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Caleroga Shark Media.
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Welcome to the Night Market, a special Romance Weekly and
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Ghost Scary Stories crossover event. This is episode two, The
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Price of Wonder.
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Twenty eight days. I'd counted them down like a prisoner,
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marking time. Each sunrise another small death as the honey's
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memory faded further from my tongue. The article I'd written
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that first night had sparked something. My editor wanted more
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pieces like it. Readers were sharing it across social media,
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and for the first time in months, I felt like
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maybe I could salvage my career. But the words wouldn't come.
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Every morning, I sat at my laptop, fingers poised over
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keys that might as well have been foreign symbols. The
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blank document mocked me, cursor blinking like a slow heartbeat.
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I'd tried everything, visiting new restaurants, experimenting with exotic ingredients,
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even attempting to recreate the flavors from my grandmother's old recipes.
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Nothing worked, food tasted like cardboard, experiences felt flat and colorless,
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and the world around me seemed drained of all meaning.
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The bells had gotten worse. What started as a distant chime.
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I could almost convince myself was imaginary had become a
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constant presence. They followed me through grocery stores, whispered through
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my apartment walls at night, echoed in the space between
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raindrops during Seattle's endless drizzle. Other people didn't seem to
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hear them. I'd even asked the barista at my usual
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coffee shop if she noticed anything strange, and she'd looked
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at me like I was losing my mind. Maybe I was.
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By day fifteen, I was jumping at shadows. By day twenty,
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I'd stopped leaving my apartment except for absolute necessities, and
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by day twenty five I was barely sleeping because the
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bells had developed a pattern, three slow chimes followed by silence,
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then three more like a countdown, like something was measuring
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time until it could collect what it was owed. On
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day twenty seven, I called in sick to a restaurant
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review because the thought of pretending to taste anything made
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me physically ill. I spent the entire day pacing my apartment,
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checking the locks, obsessively, drawing the curtains tight against a
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sun that hurt my eyes. The bells were so loud
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now that they drowned out traffic television, even my own thoughts.
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When I looked in the mirror, my reflection seemed wrong, somehow, thinner,
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more translucent, like I was fading from the inside out.
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And tonight, finally, mercifully, tonight, the moon would disappear entirely
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from the sky. I arrived at Pine and Melrose three
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hours early, sitting in my car like some kind of
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supernatural stalker. The alley looked exactly as it had for
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the past month, empty, ordinary, disappointing. But as darkness fell
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and the last sliver of moon faded from view, I
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felt it a shift in the air, a change in
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the quality of shadows. The temperature dropped ten degrees in
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an instant, and my breath began to fog. Despite the
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mild October evening, the bells stopped ringing. The silence was
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somehow worse than the sound had been. It pressed against
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my ear drums like water, thick and soft, vocating, And
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then cutting through that terrible quiet, came something that might
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have been music, or might have been the sound of
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reality tearing at its seams. The light appeared at eleven
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forty seven pm, exactly spilling from that impossible gap between
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buildings like liquid gold. But this time I noticed things
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I'd missed before. The light didn't just spill, it writhed,
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moving with deliberate purpose, reaching toward me with tendrils that
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looked almost like fingers. The shadows it cast were too dark,
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too deep, and they moved independently of their sources. I
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was moving before i'd consciously decided to, drawn by sense
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that made my mouth water and my chest ache with longing.
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But underneath the familiar aromas of cardamom and star annis,
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I caught something else, something metallic and bitter that made
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my stomach clench with unease. The market had changed. New
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stools lined the twisted pathways, their wares glowing with inner
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light that pulsed like a heartbeat. A woman with butterfly
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wings that left trails of silver dust sold bottled laughter
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that sparkled like champagne, But when I looked closer, the
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bottles contained what looked suspiciously like tears. An ancient man
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whose skin looked like tree bark offered first memories the
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moment a baby opens its eyes and sees the world,
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But his display case was filled with empty eyed dolls
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that tracked my movement as I passed children who might
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have been there for centuries or minutes, traded in perfect conversations,
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but their voices carried an echo that made my teeth ache,
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and when they smiled, their teeth were too sharp, too numerous.
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But it was the customers that made my blood run cold.
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What I'd taken for drowsy contentment on my first visit
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now revealed itself as something far more sinister. They didn't
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move like sleepwalkers. They moved like marionettes, jerky and unnatural,
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as if something else was pulling their strings. A woman
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in expensive clothes stood at a stool selling perfect beauty,
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but her face was gaunt, hollowed out, and when she
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turned her head, it moved too far, rotating at an
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angle that should have been impossible. A man clutched a
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jar of confidence to his chest, but his hands shook
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and his eyes darted constantly, and I realized, with growing
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horror that he wasn't holding the jar. It was holding him.
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Thin silver threads extended from the lid, wrapping around his
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fingers like puppet strings, and every time he tried to
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set it down, the threads tightened and pulled his hands
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back up. They're not customers, I whispered to myself, the
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realization hitting me like a physical blow. They're livestock. But
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Kiran's stall remained exactly where I remembered it, honey jars
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glowing like captured sunsets. He looked up as I approached,
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and something crossed his face. Relief, disappointment, terror. You came back,
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he said, voice soft as midnight rain, but carrying an
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undertone I hadn't noticed before, fear. Did you think I wouldn't.
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I hoped you wouldn't. His storm gray eyes held mine
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with an intensity that made my knees weak. But now
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I could see something else there. Desperation. The market doesn't
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give gifts without act, affecting payment eventually, and the interest
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he swallowed hard. The interest compounds quickly. Then it's a
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good thing I brought my wallet, I said, trying for lightness,
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but hearing the desperation in my own voice. Kieran didn't smile. Instead,
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he gestured to the other customers wandering between stalls. Look
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at them, ava really look. I followed his gaze and
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felt my stomach drop. The woman at the beauty stool
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wasn't just gaunt. Parts of her were missing where her
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left eye should have been was empty socket that seemed
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to contain swirling darkness. The man with the confidence jar
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had no shadow, and when he opened his mouth to
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speak to a vendor, no sound came out, like his
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voice had been stolen. But worse than the missing pieces
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were the things that had been added, silver threads from
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every customer, connecting them to their purchases, like umbilical cords,
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and those threads all led back to the same place,
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a massive web that hung in the shadows between stalls,
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tended by something I couldn't quite see, but desperately didn't
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want to. What happened to them? I whispered, they traded?
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Kieran said, simply, the market always collects what it's owed,
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one way or another. And once you're connected, he gestured
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to the silver threads, you become part of the collection.
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A chill ran down my spine, but it was overwhelmed
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by the desperate hunger clawing at my chest. I could
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feel the emptiness inside me, like a physical wound, and
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I knew, knew with absolute certainty, that only another taste
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of that impossible honey could fill it. The bells might
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I stopped, but they'd been replaced by something worse. A
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whispering in the back of my mind that sounded like
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my own voice but spoke words I'd never thought. You
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need it. The voice whispered, You'll die without it. Look
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how gray you've become, how lifeless you're already dead, you
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just haven't stopped breathing yet. I need it, I said aloud,
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abandoning any pretense of dignity. Whatever the price is, I'll
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pay it. Kieran's expression grew pained. Behind him, the honey
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jars pulsed with their own light, and I could swear
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I heard them calling my name, Ava, Please. The word
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came out as a broken whisper. I can't. I can't
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live like this. Everything is gray and flat and meaningless.
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I haven't been able to write, to taste, to feel
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like anything real since that night. I need what you
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gave me. The whispering in my head grew louder, more insistent.
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He wants you to beg they all do. Show him
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how much you need it, show him you'll do anything.
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For a long moment, he just stared at me. Then,
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with the careful movements of someone handling something incredibly dangerous,
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he reached for a different jar. This one contained honey
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that swirled with ribbons of gold and amber, beautiful enough
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to make my chest ache. But as he lifted it,
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I noticed something that made my blood freeze. There were
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things moving in the honey, tiny writhing shapes that looked
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almost like memories. Kiran said, quietly, following my gaze. This
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is nostalgia, honey. It tastes like every perfect moment from
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your past, concentrated and purified. But the price, he hesitated,
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and I saw his hands shake slightly. The price is homesickness,
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your ability to feel settled content in any place. You'll
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always be searching for somewhere you can never find again.
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I should have asked questions, should have demanded to understand
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exactly what I was trading away, But the whispering in
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my head had become a raw, and the tiny shapes
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in the honey were reaching toward me, pressing against the
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glass like they knew I was there. They're your memories,
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the voice explained, with sick sweetness, pieces of you that
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are already gone. He's just showing you what you've lost.
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Take them back, take them all back. I'll take it,
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I said, without hazard. Kieran's jaw tightened, but he dipped
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a silver spoon into the jar. The honey clung to
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it like liquid light, and the tiny shape swarmed toward
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the spoon, clustering around it in a mass that pulsed
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with their own heartbeat. I could swear I heard it humming,
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a frequency that resonated in my bones and made my
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teeth ache with anticipation. Wait, he said, as I leaned forward.
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Before you do this, you should know I'm not just
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a vendor here. I'm bound to this place, trapped by
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debts I can never fully repay. I've been watching people
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like you for longer than you can imagine. And he
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looked away, jaw working like he was fighting with himself.
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I don't want to see you become like them? Then
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why offer it to me? Because if I don't, someone
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else will. They won't warn you first. His voice dropped
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to a whisper. And because every person I don't help
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feed to this place means another day of my own punishment.
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The honesty in his voice made something flutter in my chest.
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Separate from the hunger. There was genuine pain there, genuine concern,
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but it wasn't enough to overcome the desperate need that
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had been eating me alive for twenty eight days. I
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opened my mouth, the honey touched my tongue, and the
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world exploded into memory. I was seven years old in
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my grandmother's kitchen, flour dusting every surface as we made
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Christmas cookies. I was sixteen, tasting my first real croissant
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in a tiny cafe in Portland, understanding for the first
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time that food could be art. I was twenty two,
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writing my first restaurant review and feeling like I'd found
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my calling. But this time I could feel what was happening.
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As each memory played out. They weren't just being recalled.
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They were being extracted, pulled from the deepest parts of
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my mind, and consumed by something that tasted them along
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with me. Every perfect moment I'd ever experience flooded through
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me at once, but as they passed, I felt them
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becoming hollow, empty shells that would never again carry the
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same emotional weight. And as the honey dissolved on my tongue,
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I felt something else dissolving too, the comfortable feeling of
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being home in my apartment, the satisfaction of a quiet
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evening alone, the simple pleasure of familiar surroundings. They drained
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away like water through a broken glass, leaving behind a
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hollow ache I couldn't name. But worse than the loss
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was what took its place. A silver thread, thin as
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spider silk emerged from my chest and stretched back toward
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the shadows between stalls. I watched in horror as it
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connected to the massive web i'd seen earlier, and suddenly
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I could feel everything it touched, the desperate hunger of
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every other customer, the cold satisfaction of whatever tended the web,
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and underneath it all a vast and terrible presence that
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regarded me with the interest of a child examining a
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new toy. Welcome, something whispered directly into my mind, and
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the voice was old and patient and infinitely hungry. We've
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been waiting for you. I was still crying when the
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honey's effects began to fade, but now the tears felt different,
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not joy, but loss, a bone deep longing for something
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I couldn't identify, some perfect place that existed only in
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the space between memory and dream. And underneath the longing
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was terror, because I could feel that presence watching me,
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measuring me, calculating exactly how much more I could give
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before there was nothing left. What did you do to me?
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I whispered. Kieran's expression was full of regret, but also relief,
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like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, even
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as a heavier one settled on mine. I gave you
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what you asked for and took what the market demanded
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in return. Around us, the market seemed brighter, more vivid.
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The other customer's hollow expressions made perfect sense.
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Now.
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They were all searching for pieces of themselves they'd traded away,
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following silver threads that led back to a web that
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would never let them go. The woman at the beauty
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stool was running her hands over her face, looking for
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features that were no longer there. The man with the
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comfortdance jar was checking his reflection in every shiny surface,
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seeing someone he no longer recognized. And they were all
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connected to the same web, all feeding the same hungry
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presence that I could now feel in the back of