The clouds are broad and airy streaks soaking up the growing indigo aftermath of the sunset. The bright yellow at the horizon deepens but sinks slowly and the evening is stained in the gentleness of a soft purple.

  I’m sitting in the back of the shop, waiting for Rose to find some time for me. In the back where it’s not fancy and the vegetation runs a bit wild. We don’t have customers sit out here so we don’t waste much energy on enhancing any picturesque qualities. An old, wooden-deck – half rotten and stained by hundreds of rainfalls. A chipped metal table, once covered in gleaming white paint – now, eaten by gaps of orange rust. Plain, roughly-cut picnic benches. But as with most things around here, appearances are subject to change. 

  What doesn't change is the store's location. It sits a street over from the monastery in a gathering of other similar shops. It’s just around the corner from Françoise Fashion House - less popular since the Crooked House stands empty on the hill overlooking the town. There’s the bookstore, Alexandria, named after the library - aptly built in a fusion of Greek and Egyptian style. And there’s the Office of Returns in case there’s been an arrival mishap, run by Vienna Wong. It features a quaint outdoor terrace where travellers may calm down and be reassured of a temporary clinical death. Due to the high volume of customers and the sheltered atmosphere, this part of the street is closed off to cars (not that there are many around here, anyway) and it's paved with smooth white stone - traces of minerals winking under the sun.

  I sit on the deck stairs, a book gathered in my lap, as if I’m shielding it from the wind but there is none. The air is still and radiates accumulated heat. Everything feels hot to the surface. The desert is red with the sun during the day and I'm glad it's still desert. Consistency isn't something to get used to.

  Sweat gathers around my hairline. A bird lands on the phone lines above and releases a song into the quiet.

    “Come back in,” Rose’s voice calls out to me through a cracked open door, “the mosquitoes are coming out and they’re going to freaking devour you, philosopher.”

    “There aren’t any,” I tell her, laying my hand over the page I was reading.

    “Sure, there are, I see them swirling over there. Blood-sucking monsters.”

  I laugh and turn to watch her onyx eyes move in the dimness. They glint like they’re catching sparks in the fading light. A strand of pale-pink dyed hair curls down the side of her face. She steps outside, barefoot. Her skin’s pearly and smooth and she’s the colour of milky seashells. She takes careful, childish steps. Her toenails are painted in screaming scarlet.

    “It might rain tonight,” she says, as she curls up on the bench, tucking her knees under her chin. Little dark eyebrows go up.

    “Yeah, it could be. I don’t remember the last time we had rain.”

    “Me neither.”

  I remember telling Zosi it’ll rain if he wants it to - in the city. You just have to figure out how exactly.

  The bird twirls a long winding sound into the air. Other songs come swiftly in answer. I watch shadowy wings flutter as two more birds settle on the cable.

  You have to be careful with birds.

    “What kind of birds are they?”

    “Song sparrows.”

  She hums her voice in sweet surprise. “I always thought sparrows would be flashier. Brightly coloured. Maybe a bit pretentious. But they’re dull and brown and common.”

  I smile.

    “I think they’re quite pretentious. They have complicated songs.”

  Her head tilts to the side and her wavy locks follow and spill over. I close my book.

    “You know so much,” she says.

    “I really don’t.”

  I see the mosquitoes, now. Their translucent bodies barely visible against the sky. Night is upon us. And it’s the day of the metaphorical week we keep Delphi's open around the metaphorical clock. Though, tonight, there is no particular event.

  We’re open for regular business.

    “Do you think you could tell me how it happened? I’d ask Alexei but you know how he is.”

  She nods her little head as she taps her nails against her thighs.

    “I know it’s important,” she says kindly. “You’ll find it interesting, I’m sure. You can be distant, I guess.”

    “There’s nothing good about being distant, Rose. Especially in this case. Just go through it once, if you want to talk about it. If not, I understand.”

    “No, I want to help,” she sighs and she catches herself. Her eyes are wide with wonder and her mouth is too straight and bitter and the sight of her tightens my chest all at once. “We were at the arcade, just me and Alexei. He didn’t want to stay in, you know. Liv was there, too, but she didn’t see anything. We went outside because Alexei wanted to smoke and we heard noises from the back, around the parking lot-“

    “What kind of noises?”

    “A rattling. A beating. We went to look and it was Sunny and it was her windpipe making those noises. She fell to the ground and wrestled, moving her limbs around and hitting the concrete with so much force. She lost her words eventually and her voice. The music was so loud inside the arcade, no wonder no one could hear her. She changed. I saw her do it. I don’t know how to describe her shrinking but she did. Philosopher, she wilted, her bones softened, and her skin came off and she shrank. Her flesh moved and molded. I could hear her cells pop. At the end, she was just this bloody tiny thing with bird feet. Before her feathers grew.”

    “Wait, what did you do with her clothes?”

    “We got a hold of Zosi.”

  I scoff.

    “He helped you clean up," I say quickly. "Who did most of the cleaning?”

    “Zosi.”

    “Did you and Alexei touch anything?”

    “No.”

    “Good.”

  The three birds disappear in quick black dashes over our heads and over the roof. A warm gust of wind rustles the grape vine wrapped around the deck in a tentative whisper, trying its power.

    “He’ll be fine, right?” She asks, fumbling with the ends of her blouse.

    “Yes, he should be. I’m going to the monastery to have a look tonight.”

  Wide leaves shake. Then, the wind snakes through the blooming rose bushes and the lilac trees. The air is damp and thick.

  I feel its charged buzz against my arms. The sky is opaque now.

    “Let’s head inside,” Rose urges me as she stands up. Her bracelets clatter against each other around her thin wrist.

  Her form is colourless in the night.

  A fat raindrop falls on the cover of my book and wrinkles it. We hear the sporadic but rhythmic patter of rain hitting the palm trees and the unkempt bushes. A dash of golden light cuts through the darkness when she twists the doorknob and the hinges creak.