Lyrance, 50th winter 227
My dear Khami,
I would like to thank you for your recent letters. I am terribly sorry I did not take the time to address them directly before, though I am reassured to hear things are fine at home.
As I am writing to you now, I left Springvley. You will not be able to answer to this, but do not worry. We shall see each other soon.
You see, I did it. I finally mapped the building.
I spent most of the past few days using a pen and paper, noting down the layout of the place I was in. Just as I expected, the mapping did not prevent the house from shifting. In fact, every time I looked up from my piece of paper to look at the room, its layout was slightly different from what it first was. Usually, I tried to correct the layout and mark the new thing, until I had done so many correction marks that I had to start all over again.
After dozens upon dozens of failed attempts, I decided to go back to the witch. Either they had made fun of me, or I had misunderstood their advice.
Back in the tent, the witch observed me for a long time, oddly concerned by my face. Then, they spoke: “You are tired, Lawyer. Did you not succeed in your mapping endeavour?”
“Your suggestion did not work, witch. Just as expected, the house keeps changing, just enough for me to fail every map I try. I lost a lot of paper already.”
“You do not understand, the old bird shook their head. The map and the place are related. They are one and the same; Your map needs to be as blur and changing as the house itself.”
“So, you are staying I am not supposed to start over whenever the layout changes? Will that help me destroying the house?”
The witch gazed in the distance for a moment, before answering. “If it is destruction you seek, you must reach the heart of the Domain.”
I was still pondering what this ‘core’ could be, when the witch spoke one last time: “Beware, Lawyer. You are choosing to face the Shifting Focus. Such a choice can only lead you closer to embracing it.”
The Shifting Focus… I could not exactly say why, but that name resonated in me. I felt like it meant something, something I was struggling to put into words.
Back home, I started my mapping once again, almost frenetically. This time, I did not try to precisely reproduce any layout. I had understood I couldn’t. Instead, I walked around the house, one hand on the wall and the other on my paper. I marked the wall, its every turn, angle, and furniture laid on its side. I only looked at the furniture from the corner of my eye, which meant they were blur and imprecise. I noted them as such.
It quickly turned out that even the basic layout of the place did not make sense. I had done too many left right turns for even a remotely normal room. Still, the paper map somehow worked.
After a while, I determined this method was probably working. However, I was still stuck in this room, and it was even more changing than it had before. I thought of this ‘core’ the witch had mentioned, and suddenly remembered. The door.
In one of your recent letters, Khami, you had asked me about a door that I had found in my apartment. Whether I had found it again. At the moment, I did not remember this door. However, as my hand was furiously scraping the paper, I was hit with realization: there was indeed a door. A door that Clouds had first opened. Where entered as well, only to be trapped in a series of impossibly long corridors and absurd rooms. This was the core of the house. This was where I had to map.
One problem remained: only one door was marked on my map: the main entrance toward the outside.
I am not sure how the idea came to me. I suppose that I figured, since the paper manages to properly follow the layout in spite of its shifting, perhaps the layout can follow the paper? Or perhaps it was an unconscious gesture. In any case, I took my paper map and drew an open door in the middle of a wall. I then heard a creaking, and turned to see the wooden door on my right slowly open.
I went in with purpose. Pen and paper in hand, I crossed the first corridor, that quickly gave way to the right. Then another right. Then another. And another. I marked down every door, every blurry room and shifting hallway, every awful impression of a cellar. I went on until my head was spinning, then kept going. My map would probably be absurd, but I still had to finish it.
After some time, keeping my eyes unfocused became easier. Everything was blurred, I couldn’t even really distinguish my feet from the floor. My hands from the paper. Myself from the house.
I don’t know how long I stayed there. I suppose it took a while. Eventually, though, a door led me back into my home.
And there it was. I didn’t quite believe it, at first, but it had worked. I tried blinking, looking away, even leaving and coming back: the flat was standing still. Its features were not perfect: some cupboards seemed fused to the wall, some shelves were too close to the ceiling, but still: I had done it. I had beaten the house.
In a haze, I quickly started to look around in the many drawers and cupboards of this stable home. I found papers, rotten fruits, things that had disappeared ages ago. I even found Outher’s pendent, that I had lost barely days after my moving in!
I did not find Clouds, though. In fact, I did not quite get the time to look for them either. I was going overboard with my scouring of the apartment. Relief was bleeding into a desire for vengeance, and I wanted to mess it up. My motions were getting sloppy, blurry. Eventually, a candle fell to the ground.
Before I even realized, the whole apartment was going up in flames.
I am not sure of how I left the place. I woke up in my office, a luggage next to my chair. I was unscathed. I looked at the pile of accumulated paperwork that I had failed to complete, and felt terrible: it was just as large as the pile I had discovered when taking the offer, if not larger. On top of the pile, one single letter attracted my attention. It was a formal demand by the mayor, for the capital to send a new Brivayan lawyer. I suppose I expected that Mr Walken would ask for my mutation. He did, in a way. He just did not confront me while doing so.
I decided to leave the place. However, fearing the formal demand would be forgotten in my office, I first knocked at Mr Walken’s to hand it back. Our discussion, almost surreal, was something like the following:
‘Yes, come in?”
“I found this letter in my office, Mr Walken. I feared you may forget it.”
“Ah yes, the formal demand. There is so much delayed work, we would not want to forget it. Thank you, dear… ?”
“P̵̢̡̧͇͙͈͙͔̟̜͓̅̊l̶̨̛̖̬̼͔̥͖̰̖̲̅͛͗̂̅̚̕̚̚͜ú̵̡̥͎̤̺͓͕͙̭͆͒́̍́̋̓̔̉͘m̶̡̛̰̹̼͔̹͉̜͐̑͋͂̾͑͐̈́̇͠ę̸̧̨̘͈̮̬̼̱̒̄̑̓̽̑̃̀͋̐̓̃́́͜͠,̷̢̛̙̘̣̠̟̣̤̺͙̖̙͎͙͓̈́̀̐͗̃͐͗̾̋͆̈́̈̚̕ ̸͉̈͐͒̉͒̃̀̇̉̃͌͛̕ ̶͉͗͐s̸͎̓̒i̸̥̙͂͐r̷̗̜̃.”
“Ah, right. You are… ?”
“The current Brivayan lawyer.”
The mayor’s gaze turned blank, like he didn’t quite process what I was saying. He marked a pause, before saying: “Right, right. Of course. Well, I would not want to take more of your time, then; there is always so much to do around here!”
And that was it. I was out of the place.
I am now on the way home. With my job and my house gone, nothing quite holds me in Springvley. However, I am not in a hurry anymore: I might very well take the time to stop in a few inns on the way.
Still, I will see you soon, my dear sister.
Y̵o̴u̸r̴s̵ ̵̺̔t̶̩̀r̸͎͒ǘ̴̺l̵̠̀y̵͎̆,
P̴̛̣̩̈́̃̀̏͌͆̔͂́̿͋́̕͝l̸̳̹̦̯̙̘̔̈́̚u̷̹͉͑̉͑͆̃̈́́͌̽̂̿͘͜͝͝ͅm̷̙̤̳͍̩̯̣̰̈̔͜e̸̯̝̘̪̣͍̹̰͑̈́̋̑́̀̐͊̏̕̚
