the edge of the rooftop

– Time doesn’t take memories, but it sure makes them harder to bear.

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Some walks ago, the city had been quiet, just as it was now. The streets stretched empty below, scattered with the last flickers of night. From this rooftop, the world looked smaller, simpler even.

Lights blinked in steady patterns, a slow breeze shifted through the sleeping skyline—he used to love the city just before dawn, the stillness before the world wakes, the glow of streetlights before they fade.

The rooftop was nothing special. Concrete beneath his soles, a rusted railing along the edge, a door that sometimes locked behind him if he wasn’t careful.

Still, it had become a place of quiet, a place to breathe.

Maybe it had become something else, too. A place to wait, though for what, he wasn’t sure.

He exhaled, watching his breath curl into the cold.

In the distance, one of the neon signs proudly presented today’s date: January 6.

His chest tightened, just a little. Not enough to call it pain, but too much to ignore it.

Funny, how he never forgot the date. Even after everything.

After the sudden silence.

After the ignorance.

After the lies.

After the loss.

But was it a loss if the person was still in reach? Out there, living their life, asking father and grandmother about him –for what even—, so blissfully unbothered by his absence.

Probably not.

But it wasn’t a gain either.

He wasn’t even sure if he missed him, or if the hurt had turned into something else, something colder. But either way, January 6 always came.

And he always noticed.

Somewhere below, a car rolled by, its headlights sweeping across the buildings, then vanishing into the quiet.

His eyes drifted, tracing the edges of the rooftop, escaping the way the neon sign barked the date at him.

It was then, as he turned away from the sign, that something caught his attention—a flicker of light where there wasn’t supposed to be anything less than darkness.

He blinked, unsure if it was a trick of the dawn or the weight of the moment playing tricks on his mind. But when he looked again, it was still there: tucked between the vents and forgotten pipes of the rooftop, where nothing had been before, a small shop stood beneath the flickering glow of a buzzing neon sign.

The sign flickered, its letters unsettled—shifting and rearranging themselves, as if caught between moments, until the sign grew dim, spelling Four Forty-Four. The door was slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the cold dawn.

He stared at the shop, his breath catching in his throat. It wasn’t here before, he was more than sure of it. He’d been coming to this rooftop for so long –years, even— and he knew every crack in the concrete, every rusted pipe, every shadow cast by the vents.

The cold air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. His feet moved almost on their own, carrying him across the rooftop toward the strange little structure.

As he approached, he noticed the details: the peeling paint on the doorframe, the faint scratches along the wood, the way the warm light inside seemed to dance, casting long shadows that didn’t quite match the shape of the room. The sign buzzed faintly above him, the letters flickering as if they couldn’t decide whether to stay or disappear entirely. He glanced back at the city, the skyline still cloaked in the quiet of early morning

The door creaked softly as the breeze nudged it wider, and the light inside seemed to pulse faintly, like a heartbeat. He hesitated at the threshold, his fingers brushing against the door, and it swung open with a soft creak.

The scent of cinnamon grew stronger, mingling with the faint tang of metal and something else—something he couldn’t quite place. The interior of the shop was cluttered but orderly, shelves lined with jars and boxes, their labels written in a script he didn’t recognize. A counter stood at the far end, its surface polished to a mirror shine, and behind it, a figure stood, their back turned.

He froze, his hand still on the doorknob. The figure was tall, their silhouette sharp against the warm light. They wore a long coat, its fabric shifting as if alive, and their hair—if it was hair—seemed to ripple like smoke.

“I wondered when you’d come,” the figure said, their voice smooth and deep, echoing as if it came from somewhere far away. The figure’s features seemed to shift, blurring at the edges, as if it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His chest felt tight again, tighter than before, and he realized he was holding his breath. He forced himself to exhale, to steady himself. “What is this place?” he finally managed to ask.

“A place between places. A moment between moments. You’ve been here before, years ago, when you were small and vibrant, full to the brim with all sorts of mischief and wonder. It’s been a while, though. I’m Orrin. Welcome to the Four Fourty-Four.”

He frowned, his grip tightening on the doorknob. “I don’t understand.”

Finally, Orrin turned. “You don’t need to understand,” he said, his voice softening. “You only need to choose.”

“Choose what?”

Orrin gestured to the shelves, his long fingers trailing through the air. “Something.”

At that, the door closed behind him. The air was warmer now, almost suffocating. His gaze drifted back to the shelves; their contents now more distinct, more personal. Jars filled with shimmering memories, boxes wrapped in faded ribbons, envelopes sealed with wax. Each one seemed to call to him, but one in particular drew his attention.

It was an envelope, plain and unassuming, tucked between a jar of golden light and a box wrapped in black velvet. It felt heavier than it looked, its weight solid in his hands as he lifted it from the shelf. The paper was cool to the touch, and there was no name written on it, no indication of what it might contain. Yet, as he held it, he felt a strange pull, as if it held something he’d been searching for all along.

“This one,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Orrin nodded, his expression unreadable.

The envelope seemed to hum in his hands, its weight shifting as if alive. He turned it over, running his fingers along the edges, and hesitated.

Finally, he slid his finger under the flap, breaking the seal. The paper gave way easily, and inside was a single sheet, blank at first. But as he unfolded it, words began to appear, forming slowly, as if written by an invisible hand. His breath caught as he read, the words arranging themselves into questions—ones he had never said out loud to father or grandmother but which he had carried in his heart for the last couple of years.

Why was it so easy for you?

Why do you lie?

Why do you ask others when you don’t care?

Are they lying? Or you?

Do I not linger in the slightest? Am I even a memory at all?

What did I do?

Why are things the way they are?

Why do I care?

Why am I the one hurting?

Why can’t I be as unbothered as you are?

The questions faded as he finished reading, the paper dissolving into black dust in his hands, dripping to the floor where they took shape of something that wasn’t quite right but also not wrong. A shadow, perhaps, of him, his feelings, the weight—he wasn’t sure, and he didn’t really want to know.

He wanted it to leave. To kick it away. Throw something. Perhaps make it cry and feel miserable.

His hands shook, his chest tightening as the shadow loomed before him, its form flickering like a dying flame. It was hunched and trembling, its edges blurring as if it couldn’t decide what it was supposed to be. He took a step back, his breath shallow, hands clenching to fists at his sides.

But before he could act, something small and determined leapt out from behind a shelf. It was a clay figure, no taller than a loaf of bread, its surface rough and uneven, painted in chipped blues and silvers. A tiny knight, complete with a lance and a shield, its helmet slightly askew. It charged at the shadow with a high-pitched clink, its lance aimed straight for the shadow’s flickering form.

It jabbed at the shadow with its lance, prodding and stabbing with surprising ferocity. The shadow recoiled, its form wavering as if it had been struck by something far more substantial than a tiny clay weapon.

The shadow stumbled, its edges fraying as it tried to retreat. But Little Sir Menace was relentless, herding it toward the edge of the room. Finally, the shadow bowed its head—a small, almost apologetic gesture—before dissolving into the air like smoke.

Little Sir Menace straightened victoriously; his lance raised high before the clay knight turned to him, lowering his lance and giving a small, clumsy bow, wobbling back around a corner, disappearing between shelves, his tiny footsteps echoing faintly before fading into silence.

For a moment, the shop felt still, as if holding its breath. The air was thick with the remnants of the shadow’s presence, the faint hum of the neon sign outside the only sound. He stared at the spot where the shadow had been, his hands still trembling, his breath still caught in his throat, stunned, or perhaps… lost.

Anger, hurt, frustration, confusion—they all swirled together, leaving him breathless.

Orrin’s voice broke the silence, soft and steady.

“That was quite unpleasant, I suppose.”

He looked up, his vision blurred with unshed tears. “I don’t understand.”

Orrin smiled a small, knowing smile. For a while, his eyes lingered on the customer.

How his hands trembled, the way he bit his bottom lip, the smell of bitterness –sour even— although he should be crisp like chimney smoke caught up in a winter breeze.

It was a wound so old –decades, if not more—however, it wasn’t only black and bruised, it was bleeding and unwilling to close. Even more unwilling to heal or fade.

He fumbled with something underneath the counter; a box, one similar to the one with the faded ribbons that had sat quietly on a shelf earlier.

“Here.”

He hesitated, his fingers hovering over the box. “I don’t—”

Orrin’s smile widened, just a little. “It’s something that was waiting for you. It’ll be gentle. It’s been here for so long.”

He swallowed, his hands trembling even more as he took the box from Orrin. The lid vanished first, then the box, leaving a scarf pooling in his hands. Old and worn, its edges frayed, its color faded from years of use.

The scarf smelled like childhood—like crisp winter mornings and the faint tang of wood smoke. It smelled like evenings spent giggling on the couch with his younger brother, wrapped in blankets as they watched their favorite childhood movie for the hundredth time. It smelled like the fight they’d had over the last cookies, their voices loud and indignant. It smelled like the way to school, walking side by side, their breath visible in the cold air, their backpacks heavy with books as they took the forbidden shortcut across the fields by the silo. It smelled like their shared fear of the basement, the way they had challenged each other who could stand on the stairs leading to it the longest, staring down at the red light of the heater that glowed in the darkness like a single, unblinking eye.

He clutched the scarf to his chest, his breath catching in his throat. The memories were so vivid, so real, that for a moment, he could almost hear his brother’s laughter.

He swallowed hard, blinking away tears he didn’t want to cry. It was pointless. And why should he be the one dealing with this when the other didn’t even care at all.

The scarf quivered in his hands, slithering upwards to his shoulders in a blink, wrapping around his neck, the fabric soft and familiar against his skin. It didn’t fix anything—it didn’t erase the hurt, the anger, the confusion—but it reminded him of something he’d forgotten.

The gentle and warm moments, the brief glimpses – they didn’t need to hurt. They could very well sooth the ache, too.

The shop began to fade around him, the shelves dissolving into shadows, the warm light dimming. He felt the rooftop beneath his feet again, the cold dawn air biting at his skin.

The scarf was still there, wrapped snugly around his neck. A door creaked behind him, but the rooftop was empty again, just concrete and rusted pipes and the fading glow of the neon sign in the distance.

Somewhere below, the city began to wake. The first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon, and the streetlights flickered out, one by one. He exhaled, watching his breath curl into the cold. The city stretched out before him, quiet and still, but not waiting anymore.

Just like him.

He walked back to the edge of the rooftop, sparing the neon sign one last glance, taking the date in just one more time, wondering if January 14 looked the same odd and misplaced for his younger brother than January 6 did to him.

For a while, he just stood there, looking, lingering, but not waiting. Not anymore.

“I wish you the best.” He finally whispered as he watched the sun rise. “I wish you peace. I wish you happiness. I wish you a life filled with all the things you’ve ever dreamed of, even if it no longer includes me. I hope you find joy in the little things, comfort in the hard moments, and strength to keep moving forward. I wish you laughter, the kind that makes your sides ache and your eyes water. I wish you success, in whatever form that takes for you. I wish you healing, for whatever wounds you carry, seen or unseen. I wish you clarity, for the moments when the world feels too heavy to bear. I don’t know why we grew apart. I don’t know if it was my fault, or yours, or simply the way life unfolded. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re safe. Take care of yourself.“

And for the first time in a long time, he felt like he could breathe.

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