12. Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER TWELVE
MAVEN
Ihate Mondays. All the pointless weight of existence feels heavier when my alarm blasts at dawn, signaling the start of another workweek where I pretend to be a functioning human. But today? Today stretches beyond the standard Monday misery into something else entirely.
Everyone at work has forgotten I exist.
Not in the metaphorical way I’m used to—no, this is different. When I arrived at the office this morning, fumbling with my keycard at the security gate, the guard—who’s seen me every weekday for over a month—watched me with blank confusion.
“Can I help you find someone?” he asked before studying me with the careful assessment reserved for potential threats.
“I work here,” I replied, voice flat. “Maven Talmay. Accounts receivable.”
His eyes widened, a peach hue coloring his pale cheeks. “Right, of course. Sorry about that, Ms. Talmay. Must need more coffee.”
I brushed past him, chalking it up to early Monday brain fog.
But then Nadia passed me in the hallway, did a double-take, and asked if I was lost. Chris from my neighboring cubicle introduced himself as if we haven’t spent forty hours a week sitting three feet apart.
Even my direct supervisor asked what department I was from when I delivered my weekly report.
By lunch, my stomach twisted into such tight knots I couldn’t eat.
I sat alone, as usual, but this time watching coworkers’ eyes slide over me like I was made of smoke.
Each time, I’d catch them doing that slight head tilt of recognition when I made deliberate eye contact, their faces scrunching before their eyes widened, followed by awkward, mumbled apologies.
Was this some elaborate prank? Make the weird, depressed girl think she’s actually invisible? Hilarious. Except nobody in this office knows me well enough to orchestrate something this coordinated, or would care enough to try.
By four o’clock, I couldn’t take it anymore. The pressure behind my eyes built with each passing hour—why are their reactions so different than the dismissal I’m so used to? I gathered my things and left without speaking to anyone, certain none of them would notice or remember my absence anyway.
Now, I stand in my apartment’s small bathroom, hot water streaming down my shoulders. My knuckles whiten as I press my palms against the shower wall, wondering if I’m actually disappearing.
I kind of like the idea.
The water cools before I finally step out, wrapping myself in the only decent towel I own.
Well, the only towel I own. My skin prickles from the chill of the space, and I tug on my most worn sweatpants, the ones with the fraying waistband and permanent softness from a hundred washes.
I’ve had these for years, and at this point, they’re my most prized possession.
My fingers brush over the fabric of various shirts before settling on an oversized black t-shirt so old the band logo has cracked and faded into illegibility.
Comfort clothes. Armor against whatever the fuck is happening to me.
I pad across the small space to the window, cracking it open, and shivering as the frigid February air rushes in. Notes of fresh snow and exhaust waft in with the breeze. It helps ground me; these ordinary smells of city life continuing, unaware of my existential crisis.
My gaze finds the jar of dried flowers on my dresser. It’s almost full now, which sends a sharp pain through my abdomen. I don’t have another jar for when this one overflows.
I huff and turn away, snatching my e-reader from beside my bed. What I need is escape—not into sleep where he might be waiting, but into another world entirely. Something with dragons or magic or people whose problems make mine seem mundane by comparison.
Sighing, I settle onto my unmade bed, balancing the e-reader on my knees as the screen lights up, glowing faintly in the dimming afternoon.
I browse my digital library: hundreds of books, all neatly contained in this slim device that weighs less than a paperback.
While I will always prefer physical books, this is practical and portable.
Perfect for someone who moves as often as I do.
But I do miss real books. The weight of them in my hands. The way you can feel your progress through the story by the shifting balance of pages from right to left. The sound each page makes when it’s flipped, and that soft whisk of paper against paper. And the smell.
God, the smell of books.
New ones with that crisp, chemical tang—part ink, and part glue. Always the faintest tint of wood. Old ones with their musty darkness are a second favorite. Even Library books with their particular scent of other people’s hands, distant places, and time passing in quiet rooms. I miss all of it.
Sometimes I wander into bookstores or libraries just to run my fingertips along spines; to lift a volume and press my nose to the center crease, breathing in that papery universe. It’s the closest thing to religion I’ve got.
The thought of the central library downtown tugs at me. It’s open until 9 PM on Mondays…I could grab the metro, be there in twenty minutes, and lose myself in books with actual pages.
My lips purse. The idea tempts me enough that I actually stand, calculating how quickly I’d need to change to make it worthwhile.
Then the darkening sky catches my attention as snow begins to fall once more.
There’s also the minor annoyance that is six flights of stairs I’d need to descend and then climb again on my return.
No. Too much effort for too little reward. The isolation of my apartment fits my mood better anyway.
I sink back onto the bed, tapping the screen to re-wake the e-reader. Scrolling through my unread downloads, I select a fantasy novel with a promising description. Something about sorcerers and lost heirs. Escapism at its most effective.
The first page appears, and I drift into another world. Fucking finally.
* * *
A sound jolts me from sleep. My eyes snap open, heart pounding as I orient myself. The room is dark except for the soft glow of my e-reader, now in sleep mode beside me. I must have dozed off while reading.
I fumble for my phone, squinting at the harsh brightness of the screen. 1:07 AM.
There it is again—the sound. A soft click, like metal against metal, coming from somewhere in my apartment. My body stiffens, blood pulsing so hard I feel it in my eardrums.
Someone’s here.
The realization should send me scrambling for a weapon or diving for my phone to call the police. Instead, a strange calm sinks through me, cooling my panic to a manageable simmer.
Is it him?
The thought sends an electric current through my limbs. This could be my chance to get answers. To confront whatever—whoever—has been haunting me.
I ease myself from the bed, wincing when the frame creaks beneath my shifting weight. The cold floor tickles my feet as I creep toward the kitchen, and I swallow so hard I’m sure anyone within ten feet could hear it.
Pressing my back against the counter, the sharp edges digging painfully, I peer around the space. Nothing. The refrigerator hums a quiet tune. The faucet drips with its usual erratic rhythm. The door to the hallway remains closed, all three locks engaged.
Taking a deep breath that does little to steady me, I turn my head toward the area I just left and its large window overlooking the city.
A strangled scream tears from my throat before I can stop it.
He stands at the window, his back to me, tall and imposing in that long black coat that belongs to another century. His stance is relaxed, almost contemplative, as he gazes out at the Montréal skyline glittering beneath a clouded night sky.
At my panic, he spins, and though I can’t see his face through that ever-present white fabric, I know he’s looking directly at me. I feel his gaze as if it were a lingering touch, dragging across my skin in a way that makes the hair on my arms stand on end.
I’m frozen in the kitchen, one hand gripping the air so tightly my knuckles ache, the other pressed against my chest as if I could physically hold my heart inside my ribs. My breath comes in short, shallow bursts that make my head light.
We stare at each other across the compact space, neither moving. I’m caught in some strange suspension between fear and fascination, my body unable to decide which impulse to follow. Fight, flight, freeze? None of those?
Is this anticipation or excitement? Or just plain fear of the unknown entity standing in my apartment at one in the morning?
Time stretches between us, elastic and uncertain.
Then he speaks.
“Maven.”
Just my name, but the sound of it in his voice sends a violent shiver down my spine. His voice is exactly as I imagined it in my dreams—deep and resonant, like stones tumbling down a mountain slope. It seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, filling the space between us with its velvet darkness.
My skin prickles, a cold sweat breaking out just behind my ears and at the nape of my neck. I swallow hard, throat suddenly dry as desert sand.
“Who are you?” I manage, the words scraping past my lips. “What are you doing in my apartment in the middle of the night?”
He takes a single step toward me, and that’s enough for me to press myself harder against the counter, ready to melt into the laminate.
“You know who I am,” he remarks, and there’s something almost gentle in his tone, a careful handling of syllables like he’s speaking to a frightened animal. “I’ve been visiting you and your dreams for weeks now.”
“Those are dreams,” I counter, voice steadier than I feel. “This is real. You broke into my apartment. Again?” I’m not sure why I frame it as a question other than my brain telling me there’s no way this is real.
A sound escapes him—not quite a laugh, more a release of air that carries the faintest hint of amusement. “I didn’t break anything. The barriers between our worlds are thinner than most realize.”