The Unwinding

Keir took the course through the fish market at dawn and did not open the coil.

For eleven years he had known the market chiefly at dusk, after the stalls were closed. He knew where the awnings dripped, which paving stone held a puddle, how the light from the corner house struck a copper hook. He had carried versions of those things inside the course until they felt more familiar than the objects themselves.

At dawn the market smelled different. People argued over space. A man carried an enormous empty basket as though it had personally offended him. The copper hook held a blue apron. There was no reason to turn any of it into a line of gold.

Keir bought fish, immediately regretted having no sensible plan for cooking it, and took it to Blythe.

She opened the door with her hair half pinned.

“Is that a gift or…