Part 7: The Night Keeper

Windsong: I'd lost count of the number of rejection letters I'd received. I had long since run out of money and had been sleeping in the office for some time.
Windsong: That was my last day at the institute.
Windsong: It's hard to say what the final straw was. Maybe it was my last coin dropping down through the sewer grate or the ink freezing because I added too much water to it.
Windsong: Or maybe because there wasn't a publisher left that I hadn't tried to contact.
Windsong: Regardless, there came a time when I decided that if I got one more rejection letter, I'd leave that place for good.
Windsong: I waited and waited. You know, silence is its own message.
Windsong: sigh
Windsong leans her elbows on the table. The room still smells of mold and damp.
She gets to her feet—there's really nothing better to do anyway. She paces around the room, and as she passes the notice board, a wave of worry washes over her. What is she going to do with it?
???: Is Ekaterina here? I have a letter for her!
The mailman's voice rings from outside the door. Windsong's heart sinks.
She doesn't move, reluctant to see the contents of the letter. It is slid through the gap under the door.
She picks it up and opens it, just as she has done hundreds of times before.
Windsong: "Thank you for submitting ... We regret to inform you ... Best regards."
Windsong: No need to read the rest.
She examines the ink; it's clear it comes from a high-quality printing machine.
She already has a huge pile of letters of the same quality.
Windsong: This place is nothing but a ghost town—the shadow of a great era.
A sudden rage boils up in her chest. She smashes the letter onto the board.
Windsong: So this is it!
She strides back to her table and whips out the rest of the letters.
Windsong: This is where it dies!
"Bam!" She slams another.
Windsong: "The 21st century belongs to the study of ley lines!" Come out and say it to my face, you traitor!
"Bam!"
Windsong: All that boasting about "ley lines and quantum physics" ...
Windsong: "Hot springs" ...
Windsong: ... and "the great Ocean Project"!
Her rejection letters now cover the entire board, completely hiding the bulletins announcing those once glorious projects.
Windsong: You should be the one to swallow this bitter pill! These rejection letters should've been yours, not mine!
But it is her name that is written on every letter.
Exhausted, she collapses to the floor.
Windsong: Not mine ...
Tears well in her eyes and fall on the paper in her hand.
Windsong: All us researchers—all the people dedicated to the study of ley lines—put so much time and effort into our work. And now we're all forced to either move on or starve to death.
She tightly grips the letters in her fist, along with the two addressed to Old Nikolas.
Windsong: If we hadn't had people who were willing to attend social events and academic meetings, we never would've gained respect in academia. But now they're all in jail, and our reputation is utterly ruined.
She looks around at the dilapidated office. It's nothing like those once bustling and prosperous days.
Windsong: We're certainly not the only discipline controlled by bullies and scholars undeserving of their status. So why were we the only discipline to be brought down by this?
Windsong: Because ...
Windsong: bitter smile
It's too cruel to say it.
Windsong: Neither the people who bury themselves in research nor the people who popularize it can save it.
She sits on the floor, her palm still throbbing from being slammed against the bulletin board.
Windsong: Then how am I going to turn the tide?
For a long time, she just sits there, paying no attention to the mold on the floor or the ruptured floor boards.
She hates to just leave. But what else can she do?
She looks up at the notice board that is now towering over her.
Windsong: Let the study of ley lines end here, in this cold pit, to die with my career.
She stares at it until her eyes are completely dry, unable to shed any more tears.
Windsong: I can't do this anymore.
As the light in the room dims, she drifts into sleep.
"Ring—"
Windsong: Hmm?
"Ring—"
She quickly scrambles to her feet.
"Ring—"
She isn't dreaming. It's the telephone ringing.
She wipes her face on her sleeves and picks up the phone.
???: Hello. Is that Ms. Ekaterina?
Windsong: It's me. Who's calling? Is that the editor?
She holds the phone tight against her ear, not wanting to miss a single word.
???: No, this is Sofia.
Windsong: Sofia?
Her memories of Yakutsk come rushing back.
Sofia: Yes, it's me. Now that the weather's warming up in Yakutsk, would you like to come back and continue our research?
Windsong: Research?
She looks around the office. The mold has crept its way to the center of the ceiling.
Windsong: Have ... Have you heard about what happened here?
She asks the same question that Yelena and Alexei asked her on that fateful day.
Sofia: A little bit here and there. I've also heard you've had a tough time getting your paper published. I'm in a bit of a jam here—there's too much work for one person. Would you like to come and lend a hand?
Windsong: But, the study of ley lines has been ...
Sofia: Whatever happened, does it matter now?
After several moments of painful internal struggle, Windsong speaks again.
Windsong: Your research might be disregarded if they find out you're working with a ley hunter.
Sofia: It's still better than stopping altogether. There are critters' lives at stake.
Windsong: I-I'm not sure about this.
Sofia: You can figure the rest out when you're here, Comrade Ekaterina.
Windsong: ...
Windsong: Aren't you worried about what people might say?
Sofia: They've got nothing to do with our study, Comrade Ekaterina. You should focus on a more compelling subject.
Windsong: ...!
Sofia's determined tone surprises her.
Windsong: Sofia, you ...
"You should focus on a more compelling subject."
Windsong: ...
She feels a bitter sorrow in her throat.
She holds the receiver tightly in her hands, as if she's holding her dear friend.
For a moment, a genuine fear grips her. What if all this is just a dream?
Tears well in her eyes again. They drop on the desk top and glisten like the morning frost.
Windsong: You are right. We ... We should meet in Yakutsk.
Her fingers ache from the clenching, but she is determined not to let go.
Windsong: Yakutsk. I can't wait to go back.
Windsong: I have to pull the study of ley lines out of this cold grave.
Windsong: I won't let it die like this.
Once again, she looks at the notice board.
Her heart feels lighter. Finally, there is a new path before her.