The Town That Forgot Midnight

The great clock in the town square beat slowly into the silence, steady as a pulse.

Tick. Tick.

It was twenty to midnight, and the road was empty and black.

Three men staggered along it, arms slung across one another’s shoulders, their feet disagreeing about direction. They smelled of wine and inn smoke.

“I’m telling you,” said the tall one, “the witch who served us tonight was the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You’ve said that three times,” said the second.

“And I’ll say it a fourth. I wish we’d stayed longer.”

They wheezed with laughter until the shortest one stopped so suddenly that the others nearly dragged him down.

“Hold on. Someone’s standing there.”

Between two pale tree trunks, a girl in a white dress stood perfectly still, her face turned away. “A witch,” the short man said, grinning. “A pretty one, too.”

He rubbed his eyes. When he looked again, there was only drifting mist.

“Where did she go?”

“Where did the road go?” muttered the tall one.

They turned. Trees stood on every side, black and close. The town had been ahead of them a moment ago.

“A forest,” the tall one whispered, and the word sobered him faster than cold water could have.

“There’s a cave,” called the second. “We wait for daylight.”

Nobody argued. The cave mouth hung with spider webs, and pale sand had drifted across its floor. One by one, they went in.

Earlier that day

Alley stood very still.

The stones came in a small, steady rain. One struck her shoulder, another her wrist. The hood of her grey cloak hid her face, and she was grateful for it.

“She’s a witch,” one of the children whispered. “My mother says she can hurt you.”

“Nobody goes near the forest because of her.”

“Why don’t you leave?” a boy called, a stone ready in his fist. “Go live in the town.”

Leave. The word caught in her throat, but she said nothing. A stone struck her, then another.

A breeze moved through the trees, and her lips shaped a single word, barely a breath. Sensei.

“Hey! What are you lot doing?”

The children scattered, shrieking with laughter, and Alley’s shoulders loosened before she could stop them.

Shin came up the path with a sack on his back and a crate under one arm. “Naughty things,” he muttered, watching them go. Then he looked at her, and his face changed. “Alley. Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, Sensei.”

“Alley.”

“A little,” she admitted, rubbing her wrist.

He set the crate down and turned her hand gently in his. His thumb was warm. A gust pulled her hood back, and she found herself suddenly, urgently interested in a patch of moss.

“You never say anything to them,” he said quietly.

“They only come for the game.”

He didn’t answer that. He just lifted the crate again. “Come on. I brought what you asked for.”

She followed a step behind him, as she always did. Her cottage waited at the forest’s edge, the only home her parents had left her, and she had never wanted another. She was the granddaughter of a witch the old stories still whispered about, and the town had decided the forest and its rumours belonged to her too. Nobody else walked up this path.

Nobody but Shin.

“Heavy,” she said, and he laughed.

Inside, he dropped into a chair as if he lived there. “What’s for breakfast? I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“You always say that.”

“And it’s always true.”

His stomach agreed loudly. Alley pressed her lips together and flicked a finger at the stove. Blue flame bloomed beneath the kettle. She set bread and tea in front of him, and he took the cup in both hands with a contented sigh.

Then she turned to the crate.

Dried nightroot. Silver moss. A packet of valerian, a corked bottle of something amber, and a small mortar she’d wanted for months. She checked each seal and sniffed each bundle.

“Good ones,” she murmured. “Even the moss is fresh.”

“Of course. I picked it myself.” He watched her over the rim of his cup. “That’s why I’m leaving you the harder recipes this month.”

She straightened. “You trust me with them?”

“I wouldn’t have given them to you otherwise.”

Her hands went still on the packet. She turned quickly back to the crate, and a folded sheet slid out and landed on the floor.

A poster. Lanterns, ribbons, and bold letters across the top: Harvest Festival.

Alley’s smile faded.

Shin saw it. “You’re coming with me this year.”

“What?”

“The festival.” He stood and smoothed the crease out of the paper. “You’ll wear a hooded cloak. No one will know who you are.”

“But, Sensei, if someone finds out, it’ll cause trouble for you.”

“Then it’s trouble I chose.” He said it lightly, but he didn’t look away. “Please. Just this once.”

She looked at the poster. Her heartbeat had grown loud in her ears.

“...Just this once,” she said.

On the evening of the festival, Alley changed her mind three times in front of the mirror.

The blue dress, then the green, then the blue again. She pinned her hair up, took it down, and pinned it up again with unsteady hands. Would he think it was too much? She wasn’t sure what she wanted him to think.

A knock came at the door.

When she opened it, Shin, who had been halfway through a sentence, forgot the rest. He held a folded cloak over one arm. He cleared his throat.

“Sensei?”

“You look...” He glanced at the lanterns on her porch. “...very nice. Here. I brought this for you.”

The cloak was deep green, its hood lined with soft wool. It settled over her shoulders as though it had always been hers.

“Come on,” he said, already walking. “We’ll be late.”

Alley noticed his ears were red. She held on to that small, precious fact all the way down the hill.

The town was alive with sound.

Paper lanterns drifted overhead without any rope, glowing gold and rose. At a baker’s stall, a witch lit her oven with a snap of her fingers while a human customer laughed and tipped his hat to her. Children chased glowing moths through the crowd. Someone was singing badly, and everyone was kindly pretending not to hear.

The air smelled of roasted chestnuts and warm honey.

Alley stopped in the middle of the street and forgot to breathe.

“Come on.” Shin’s hand closed around hers. Her cheeks burned under the hood, but she didn’t let go.

At a food stall, he bought two skewers of candied plums and pressed one into her hand. The sugar cracked between her teeth, tart and sweet at once, and she closed her eyes.

“Good?”

“It’s very good.”

“I knew it.”

She was laughing, truly laughing, when a woman at the next stall tilted her head and studied her for a long moment. Alley’s smile died. She tugged the hood forward.

“My apprentice doesn’t like crowds,” Shin said easily, stepping between them. “Do you have any ribbon cakes left?”

The woman’s gaze softened and went back to her trays. Alley let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Shin didn’t comment. He only offered her the cake, and they walked on.

They watched a juggler toss glowing spheres that bent through the air at a witch’s whisper. They drifted past the dance circle, where humans and witches whirled together. When the music slowed, Alley shook her head and stepped back. Shin only grinned and leaned against a post to watch with her.

When the lanterns began to burn low, she realised she hadn’t thought about the forest in hours.

The road home ran along the forest’s edge. The air grew colder with each step, and the trees on their left leaned dark and silent. Even the crickets had stopped.

“Did you enjoy it?” Shin asked.

“Yes.” It came out smaller than she’d meant. “Very much. Thank you, Sensei.”

Ahead of them, three men were weaving down the road, singing something tuneless. One of them waved. “Evening, miss!”

Shin steered Alley politely past, and she kept her face lowered. At the bend, she glanced back. The men were already staggering toward the dark, and the forest seemed closer than it had a moment ago.

At her door, Shin paused. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, Alley.”

“Goodnight, Sensei.”

“Goodnight.”

He walked away toward the town, and the dark folded around his lantern. She watched until she could no longer see it, then went inside.

Eleven fifty-nine, in the cave

Deep in the cave, a light began to glow.

It was pale and trembling. The tall man frowned. “What’s that?”

They followed it past the webs, past a bend in the rock, and into an old stone chamber. On a cracked altar lay a book.

It was enormous, bound in black leather, and the cover seemed to breathe. Silver words crawled across it, rearranging themselves as if searching for a language they could speak. Beneath them, a row of glowing numbers was counting down.

“It’s moving,” the short one breathed.

“Maybe it’s one of those magazines,” said the second, and nobody laughed.

The tall man stepped closer. The light touched his face, and his grin slid away. “Should I open it?”

“Open it,” the others said. They said it too quickly, as people do when they don’t want to be the only afraid one.

Somewhere in the distance, the great clock began to strike.

His fingers closed around the cover.

The book opened.

Light blew outward, white and enormous, and the walls shook. The tall man had no time to scream. One moment he was there. The next, the air where he stood was empty, and the book lay open on the altar, its pages turning on their own.

The storm tore through the forest. Trees thrashed. Wind howled out of the cave, across the sleeping town, and up the hill.

In her small house at the forest’s edge, Alley froze, her hand flying to her chest. Something had woken, and she felt it.

“Sensei,” she whispered.