Zosi’s on vacation now. Or that’s what he jokingly calls it. 

  The nuns spot me right as I pass the statue of St. Michael. It reaches far, far above, hair blown in imaginary wind like splitting fire - he casts his intricate feather-marbled wings serenely but dawns a contradictory grave scowl, darkness between sculpted brows. The nuns open the ornate black-barred gate to they let me in. But it’s about all they do to make me feel welcome.

    “Morning,” I say, regardless. As if mornings and evenings matter here. But they keep their tight and organized schedules. They would care about such formalities, and I would, too, being too familiar with the inner tickings of monastic dwellings. Expectations mix here, too.  

  I wonder if I could manage to tear my mind off the town's bones, what would remain behind? What is St. Michael's, anyways, when it's stripped of everything? 

  They avert their eyes and their faces harden, bowing into the shadows of rigid politeness. I bow my head, too, even if I'm vermin. Vermin can be polite. I walk through toward the inner garden. They take care of him and it’s more than enough for me.

  I know the garden well.

  I know the marble fountain where he sits on the grass, eyes half-open and meditative in the noon-like haze, surrounded by his notebooks and photo-albums. I know the garden is peaceful even when busy with the nuns’ daily tasks of obedience. They’re clad in summer-white attire. They hang up hand-washed sheets on the clothesline and the sheets brush against the tall grass and they bend languidly in the warm wind in gentle curving motions. On a heavy table carved out of greying stone, Vivaldi's alto emerges softly in operatic vocalizations from a portable radio. The pleasant song masks the nuns’ calm exchanges as they pick ripe oranges from full green leafage.

  The sky is a clear azure and no glare obscures its hue. There lies Zosi in his oasis in the vicinity of so many freshly-transplanted rows of red roses. In the forgiving shade of thick fleshy fig trees, where long-haired cats visit him in their aimless passing. The earthy smell soothes his beating blood. It's learning to be tame and unafraid within the monastery walls.

  But fear doesn’t leave easily.

  He doesn’t get up when I cross his line of sight. I sit by him.

    “You’re here early,” he notices.

    “Didn’t think I’d disturb your sleep.”

  One of the cats stretches its striped back on the blanket. It stares up at me with mismatched eyes. One blue, one green. Rosy nose flaring.

    “At least the sun rises in St. Michael’s.”

  I run my fingers over the cat’s round head. It pushes its forehead against my wrist. I look along the white brick walls partly hidden by the creeping glistening branches of ivy. I was Zosi’s guide through the city and he doesn’t need me anymore but I still come back to see him. It’s on my way, and all.

    “Tell me what happened with Sunny.”

    “Ah, I don’t really know. I thought about going to the Crooked House on the hill but Alexei says no one’s been by in so long.” 

    “Either way, you know her better than me. And you were here.”

    “I wasn’t.”

  The cat mouths a meow but no sound comes out.

    “I was in the desert,” he goes on. “Or in the forest. It kept changing. I found an old temple.”

  Oh, I didn’t mention Zosi’s taken up exploring the surroundings. I think that’s why he chose to stay in St. Michael’s. He goes out and to the edges of the in-between trying to find remains of the origin. Bones of the ancient gods, the ones the world’s buried. The ones who’ve forgotten their own languages because their countries don’t exist anymore and no tongues sing their beauty.

  Plainly put, Zosi’s at war with the desert because the desert isn't too keen on giving up its secrets. He knows there’s something out there but he's also aware of his own stubbornness. He’ll lose to the desert sooner or later.

    “But Alexei was there. And so was Rose.”

    “Thank the gods for Rose.”

  I wanted to ask at the arcade but she seemed too shaken up. As for Alexei, I don't think I can ever expect a straight answer from him - not without the sarcastic half-grins and the narrow rhetorical glances that would make even mathematical absolutes doubt themselves. 

    “From what I understand,” Zosi raises his upper body and leans into one of his elbows, “Sunny had all these thoughts about the city and needing to go there, but couldn’t. It was nagging her, I think. The centre of it."

  He stops and pushes his lips together.

    "And?" I press on.

    "Philosopher, she’s in a little cage outside the kitchen window. She turned into a yellow bird.”

  I blow air through my nose.

    “There’s always been something about Sunny.”

    “Why don't you seem surprised?”

  He gets a better look at me. Zosi’s eyes are mercury in the early sun. “You think she’s taken with the singularity.”

    “I hope not but it looks like it. Think there’s any chance the nuns would let me see her? I have to take some notes.”

  Taken with something she hadn't seen. I've heard about the taking of shapes. Why dig into something that isn't? And how.

    “I don’t think so. Not right now, sorry.”

    “No need.”

  Zosi looks over his shoulder and his eyelashes blink white.

    “Come back tonight,” he says quietly.

  I nod.

    “Zosi, how would you like to go into the city with me? There’s a case I think might relate to Sunny and I need all the minds I can have.”

  He smiles.

    “You haven’t been called on in a while. Will the medium be there?”

    “Yes.”

    “What time?”

    “Tomorrow.”

  No matter when I leave, I’ll be on time to meet the family. The medium will wait around for an insignificant while, sip on offered cups of bleak tea and maybe start interviewing the mother, and I’ll show up to play my part. I have to. It’s her story, maybe.

  It’s always someone’s story. I just have to figure out whose.