The few rays of sunshine that pierced the clouds illuminated the mayor’s house, manor? What was the correct term? Compared to the ruins that surrounded it, this one building was meticulously made of red bricks, each placed ensuring its superiority. They would not budge; this building will not fall. Lillia noticed curtains swaying through an open window — a window of thick, shiny glass. The fabric danced in the afternoon air. To Lillia, that curtain wanted to escape, but it could not. Forever bound to that one window in that one house. Her heart resonated with that. All her life, she had barely stepped foot outside of Herafel. It’s not like there was anything out there for her anyway.

Lillia approached the large, polished wooden doors. She hesitated before the doorknob, her hand quivered. Lillia took a deep breath. Remember why you are here, she grasped the doorknob and twisted it. You have to try.

Inside, the air had a different texture. Smoother. Silkier. It moved gracefully, each breath as more and more refreshing. Well, eventually, Lillia almost choked on it, completely unprepared for the smell and taste. Her body rejected it at first, so used to the outside air — the normal air. Is this really how the mayor lives everyday? She felt lightheaded. Somehow, this wasn’t right. Air shouldn’t be like that. It should be hard and warm and stubborn, not whatever this is.

Lillia came to the realisation that it wasn’t just the air, everything was out of place. Her feet stood on the luxury of a dirty blue carpet; the walls flaked at parts, cracked at others, but they were painted. Painted. Not wood or stone or the natural colour and grain of whatever it had been built out of, but a calming light grey. At the end of the short hallway, the walls darted apart, opening into a large square room — a waiting room, Lillia believed. Chairs lined in formation, a couple small wooden tables housed biscuits, water and papers, and at the very edge of the room, a desk with a small man behind it.

Above, on the white ceiling, a single bulb hung on what seemed like a thread. The wires inside glowed a fiery yellow. It doused the room in orange light. Groups of, admittedly, dead leaves sat in the corners, somehow still flowing life into the atmosphere. This was one room. A single room. A room that to most people, would have been ordinary. In fact, Lillia guessed that anyone visiting the mayor from elsewhere would probably be insulted by this room. And yet, it held more care and life than her own bedroom — than her whole house. Despite raising her expectations, she had still underestimated the wealth of this building.

A man in a shoddy suit and what looked like a farmer sat, flicking through some papers. They began to take notice of her. Lillia stopped gawking. She strolled up to the desk and slammed her hands down. The secretary looked up, offended. Lillia startled. That was a bit too confident.

“Excuse me—”

Composure. “I need to see the mayor.” She glared at the man from the top of her eyes. No point playing nice. “Now.”

The man leaned back in his chair and repeated himself. “Excuse me! Who do you think you are?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lillia shot back, regretting it instantly. It very much did matter. “Uh … Lillia … Ernalin.”

He tutted. “Well, Lillia Ernalin,” he emphasised the pronunciation of her name, “you don’t need to see the mayor, actually.”

A smug look spread across the man’s face. Lillia’s eye twitched. She gripped the table, willing herself to remain still. She gritted her teeth.

“I do.”

“Well, okay! Sure, let me just send you up there!” the man laughed. “That’s not how this works! You don’t just decide to meet the mayor. You make an appointment!”

Lillia silently growled. This man was testing her patience. He reminded her of the type of people at school who believed they were better than everyone else because they knew more. Entitled pricks. Only ever want to make you feel bad for something outside of your control.

Relax.

Lillia glanced at the seating area. The two men were minding their own business. She took a deep breath and considered her choices. Make an appointment? She could … but how long would that take? Time isn’t something Lillia had to spare — no, not even that — she didn’t want to come back here, she didn’t even want to be here right now. It was today or never. Second, did she have to do this? Talk to a man she barely knows, who she’s already aware won’t care? It was pointless, wasn’t it? Strangely, that made her want to commit more. She would hear first hand that no-one cares and no-one is going to do anything about it. Lillia wanted to hear that, because then she would be able to let go of that hope inside her. Perhaps she could find solace in the bitter helplessness of it all. As it stands, she can’t find any peace knowing she could have done something at least.

That decided it, she was seeing the mayor today, appointment or not.

“I am going to see the mayor,” Lillia spoke slowly, releasing her grip on the desk, “my appointment is right now. So, I’m going to go and walk through those doors now, okay?”

Again, the secretary laughed. “Do you not see the pipes, girl? Or the gears? It’s a mechanical door, it only opens with my command! Not that someone like you would know that.”

It must have been the secretary’s lucky day, as before Lillia could launch at him, there was a loud, obnoxious, buzz. It caught her off guard, severing the rage from her body. 

The secretary sighed, and pressed something. A short hiss of steam, closely followed by the grinding of gears, then, a loud click. The sound of the door unlocking. A large plump man threw it open and stood in the archway. The man wore a suit, a fine, tailored suit. His hand, crooked and sharp, clawed at the wood in the door. His face was shrouded by his short hat, but Lillia felt him glare at her. An uneasy, nauseating feeling.

He grinned.

He let go of the door and walked off.

“Hope all is well, Andrew!” the secretary called out, “have a safe trip.”

Andrew?

The man grunted.

That Andrew?

The door let out a squeal. Light being dragged away across the floor. Lillia glanced up at the gears. They itched to move. So did her body. Act. Now. The door won’t open again.