61. Esteem

The apartment was quiet. Afternoon sunlight spilled through the slanted window, painting gold across the dusty floor.

Albert sat on a plain wooden chair, chewing on a tough slice of bread he'd torn from the wrapped loaf in the corner basket. The taste was dry, but not unpleasant—coarse grain with hints of salt and something bitter. Probably barley. Still, after the chaos of the last two days, it was a welcome mundanity.

The place was modest, just as Verno promised. A single room with a sleeping cot, a rusted basin, and a table that leaned slightly to the left. The walls smelled faintly of iron and lemon polish. There were no mirrors, which Albert appreciated.

He stared out the window, the canal road below mostly empty except for a few cloaked figures passing under the long shadows of hanging signs. Morhat's underworld was quieter in daylight—like a monster resting before the feast.

Albert finished the bread, dusted crumbs from his coat, and stood.

He slid his gloves on slowly, fingers flexing with practiced precision. His suitcase remained in the far corner, feathers still subtly orbiting around it in patterns invisible to everyone else. He nodded to it once—no words needed—and stepped outside.

The corridor smelled of boiled cabbage and floor cleaner. He passed three locked doors, heard someone muttering in Hejr under their breath behind one, and descended the creaking staircase.

Out on the canal path, the heat of the day clung to the brick walls. The air was thicker now, filled with distant clanging, hawkers shouting, and the occasional sharp laugh of children running somewhere they shouldn't. A stray cat darted past his feet.

Albert didn't mind the noise. It masked thoughts.

He walked slowly, eyes drifting from vendor stalls to crumbling murals, from iron balconies to the occasional flicker of unseen figures in upper windows. Morhat was a city built on secrets, but even its shadows had patterns.

As he passed a crooked bookstore with a locked gate and melted signage, he exhaled through his nose, as if shedding something.

Just a walk. A quiet moment.

Albert strolled past the crooked archway, a crust of dry bread still crumbling in his fingers—until the scent stopped him.

Burning meat. But not like cooking.

A sour stench thickened the air. Woodsmoke laced with something fouler—fat, hair, and blood. He followed it. Just ahead, beyond a cracked alley wall, a crowd had gathered like moths to flame.

Then he saw it.

A man—no, a husk of a man—tied to a post. Flames crawled up his legs, licking greedily at his rags. His feet were already blackened, charred to bone. His mouth opened in silent agony, the scream no longer reaching.

And yet, they laughed.

Dozens of them. Men, women, even children—grinning, howling, pointing like it was a traveling circus act. A nobleman sipped wine as if watching theater. A mother lifted her toddler to get a better view. Two street vendors hawked meat skewers nearby, unfazed.

"Let the beggar have mercy!" someone cackled.

"Let him go, oh please, let him go!" another screamed in a laughter.

Albert's throat tightened. He took a step forward, eyes wide, heart hammering.

"What… what did he do?" he asked no one, but the words fell like ash.

A woman turned to him with laughter in her eyes. "Touched a merchant's cart. Dirty thing wanted food. Imagine!"

More laughter erupted. The man on fire twitched, then stilled.

Albert couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The fire's reflection danced in his pupils.

He scanned the faces. Not a trace of remorse. No shame. Only grotesque amusement. Even those who pretended to plead for the beggar did so with twisted smiles.

"Let him have mercy!" another barked. "Make him pure!"

What sort of joke was this?

Behind him, someone muttered, "That's the third one this month."

Albert turned sharply. An old woman with clouded eyes stood at the back of the crowd. "Third?" he asked.

"They all see things before they die," she whispered. "They scream about voices. Then they vanish. Until someone finds them… like this."

Before Albert could respond, she melted back into the crowd.

The fire died. So did the noise. The crowd dispersed like fog, their laughter fading into the market hum.

Only ash remained. Albert stared at the blackened stake.

He didn't know the beggar. He didn't know what was wrong here. But something was.

A sickness, festering beneath laughter.

A ritual in disguise.

And no one dared name it.

Albert turned away, the smell of death etched into his skin.

Albert wandered further down the crooked street, his steps uneven. The laughter still echoed in his skull—mocking, shrill, and inhuman. He wanted to forget the sound, to crush it with reason. But it clung to him like soot.

Then a voice hissed from the shadow of a crooked column.

"You lookin' for answers or trouble?"

Albert stopped. A short, hunched trader leaned against the alley wall, wrapped in a threadbare cloak, one eye hidden under an oily turban. His cart was half-covered, the goods obscured under gray tarp—spices, bones, tools, or perhaps all three.

"I saw you watchin' the fire," the man said, nodding toward where the beggar had burned. "You're not from here."

Albert's lips tightened. "No. I'm not."

"Then listen close before this city chews you up."

He gestured for Albert to follow. Warily, Albert stepped into the narrow alley, where moss crept along the stone and the sun barely touched. The trader crouched, pulling out a small flask, handing it without question. Albert declined.

"You saw a man burn today," the trader said. "And you saw people laugh. Not just laugh but rejoice."

Albert nodded, jaw clenched. "They acted like it was a game."

"It wasn't a game." The trader's tone dropped to a hoarse whisper. "It's a curse."

He waited a beat, letting the silence settle.

"This city wasn't always like this. Millions ago, this land belonged to a small hill-tribe called the Zeffari. They were reclusive. Spirit-touched. Believed every emotion was a prayer, and every sorrow a bridge to the gods."

Albert listened in silence.

"They built this city on sacred ground—claimed the laughter of men reaoumded better than hymns. But the gods… or something older… took offense. One winter, the Zeffari buried a child in a famine. His mother cried so violently it split the stone. From that grief, something woke up."

"What woke?" Albert asked.

"No one knows," the trader said. "But the curse began. From that day, every time someone cried within these walls, they would hear something crying back. And soon… people started vanishing."

He looked around, then leaned in closer.

"To survive, the Zeffari changed. They forbade sorrow. Outlawed grief. No mourning, no tears. Every child was taught: If you feel sadness—laugh. If someone dies—laugh harder. It became a tradition. A habit. Then, a sickness."

Albert's breath slowed. The puzzle pieces clicked in horrifying clarity.

"But what about the beggars?" he asked.

The trader sighed, eyes darkening. "That came later. You see… sorrow is still contagious. Beggars carry too much of it. They weep without shame, suffer in public. So now, whenever a beggar is spotted crying in the open, the city responds… like an immune system."

He paused.

"They're found, mocked, laughed at… and burned. People don't even question it anymore. They've forgotten why they do it. All they know is: beggars don't belong."

Albert felt a deep sickness in his chest.

"And it's not just tradition," the trader continued. "The laughter... it protects them. It feeds something. I've seen what happens when someone refuses to laugh at a burning. They vanish days later. Slumped in corners. Smiles carved into their faces."

A sharp gust passed through the alley, as if something heard them.

Albert looked away, heart pounding. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you didn't laugh," the trader said. "That means you're still sane. For now."

Albert took a step back, unease crawling down his spine.

"One more thing," the trader added. "This curse—it isn't passive. It grows. Spreads. Sooner or later, it'll touch you. You'll wake up and laugh when you feel pain. Or worse—laugh when someone screams."

Albert clenched his fists. "How do I break it?"

The trader only chuckled bitterly.

"If I knew, do you think I'd still be here?"

Albert left the alley in silence, the trader vanishing behind the curtain of smoke.

The laughter outside returned like wind against rotting leaves. But now, Albert didn't hear joy in it.

The streets stretched like veins through a body half-alive. Albert walked with his hands buried in his coat, shoulders hunched against the morning chill. His boots echoed over uneven stone, past shuttered windows and crooked doorframes that whispered of lives long twisted by this city's rot.

He kept his head low, but his thoughts spun loud.

How am I supposed to find a beggar in a place like this?

The city made no room for the broken. No one sat slumped on corners or begged at tavern doors. No outstretched hands, no trembling voices pleading for coin or bread. Just painted faces, forced laughter, and eyes that never truly looked at anything.

Albert scanned every alley, every silent porch. Nothing.

He thought of the burning man again—the way the crowd had grinned as flames swallowed flesh. His stomach twisted. Was that the one? The beggar he needed?

No… I would've known. There was still someone left to find.

But how do you search for someone the city is designed to erase?

The laughter returned in distant bursts—somewhere ahead, someone was amused.

He gritted his teeth, eyes narrowing.

If sorrow isn't allowed here… maybe I'll have to become the loudest ache they've ever heard.