On the inside of Krem's right wrist there was an hour glass now, and five floors above him there was a man who had taken Adaline Bowman to see a ship in a tunnel, back home. Neither of these two things meant anything, really, and especially not independently of each other. People got ink done about other people all the time; Krem had a lot of ink about a lot of people, because he was a mess, a travesty of how people had touched his life. People arrived in the city from home all the time. One of these things, though, put a particular blanket of meaning on the other, Krem was pretty sure.
So Krem was sitting at a coffee shop near the library. He knew that Adaline worked today, because they were close. Because she had left a mark, and that's why this ink was on his skin. He'd bruised it terribly when he'd met Ellis the other day, pressing his thumb into the tattoo. But the ink was still there, because it was never going to not be there. That was alright.
He looked at his phone, checking the time, and when it was nearly the time that Adaline might be getting off, he sent her a gentle, friendly text. I'm getting coffee, it said. I would love if you'd join me. And he attached a quick picture of himself, because he knew how to do that, was proud that he did, and it proved that he could smile right now.
So Krem was sitting at a coffee shop near the library. He knew that Adaline worked today, because they were close. Because she had left a mark, and that's why this ink was on his skin. He'd bruised it terribly when he'd met Ellis the other day, pressing his thumb into the tattoo. But the ink was still there, because it was never going to not be there. That was alright.
He looked at his phone, checking the time, and when it was nearly the time that Adaline might be getting off, he sent her a gentle, friendly text. I'm getting coffee, it said. I would love if you'd join me. And he attached a quick picture of himself, because he knew how to do that, was proud that he did, and it proved that he could smile right now.