Day 61 – Hour 011 “The Back Room”

Day 61 – Hour 011"The Back Room"

The bell above the door had long stopped its echo. The small space inside Nolve's shop grew still again, the hush of its cluttered silence broken only by the ticking of a wall clock that hadn't told the right time in years. Nolve didn't look back to see if I followed. He didn't have to.

I stepped around the counter and into the narrow hall behind it. The shopfront was a clever disguise—barely enough merchandise on display to justify the rent, but just enough foot traffic to mask the ones who didn't buy anything.

The back room was darker than I remembered. Dim light filtered through a small side window—half-covered in what looked like soot—and the dust motes in the air danced like ghosts with nowhere to go. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, swinging gently even though there wasn't any wind.

Nolve stood near the far table, dragging a stool with his foot as he sat down.

"I know that look," he said, nodding for me to take the opposite seat. "You've been asking the wrong people the right questions."

I didn't sit immediately. My eyes scanned the room—not for exits, but for meanings. Old boxes, sealed with ropes instead of tape. A cracked safe tucked under a sagging shelf. A locked drawer on a cabinet that hadn't been opened in years. Everything looked casual until you noticed that nothing ever changed.

"I'm not here for riddles," I said, finally taking the seat. "I'm here to see if you still know things."

"I never stopped," Nolve said. "But the real question is: why now?"

That was his way of saying I've been watching you. Maybe he had. Maybe he knew about the Club already. Or maybe he didn't care about the specifics. That was the thing about people like Nolve—knowledge wasn't currency for them. It was control. And they rarely spent it.

"Things are changing," I said slowly. "Not just for me. Around us."

"They always are," he replied. "But you… You're on a fast track."

I didn't deny it.

"I've seen things," I said. "And the people who sent me to see them—well, they don't ask twice. They don't explain, and they don't make mistakes."

"Sounds like you joined the winning team," Nolve said. "Or got dragged onto the field."

"Maybe both."

He leaned forward slightly. I caught a glint in his eyes, sharp beneath his tired lids.

"What do you want from me, Nemi?"

I hesitated. He didn't ask what I knew. He asked what I wanted. And that was the harder question.

"Patterns," I said. "Connections. I want to know what kind of web I've stepped into. And who else is caught in it."

Nolve's smirk faded. He looked away for a moment, like he was calculating which version of the truth I was ready to hear.

"You're asking questions people only ask when they've already made up their minds to stay," he said.

I didn't answer. Because he was right.

"You want to know if the people behind the locked doors are the same ones watching your window. If the envelope under your door came from the same hand that feeds your neighbor's silence."

His voice was quiet, but it carried weight. The kind that pressed on the chest.

"I've seen those trucks," I said. "The new ones. No logos I've ever seen. But they knew where to go. Knew whose eyes to avoid."

Nolve raised an eyebrow.

"So you are paying attention," he said. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten comfortable."

"Not anymore."

He stood, walked to the cabinet with the locked drawer, and unlocked it without hesitation. He pulled out a thin folder—worn, unmarked, sealed in twine. He set it on the table but didn't open it.

"Names, schedules, favors owed. This is just the surface," he said. "You're not ready for what's under it."

"Let me decide that."

He looked at me again, longer this time. Then shook his head with a half-smile.

"You're not afraid enough."

"I'm afraid just enough," I replied.

That made him laugh—a short, real laugh. He pushed the folder closer but didn't let go of it.

"One question," he said. "Ask the right one, and I might open it."

The air thickened. My thoughts cycled through every phrase I could think of. But I knew the game he played—never ask what you want to know. Ask what he doesn't want to answer.

"What did you have to give up to stay here this long?"

He paused. That did it.

Nolve let go of the folder. No comment. No sigh. Just silence. And that said more than anything.

As I reached for the folder, he added, "Don't stay long. People forget how to look up when they spend too long looking down."

I tucked the file under my arm and rose.

"Thanks for the breakfast tip," I said.

"Don't thank me," he said, already sitting again. "Just make it worth something."

I stepped out of the back room and into the sharp light of the midday sun, knowing that something had shifted—but unsure if I'd just gained more answers or new questions.

And maybe that was the point.