The sky downtown at 26:00, circa ███. Photo taken at [the unfamiliar abode].
Level 708 is a gentle scheme. It is the glare of an empty freeway, the last glimmer of gold on the skyline. It is the bustle of yellow cabs, the smell of seafood diffused in the air, grown-ups chattering in a drunken haze. It is the notes of a familiar tune, crackling through the speakers of an after-dark broadcast. It is a cursory wave; it is the slam of an apartment door followed by a bitter silence. It is the plane ticket that finds its way into the hands of the world-weary after the summer has ended. Level 708 appears to wanderers after the completion of a long journey, whether physical or emotional. Oftentimes, it is their way out.
Description
Desc.
on the arrival of magpies from the North.
After departing from Sixen Strike, Harborside, with the roar of engines and the stink of old airports fading from their clothes, wanderers find themselves greeted with their very own keys for a flat downtown. Lugging satchels and timepieces, they find themselves on the doorstep of a modest townhouse apartment, looming over a narrow road flanked by vacant storefronts. It is neither the leather nor the metal that weighs them down, that twists their breaths into feeble, desperate gasps that verge on the edge of a complete unraveling. It never is. The room remains darkened, as it has been since the moment of its tenant's arrival, to the fault of worn-out wiring that has long plagued the entire coastline. From beyond the double windows, a singular rain-stained road runs parallel to empty residential homes, beneath a gray-splotched navy dome stretching over the heavens.
Some sort of commotion rings from the grounds outside.1 The apartment flat is small, even by an urbanite's standards. Above the door through which the wanderer enters hangs a small clock whose hands have since stopped ticking. On the wall opposite the bed, the plain surface of the concrete is broken by a painting of a house by the ocean. The glazed drawers are empty, the shelves merely decorative. After the fifth hollow book lies an unassuming hardback with a dark cover. A string of spaces and white letters curved in the shape of dreams and other things are embossed on its surface.2 Between the words, the author has chosen to publish a snapshot of a downtown street. A rosy-golden glow suffuses the sky. Here too, it appears to be raining.
The city lights are burning outside.
Desc.
as the curtains draw to night.
The Chamberly Townhouse offers a splendid view of the rest of Harborside from above the roofs of its concrete shells. No one lives here anymore, yet the ghost city still chimes with tones of activity, like the last spurts of awareness from a comatose brain. On half-lit streets, silver tin cans and clear plastic bags skip down the sidewalk, past tennis courts bathed in white. Across the corners, flashes of gold and ruby buzz past at intersections. Restless spirits of late-arrived ferries blare booming horns through the harbor. No seabirds respond to their call. The only thing disturbed is the surface of the murky waters that churns below the bay. Downstream, it carries the litter of the city, and the salt-stained wind with it. There will never be another day when tearful families rush to the harbor and take each other in their arms. No more tears shall stain the hot summer asphalt of Sixen Strike, with its yellow bands of fluorescent lights in high-rise windows, like yellow-striped highway roads. Nothing more to see, nothing more to find.
At around midnight (00:00), a soft music box rendition of a traditional British nursery rhyme grows audible for all occupants of the level. The music grows in proximity, guiding all listeners to the townhouse basement. A compact, carpet-padded staircase connects the flat to the space below, where the mock turf fades to ordinary lawn dirt. In the gloom, one can count seventy unmarked gravestones of past wanderers.
All bodies have been properly buried.
Entrances/Exits
Level 708 weaves its way into those who harbor a place for it in their hearts. People who arrive in Level 708 seldom leave.
Come ye restless spirits
Come hither to me
London bridge is falling down
Rockabye, my darling