Rough shingles beneath you, you lie on your back, gazing at the night sky. Rooftops like this are the only dry places left in the city. Where the bricks of Branswain end, a vast mirror reflecting trillions of stars takes their place. For anyone else, it would be weird to see the city abruptly end like this, but you’re used to it after a week of sleeping on rooftops. Usually, the rim of the city is surrounded by buildings too tall to see the ocean.
As you stare at the mirror, an extension of the sky above it, the stars on its calm surface begin to move, as if the water has been disturbed. Glancing at the heavens, you see them reflect the image of the ocean. The stars don’t move randomly, but in unison, in a single direction; down. Bleeding as if drawn with runny ink, the stars trickle towards the sea, where their reflections meet them halfway.
Turning your gaze even further upwards, you see the moon, directly above you. Its shape is no longer perfectly circular. Around you, you hear the sound of raindrops, though the sky is clear of clouds. You feel one fall on your hand, heavy and greasy. All you can do is watch as your only remaining sanctuary is coated in moonborne oil.
