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The city of Lumière is awake before the sun.
Its narrow streets fill with the clatter of boots and carts, with steam rising from sewer grates and pastry stalls. The glass towers that survived the Fracture pierce the dawn sky like broken fingers, and everything buzzes with the barely-held-together hum of people pretending things are normal.
Maelle is up before the light hits the rooftops.
She hasn’t really slept in a week—not properly. Seven nights of waking up in a cold sweat, lungs aching, heart pounding like a drum. She’s not even screaming anymore when she wakes. She’s just…still. Frozen. Staring up at the ceiling with the taste of iron or smoke or someone else’s breath in her mouth—but it’s usually smoke.
Fire haunts her mind, and she has no idea why.
Last night, she was in a long, endless hallway of some kind of fancy manor, and the walls were burning gold. She could hear her own voice screaming “Run!” over and over until her vocal cords were frayed to threads and her throat filled with blood, but even as she drowned in her own viscera, she kept gurgling that word over and over and over and over again. And when she tried to run, hands reached out from the fire and grabbed her, holding her down. All the while, even once her voice had died, the flames continued to whisper in her stead.
Run. Run. Run.
Well…that’s her job, isn’t it?
Now, she shrugs into her messenger jacket, tightens the straps on her bag, and ties her boots with hands that shake slightly when she doesn’t look at them. Gustave offered to let her sleep in this morning. Said he could call in for her. Told her she needed to rest.
She brushed him off.
“It’s just dreams,” she had said. “I’m not dying.”
And now she’s out the door, the cool air slapping against her face as she pushes her way down the stairwell and into the streets.
After the third night in a row of nightmares, she stopped waking up Gustave. He had said before, over and over, that he didn’t mind her coming to him, no matter what time it was, that he would rather her wake him up than be scared and uncomfortable, and she’s sure that he wouldn’t be upset or snap at her, but she didn’t want to run the risk. Even Gustave, with his endless patience and love, got frustrated sometimes. And besides, he needed his rest, too. The last thing she wanted was for him to be so tired he fell asleep at the workshop and lost his other arm.
The guilt would eat her alive.
Lumière’s courier office, her place of work, is three blocks over, tucked behind a laundromat and an alley that always smells faintly like bleach and sewage. She checks in with Juliette, the dispatcher—a short woman with dark hair and a clipboard always attached to her hip.
“You look like hell, kid,” Juliette says without looking up.
“Feel great,” Maelle lies.
“Mm-hm.” Juliette eyes her. “Nothing too heavy today. Take the south circuit and be back by lunch.”
Maelle nods, grabs the satchel, and ducks out before Juliette can say anything else.
Her first run is to a bakery, then to a mechanic’s stall, then to some mid-level bureaucrat who lives in a four-floor walk-up that makes her legs tremble by the time she reaches the top.
She smiles automatically, drops the package, gets the signature, leaves.
As she’s heading back down the stairs, she smells something. Her head jerks back, and she looks around, worried.
“Do you smell that?” she asks a nearby man watering a flower box.
The man blinks at her. “Smell what?” he asks back.
“Smoke,” she says. “I smell smoke.”
He blinks again, then sniffs the air. “I don’t smell any smoke.”
Maelle stands there for a moment. She also no longer smells smoke.
“Oh.”
She swallows hard.
“Sorry.”
Before he can say anything else, she continues down the steps. A light sweat beads on her brow. Her hands are shaking when she wipes it away.
It’s nothing, she tells herself. Just her brain messing with her. This isn’t unusual for her, unfortunately.
Just keep going. Keep walking. Keep working.
Run.
She’s in the plaza when she smells it again- smoke. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, her grip tightening on the parcel she has tucked under one arm, telling herself it’s just her mind playing tricks on her again.
But when she opens her eyes, she sees the ring of buildings around her shift. The beams of sunlight filtering down from the clouds overhead catch on them weirdly, making them almost glow —but that shouldn’t be possible. They’re made of brick and stone, material that cannot and should not reflect light.
And yet.
Maelle blinks once. Twice. The walls of the nearest building, a tailor’s shop and a sturdy red thing of brick and mortar, looks like it’s breathing. When it exhales, bits of grit blow off from its facade and into the air, flickering and golden, and then she realizes those are embers.
“Do you need something, miss?” the woman outside the building calls over. Maelle must have been staring for quite some time to draw her attention.
“I— umm—” Maelle tries to answer, but her throat suddenly hurts in a way it’s never hurt before, and the words refuse to come out. It’s not like a cold or a sore throat- the pain that has infected her throat is something scorching hot and infernal, making it hard to breathe.
“Miss? Are you alright?” the woman says, taking a step forward.
“Fine,” Maelle somehow forces out, but it scrapes her vocal cords, and she jerks around to cough.
When she does, she sees him.
Standing among a small throng of people is a man. His clothes aren’t common in Lumière, and she can’t make out his face, for his head is engulfed in fire.
But even still, even with his lack of eyes, she knows he’s staring directly at her.
Maelle flinches, stumbling back. The sudden movement jostles something in her mind, and the buildings in the plaza seem to move with her. They breathe out in unison, a collective death rattle that makes her feel ill, and their walls crack and chip away, rising into the air, until they’ve all turned into burning pyres.
A hand closes around her arm. It burns. She can feel her sleeve melting into her flesh, sizzling and seething. Maelle screams.
“No— NO!”
She tries to run, but her knees buckle after a few steps, and she crumples to the ground, skinning her palms on asphalt. When she looks up, all of Lumière is on fire- the shops, the streets, the plants, the Tower. Even the sky is a weeping blaze, and the ocean is churning with unruly flame.
She looks down at her hands. The skin is bubbling off of bone. They don’t even look like hers anymore, garish things of flesh incapable of proper movement.
Tears pour down her cheeks as she starts to wail, but wait, no, those aren’t tears. Not entirely anyway. It’s her skin, melting from the heat and dripping down her sloughing face like candle wax.
A scream explodes from her lips, and it does not stop.
Neither does the fire.
Neither does the pain.
Neither does the whisper in the flames, telling her to run run run run.
It’s a warm early afternoon in Lumière. The kind with music floating from open windows and cinnamon drifting from the bakeries. Sophie sits at her favorite café table beneath the awning, sipping honey tea and scribbling notes in the margins of her book. People pass by—some with packages, some laughing, some arguing. Life, layered and loud, like always.
And then—
A scream.
Sharp. Cracked.
Too young to be casual. Too real to ignore.
Sophie’s head snaps up.
Across the plaza, people are beginning to turn. A few stand. One woman gasps, clutching her child close.
In the center of the cobblestones—
A girl. Small, thin. Hair wild and eyes wide with terror .
She’s on the ground, scrabbling across the asphalt like an animal with two broken back legs, shouting at things no one else can see.
“Fire—! Get out—get OUT—!”
Sophie drops her tea. Stands fast.
She knows that voice.
Maelle.
And she’s not okay.
Sophie runs.
She doesn’t think. She doesn’t stop to explain. She weaves through the bystanders and crosses the plaza, heels clacking on stone.
“Maelle?” she calls gently. “Sweetheart?”
The girl whirls around, bright blue eyes blown wide. Her hands, skinned raw and red, tremble as she claws at nothing. Her chest heaves as she struggles to breathe.
“There’s fire,” Maelle rasps. “It’s all over the walls— it’s on me! It’s on me!”
Sophie slows as she approaches. “Maelle, there’s no fire.”
“You’re not listening! ” Maelle’s voice cracks into a shriek. “You don’t understand—! I smell smoke, it’s burning, the floor’s burning—!”
People are backing away. Whispering.
Sophie ignores them.
Her voice softens to a hush. “It’s not real, Maelle.”
Maelle freezes, just for a second.
“It’s not real,” Sophie continues, stepping close. “There’s no fire. You’re safe. Can I come closer?”
Maelle doesn’t answer.
But she doesn’t run.
Sophie kneels, right there on the cobblestones. Her dress wrinkles. She doesn’t care.
“It’s okay,” she says. “You’re going to be okay. There’s no fire. You’re not burning. You’re here, in Lumière. Nothing is going to hurt you.”
Maelle’s breath comes in short, panicked bursts. Her eyes dart to every corner of the square like she’s trapped. Cornered.
“But— but I saw— I felt—”
“I know, sweetie. I know.”
Maelle’s shaking like a leaf in the wind.
Sophie lifts both hands—slow, palms up. “I’m not gonna touch you unless you say I can.”
Maelle stares at her for a long, aching second.
Then whispers, “Please.”
Sophie gathers her into her arms.
And the moment Maelle touches another human being, she breaks.
A full-body sob shudders out of her. Her whole weight collapses against Sophie’s chest. Her arms wrap tight around Sophie’s waist, as if she’s trying to climb safer skin just to escape.
“It’s not real,” Maelle sobs. “I know it’s not real, I just— I see it—everywhere— I smell smoke, and I can’t sleep, and I think I’m gonna die—”
“You’re not,” Sophie whispers, holding her tight. “You’re right here. I’ve got you.”
The world narrows to the space between them.
People glance, but no one interrupts.
Sophie rocks them slowly. Her hand rubs slow circles on Maelle’s back.
“It’s okay,” she whispers, over and over. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”
Maelle buries her face deeper. “I didn’t want to tell Gustave and Emma— I didn’t want to mess things up— they’re the only one who stayed, I didn’t want them to get tired of me—”
“Oh, Maelle,” Sophie says, tears in her own eyes now. “They would never . They love you. Especially Gustave. I’ve never seen him love anyone so fiercely.”
“I-I’m a mess.”
“You’re a child.”
They stay like that for a long time, until Maelle’s breathing slows. Until the terror ebbs from her limbs. Until the hallucinated flames die down and leave her only exhausted.
People are still staring. Whispering. Sophie does her best to shield Maelle from view.
“Can you stand?” she whispers. “I’ll bring you to my apartment.”
Maelle hiccups weakly, then slowly rises to her feet, wobbling like a baby deer. She keeps her head down, refusing to look up, as Sophie guides her away from the plaza, away from all the gawking eyes. Sophie murmurs encouraging words to her the entire time.
“You’re doing great, sweetie. Almost there. Just a little further…”
Sophie’s apartment is tucked inside of a narrow, ivy-covered building just two blocks from the plaza—quiet, built above a bookstore, with flower boxes crowding the window ledge and teacups hanging neatly above the sink. Everything smells like chamomile and baked apples. Pale grey light pools on the floorboards. A soft rain has started, gentle and clean against the windows.
Sophie guides Maelle to the couch- it’s a deep sage green, plush, and worn with love, piled high with soft knit blankets. Maelle sinks down and curls on her side without a word.
“You’re okay,” Sophie whispers, smoothing her frizzy red hair with a gentle hand. The girl’s crown is damp with sweat. “You’re okay.”
Maelle’s breath shudders. She nods.
“Good girl.”
It’s the gentlest praise.
It slips out without Sophie meaning to—and Maelle stiffens, just a little.
Then melts.
“I’ll be right back,” Sophie says. “I’m just going to grab you some water and maybe something to help with the shaking, okay?”
Maelle gives the barest nod, eyes barely open now. She looks wrecked . Pale. Drenched in sweat. Her lashes are stuck to her skin.
Sophie hurries to the kitchen and returns with a glass of water and a lavender-scented cloth. She kneels beside the sofa again and gently dabs Maelle’s forehead.
“You’re burning up,” she murmurs. “How long have you been running on empty like this?”
Maelle mumbles something. Sophie leans in.
“What was that?”
“…week,” Maelle breathes out.
Sophie’s heart clenches. “Oh, honey…”
“I thought I could do it,” Maelle says, almost inaudible. “I thought it’d go away.”
Sophie heard about Maelle’s frequent nightmares from Gustave. The poor child is constantly being tormented at night; it’s been that way for years, even before he and Emma took her in.
But he never once spoke poorly of her. Never expressed frustration or annoyance, something she’s sure Maelle worries about.
“I understand,” Sophie says. “But you don’t have to deal with these things on your own. Now, here, drink some water. You must be thirsty.”
She seems to be right, as Maelle gulps down almost the entire glass. She eventually pulls back, gasping for breath, and slumps down again.
“Tired… Head hurts…” she mumbles.
“Try to get some rest then, honey,” Sophie says. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
It doesn’t take long for Maelle to drift off. Sophie pulls a soft blue blanket over her, then walks to the phone on the wall.
She dials a number she still knows by heart.
It’s picked up after two rings.
“Gustave’s shop!” a young, cheerful voice chirps. “Apprentice Alexandre speaking!”
Sophie can’t help the small smile that comes to her lips when she hears the boy speak. “Hi, Alexandre. This is Sophie. Is Gustave there?”
There’s a pause.
“Who is it?” she hears another voice, this one belonging to Guillaume, whisper.
“Miss Sophie!” Alexandre whispers back.
There’s a gasp—Adrien—and then a third voice joins in, “Do you think they’re getting back together?”
“I can still hear you, you know,” Sophie says fondly.
The three boys yelp audibly, and she chuckles.
“Oh! Uh—” Alexandre flounders for a second, then clears his throat. “Yeah, yeah, Mister Gustave in the back, probably elbow-deep in a chassis. Want me to grab him?”
“Please.”
“Got it! One sec— HEY, MISTER GUSTAVE! PHONE! IT’S MISS SOPHIE!”
Sophie flinches at the volume and pulls the receiver back slightly.
She can hear some distant clanking, a faint what? , a muffled curse, then heavy footsteps approaching.
Then—
“Sophie?”
His voice, close now. Familiar. Warm and confused.
She closes her eyes for a second. Breathes in.
“Hi, Gustave.”
There’s a beat. He can tell something’s wrong.
“Ah— It’s nice to see you! W-well, hear you, I guess. Since we’re not, you know…face-to-face…and stuff. Um, what can I do for you?”
Sophie can’t help but smile at his babbling. He always does this when he’s flustered or embarrassed.
However, she has to be serious, so she says, “It’s about Maelle.”
Immediately, Gustave’s tone turns to steel. “Maelle? What about her?”
“She’s okay now,” Sophie says quickly, already hearing the worry in his voice. “But she had a…moment. In the plaza. It was bad, Gustave. She was hallucinating—saw fire everywhere. Said she hadn’t slept in a week.”
The sound he makes is heartbreaking.
Then—
“…Where is she?”
“With me,” Sophie says. “I didn’t want to drag her through the streets again. She’s sleeping now.”
“Okay, okay, good. I’m coming over now.”
“Alright. I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Thank you so much.”
“Of course, Gustave.”
He hangs up, and Sophie breathes out slowly.
He’s there in nine minutes. Not fifteen.
When she hears the knock, Sophie gets up and walks to the front door.
And there he is.
Gustave. Still in his workshop clothes. Boots flecked with oil and water from splashing through puddles. Out of breath from running. His scarf is half-undone and his hair’s been finger-combed in haste, but his eyes—
His eyes search the room behind her before they even meet hers.
“She’s okay,” Sophie says quickly, her voice still quiet. “She’s sleeping. Couch.” She steps out of the way to let him in, and he immediately rushes to the living room.
Gustave kneels beside the couch. His hands are out, brushing over Maelle’s hair, murmuring soft things to her. Then, he looks over at her and asks, “How bad?”
“She was screaming,” Sophie tells him honestly. “Thought she was on fire. I had to talk her down from the middle of the plaza. People were watching.”
He nods, jaw tight. His shoulders sag.
“God,” he mutters. “I should’ve seen it. I knew she wasn’t sleeping, but I thought—I thought maybe she was just being tough about it. I didn’t think it was this bad.”
“You couldn’t have known,” Sophie says.
And then…Maelle twitches.
Sophie notices it first—Maelle’s legs kicking lightly beneath the blanket, like she’s trying to run. Then her fingers curl tight. A low, keening whimper escapes her throat, barely audible.
Gustave notices, too.
“Maelle?” he murmurs. “Sweetie, it’s okay. You’re dreaming.”
But she doesn’t wake up.
Her head jerks against the pillow. A strangled breath hitches up her throat. Her face crumples. Her mouth opens, silent at first, and then—
“No— NO, please— don’t shut the door— don’t leave me in there—!”
Sophie’s heart lurches. She starts to move, but Gustave’s already halfway into Maelle’s nightmare with her.
He speaks, low and sure, a hand pressed to her back. His voice drops into that soft, grounded tone—like weathered stone warmed by the sun.
“Maelle. You’re here. It’s just a dream. You’re not in the fire. You’re home.”
Maelle flails once, nearly kicking the coffee table. A tear escapes her eye, sliding down the bridge of her nose.
Gustave doesn’t flinch.
He sits up on the couch beside her, gently lifts her into his lap, careful not to wake her too fast. She’s still deep in the dream—still murmuring and begging—but as soon as her face touches his chest, something changes.
Her arms twitch. Her hands grab blindly at his shirt.
And then, she clings.
Hard.
“You came back, ” she sobs into his coat. “You came back for me…”
“I’ll always come back,” Gustave says, one arm wrapped tight around her, the other smoothing her hair. “I’m right here.”
Sophie watches, stunned by the precision of it—how practiced, how intimate his care is. This isn’t the first nightmare. Not by far. He knows every beat of this ritual, every trigger and tether.
But it’s not mechanical.
It’s tender. It’s love in its oldest, simplest form: presence.
Maelle curls into his lap like a baby animal. She’s still shaking, still caught between worlds, but her breathing slows. Her fingers loosen. Her head settles under Gustave’s chin.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers again. “I’ve got you, Maelle. You’re okay.”
Sophie presses her hand to her mouth.
Her eyes sting.
She’s never seen someone soothe a child like that—not with candy, not with commands, but with commitment. Like every part of him was built for this.
Gustave glances up at her. His eyes are soft. Still a little wet.
“You okay?” he asks.
Sophie nods, voice thick. “You didn’t even hesitate.”
“I never do.”
He rocks Maelle gently, the way he did when she was small—Sophie remembers hearing about those early months. The fits. The walking nightmares. The nights Gustave stayed up in a rocking chair humming half-forgotten lullabies while Maelle clung to him like she was afraid of falling out of the world.
“She’s so lucky,” Sophie says, voice low.
“I’m the lucky one.”
Sophie leans against the arm of the couch, watching them in the warm lamplight.
Gustave, tired but steady, his arms wrapped around a girl who doesn’t yet know how to trust safety when it’s real. Maelle, asleep again, this time without fighting.
And Sophie, her heart aching in her ribs, realizing for the first time that maybe love doesn’t have to be fearless.
Maybe it just has to stay.