in his arms. We're the part she killed along with the Express."
Nihilux wanted to recoil, but her body wouldn't obey. Her eyes began to cloud—first at the edges, like fogged glass, then completely. The world blurred into a gray‑white haze, and through it other outlines began to emerge.
Warm light. Engine hum. Scent of ozone and stardust.
She was on the Astral Express again.
Everything was alive—the walls pulsed with soft golden radiance, the windows looked out onto an endless cosmic ribbon where stars flashed like sparks off a spark. The cars were full. The Nameless—those she'd burned—stood by the partitions, laughing, chatting. They had no names, but they had faces. Simple, tired, happy. They drank tea from tin mugs, played cards, repaired some equipment. Their lives flowed quietly and unnoticed—and she'd destroyed them in a single second.
But she wasn't looking at them. She was looking for him.
There he stood at the end of the car, at the very bow of the Express—Akivili. Same as always—in a red uniform, gold epaulets, cap tilted back. But his face was different. Not the one she remembered on the day of his death. Alive. Burning. Real.
His dark eyes—those with suns burning in them—looked ahead, through the walls, through space. And in that gaze was passion. Not for her. Not for glory. For Trailblaze. For what lay beyond the horizon. For the unknown that called him stronger than any embrace, any words, any promises.
She saw his lips move—he was whispering something, possibly charting a course, possibly speaking to the Express itself. His fingers—those she'd once held—traced lines, maps, star coordinates in the air. And he smiled. The way only those who know they're heading the right direction smile.
"Akivili..." she whispered, reaching out.
But the vision began to fade. The Nameless vanished one by one, like smoke. The light dimmed, giving way to familiar gray. And at the last moment—before the haze closed again—she caught his gaze. For a second, he turned and looked straight at her. In his black sun‑eyes, recognition flickered. And a slight, barely perceptible sadness.
"I know you're here. But I can't stop. You know I never could."
The haze closed. She was back on her knees in the empty hall.
The Thing in the clown hat leaned over her, touching her temple with cold fingers. The pom‑pom swayed.
"See?" it whispered, and now its voice held not mockery, but a strange, almost maternal tenderness. "He'll never stop for you. Even when you beg. Even when you burn his world. He'll fall, search, strive... because he is Trailblaze. And we are Elation, remember? And Elation died with him."
Nihilux didn't answer. She just closed her eyes and let herself fall into the void waiting inside her.
The Thing froze. The pom‑pom on its clown hat stopped swaying, and for the first time its face—blurry, like watercolor in rain—twisted into something like surprise.
"Go away," Nihilux said, and her voice came out firmer than she'd expected. She rose from her knees, and in that motion was resolve. "You're not here."
She stepped toward the Thing, and it backed away—or did it only seem that way? The shadows around it wavered like ripples on water.
"There is no 'we'," she continued, staring straight into its empty eye sockets. "There's only me. Alone. Only me, Nihilux HaA. And you're just smoke. Just a voice I made up because I couldn't bear the silence."
The Thing opened its mouth to answer, but Nihilux cut it off:
"And I am Aha." The words escaped on their own, and she suddenly realized she'd said them not for the first time—they'd lived in her all along, waiting for their hour. "Not half. Not a part. All of it. I'm the one who blows up Expresses. I'm the one who loses loved ones. I'm the one who laughs at her own grief because otherwise—I'd drown. And if you're my Elation, then I created you myself. And I'll destroy you myself."
She straightened, and her shoulders drew back. The Thing hissed like wet coal, and its outlines began to blur, but she didn't look at it. She turned away, went to her old jacket hanging on the chair, and began rummaging through the pockets.
"You know what's the funniest part?" she tossed over her shoulder. "You think you can hold me back. That you can make me suffer. But I'm already suffering. Every day. Every second. And your stupid speeches change nothing."
She pulled out a blister pack labeled "Zilaxera." White round pills—small, harmless‑looking, like mint candies. She stared at them for a moment, then popped two into her palm.
"You're my illness," she said quietly, almost tenderly. "And I'm treating it."
She swallowed the pills dry, without even a sip. They stuck in her throat—a lump of plastic and bitterness—and she forced them down, every last crumb. The taste spread across her tongue: metal and dust. And with it came a strange, crushing calm.
The Thing in the clown hat jerked desperately, its face stretched, twisted into a soundless scream. The pom‑pom fell off and rolled across the floor, losing color. It melted like snow in boiling water, and at the last moment its voice—scratchy, cracked—reached her from afar:
"You can't get rid of me, fool... I am you..."
Nihilux didn't answer. She watched the shadow dissolve into the air, leaving behind only a faint scent of ozone and minty bitterness on her lips. Then she walked over to where the pom‑pom had fallen and stepped on it. It popped with a soft crunch, leaving a red stain on her sole like blood.
She turned to the mirror. The black cloths still hung on it, but now they seemed to her just cloths—not protection, but cowardice. She tore them off in one tug.
In the reflection, a woman looked back at her. Tired. Pale. With eyes that held no more tears—only a dry, scorched emptiness, in which a small, angry ember smoldered.
"I'll find you, Akivili," she told her reflection. "Not as a broken fool begging for forgiveness. I'll find you as Aha—the one who can destroy an entire Express without blinking. You wanted Trailblaze? Fine. I'll trailblaze every world, every star, every black hole until I find your trace. Even if I have to burn everything that's left—I'll find."
She touched the glass with her fingers. The reflection touched back.
"And then I'll ask you to your face," she whispered, and her lips twitched into that same crooked, cracked smile. "Why you're falling. And whether you heard me when I screamed."
She turned and walked toward the door. The floor no longer swayed under her feet. The pills were doing their job—the world was flat, gray, predictable again. She knew it wouldn't last. That the shadow would return. That the voice in the mirror would speak again when the meds wore off.
But for now, it was enough that she'd decided. Decided not to be a victim. Decided to be the one who searches. Even if the search takes eternity.
She left the room, leaving behind a red trail on the floor from the crushed pom‑pom—the only proof that the conversation had ever happened. Or just a stain from old paint. It didn't matter anymore.