Incense of Dawn
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The Prophet woke to a sharp, sizzling sound—like something frying in hot oil. Irritated by the sudden awakening, he listened: the noise came from the kitchen. He swung his legs out of bed, bare feet hitting the cool floor, and headed to investigate.
The kitchen smelled of coffee and fresh bread. At the stove, already dressed and put together, stood Adelina. She deftly flipped an omelet, the butter crackling merrily in the pan. Hearing his footsteps, she turned and smiled:
"Morning. Did I wake you?"
The Prophet wanted to grumble, but the aroma of food and her calm voice softened him.
"Youuu... are very loud," he muttered, though a traitorous smile tugged at his lips.
Adelina laughed and shoved a coffee cup into his hands.
"But I'm delicious." She winked, and the Prophet fake-sighed as he took a sip.
"Can't argue with the coffee, at least."
"Ha! What else would I mean?" She gestured to the stove. "Gotta run—Niya's waiting. Omelet's yours." With that, she bolted for the door.
"Back tonight!" she called over her shoulder.
"Wait, you're staying again?" He straightened in surprise, but the door creaked shut.
"Don't miss me too much!" Her laughter faded down the hall.
"Adel, at least turn off the—" The lock clicked before he could finish.
The Prophet stood frozen, cup in hand, then slowly turned to the stove. The butter hissed ominously.
"...The stove." His voice was a dying whisper.
Ah... why am I surrounded by reckless idiots?
With a disgruntled sigh, he reached over and flicked the burner off. The golden omelet crackled as he slid it onto a plate.
He sat at the kitchen table, where his half-finished coffee still sat. The fork clinked against porcelain as he dug in. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, dancing on the crumbs and coffee rings littering the tabletop.
A bird flitted past the window, its shadow fleeting. The Prophet's gaze followed absently as he chewed. The apartment felt unnaturally quiet after Adelina's whirlwind exit.
He drained the cooling coffee, stacked the dishes in the sink, and wondered: When did she even have time to make all this? It was only 8 AM, and she'd already managed to wake him, make noise, feed him, and vanish—classic Adelina.
Seven minutes later, breakfast done, he stretched and headed to the bathroom. Three days without proper rest weighed on him—muscles pleasantly sore, eyelids leaden.
Steam curled above the filling tub as he sank into the heat. The water enveloped him, loosening the knots in his shoulders. He tipped his head back against the rim, eyes drifting shut...
Meanwhile, as the Prophet dozed in the cooling water...
Niya's car jolted over potholes, suspension groaning in protest. Adelina, slouched in the passenger seat, gnawed on an ice cube from her morning smoothie when Niya tossed over her shoulder:
"So, you clinging to our Prophet last night?" Her grin was predatory.
"What?!" Adelina nearly choked, straightening abruptly. "Niya, what the hell?!"
"Oh, please!" Niya swerved around a mud-spewing truck. "Bet you grabbed his belt, and today you're all 'I'm delicious' in the kitchen."
From the backseat, Lera burst into giggles but kept her nose pressed to the window.
"That's not—!" Adelina's face flared like a neon sign. "I never—"
"Sure, sure! Should've invited him to the waterpark—let him admire your tight swimsuit!" Niya's eyes gleamed.
"Niya, enough!" Adelina's fists clenched on her knees.
"Hah! Relax, little sis!" Niya winked without releasing the wheel. "But if you'd just listen to me—"
"A week older doesn't make you my life coach!" Adelina crossed her arms. "And put on your seatbelt! What kind of example is this for Lera?"
"Lera's not buckled either!" Niya checked the rearview. "Right, kiddo? Auntie's cool, yeah?"
"Yeaaah!" Lera's voice chimed from the back.
"Lera, don't listen to this lunatic!" Adelina twisted around. "Buckle up, or you'll fly through the windshield!"
"But it's scratchy!" Lera pouted, fiddling with the unused strap.
"Exactly! Who even invented these stupid things?!" Niya scoffed. "You're fine without it."
"You absolute—"
A sudden brake cut her off. Lera's forehead smacked the seatback; Niya's chest hit the steering wheel.
"FUCK YOUR MOTHER! IT'S MY LANE, DIPSHIT!" Niya roared at the offending driver.
"Ow," Lera whimpered, rubbing her head.
"Sorry, pup," Niya muttered, wincing.
"Seatbelts now?" Adelina arched a triumphant brow.
"...Yeah." Niya sighed in defeat. "Lera, buckle up."
"Okay."
"We're almost there," Adelina announced.
"Yep. Only took twenty-three minutes," Niya noted, checking the dashboard clock.
By the time they reached the waterpark, the Prophet had woken, the bathwater now tepid. Did I really fall asleep? His stiff neck confirmed it—twenty minutes, at least. Sunlight climbed higher outside, reminding him tubs made poor beds.
Rubbing his face, he chuckled. At least I'm not late...
Fifteen minutes later, he was ready to visit his father at the hospital.
Stepping into the hallway, he mentally checked his pockets: Cigarettes, Dad's lighter, keys, twenty MCF... got everything.
Outside, the morning greeted him with gray chill. The air hung thick, reeking of scorched asphalt and something sour—like the city had sweated through the night and now groaned awake. He inhaled the stale dampness and instantly regretted it.
Sleep clung to him like broken glass in his eyes. His temples throbbed a mantra: Father. Hospital. Father. Hospital.
Empty streets. A lone streetlamp flickered in the distance, last witness to the night's madness. The Prophet squinted—the light stabbed his pupils, a mocking reminder: You're still alive. For now.
He lit a cigarette. First drag—the world sharpens. Second—the thoughts, those eternal jackals, start circling.
He walks.
His feet know the way. His head is just a storage room for old nightmares, and today, he's browsing.
---
Painful thoughts
---
And as he walks, thoughts better left unspoken creep in.
"They call me Prophet. What a joke. I don't foresee the future—I just scavenge through worldviews like a jackal in a landfill. I don't bring light—I'm just not extinguished yet. Sometimes I think I'm already dead, and all of this is just a long dream before oblivion. But then why does it hurt so much? Why, when Adel cries, do I want to tear the world apart? Why am I still afraid of the dark? The dead don't fear. So I must still be alive. And that's worse."
The thoughts come, ugly and philosophical, gnawing at him like rats.
"Nika... she's searching for someone who remembers the old world. But why? To hear how terrible it was? We already know. To find who's to blame? They're long gone. Or are we all to blame? She thinks the truth will save us. But the truth is, there's no salvation. Just quiet evenings with liquor, a friend's warm shoulder, and slow decay. And even that—it won't last."
It's like this every time he's alone.
"Mnemocrystals... we trade souls. Carve them out of the living like butchers, pocket them like coins. Genomes, Minors—we're all just commodities now. Some sell their sight, some their voice, some their years. And me? I sell secrets. I'm the ferryman between their worlds and reality, and my currency is other people's pain. I wonder what my soul's worth? Probably cheap. Everything's cheap in this world except oblivion."
Will he always think like this?
"We call it the Great Forgetting, as if it were some natural disaster, as if memory just blew away in the wind. But I know the truth. It's not forgetting. It's punishment. God erased us from His Book of Life and tossed us into a world where even memories rot like corpses. We pray to empty skies, and they stay silent—because no one's listening. Or because we've been in hell all along, and hell isn't fire. It's eternity without an answer."
Stop.
...
"Tomorrow, I'll smile again. Tomorrow, I'll say everything will be fine. Tomorrow, I'll pretend I believe it. And so on—until the end."
Lost in the storm of his thoughts, he doesn't notice when he reaches the hospital where his father lies.
Pausing at the entrance, he slips on the mask of the good-natured Genome for the thousandth time—and steps inside.
A white desert with drippers instead of palm trees
The fluorescent lights flickered like they were on their last legs, casting sharp shadows across walls plastered with tattered posters about smoking hazards and vaccine benefits. The air hummed with hushed conversations, the squeak of gurneys, and the hacking cough of an old woman in a quilted vest huddled in the corner.
And then—there she was.
Angelina moved between the waiting room chairs with feline grace, her white coat fluttering to reveal a pink blouse underneath. Her blonde ponytail, secured with a thermometer like a makeshift hairpin, glowed under the dingy lighting, and bell-shaped earrings chimed with every step.
"Ivan Petrovich, really now!" Her voice—warm with a rasp—cut through the din as she leaned toward an old man in a crumpled cap. The angel pendant around her neck swung forward like it, too, wanted to listen. "We agreed—no improvising your treatment!"
The man grumbled something, but Angelina was already pulling a cat-printed wet wipe from her pocket to dab his forehead.
"Much better."
Nearby, a five-year-old boy fidgeted, clutching a threadbare teddy bear. Angelina turned—jing went the bells—and winked.
"Well, who's this brave soldier?"
Her fingers magically produced a lollipop from another pocket, and before the boy could blink, she'd stuck a racecar-patterned bandaid on his hand—no asking if it hurt.
"For prevention," she whispered. The kid giggled.
Behind the reception desk, a nurse snorted, but Angelina just brushed her collection of pins—Best Nurse, Thanks, Doc—and tapped the odd one shaped like a spoon.
"Maria Ivanovna! Marshmallow in your coffee?" she called across the room, and even the grumpy receptionist cracked a smile.
Somewhere, a cup clattered, the coffee machine hissed, and a doctor's voice echoed from the hallway:
"Angelina! Where are my lab results?!"
But she was already gliding away—past the chairs, the fake potted palm—leaving behind a trail of lavender scent and patients who suddenly seemed a little less weary.
The Prophet caught up to the elusive nurse in three strides.
"Hey. Angelina," he greeted.
"Well, hello there, pumpkin!" Her voice chimed like her earrings as she turned, and he rolled his eyes—but his lips twitched.
"How long are you gonna milk that Halloween thing? It's been a year."
Angelina plucked a framed photo from the reception desk—showing the Prophet and his father grinning behind a jack-o'-lantern with a cigarette jammed in its jagged mouth.
"First of all," she said, adjusting the frame, "it wasn't dumb—it was the best Halloween this hospital's ever seen. And second..." Her fingers fished out a fresh paw-print sticker from her pocket. "...as long as I'm Head of Preventative Care, you're my pumpkin."
She peeled off the old, faded sticker and replaced it with a new one.
"Do you just hoard these for me?" He squinted at her perpetually stuffed pockets.
"Mhmm!" She puffed her cheeks like a hamster, but the usual spark in her eyes dimmed.
"How is he?" The Prophet's voice dropped, though no one was around.
"Walk with me." Her smile dissolved like sugar in cold tea.
They moved down the tiled hallway, footsteps echoing. Angelina spoke without looking at him:
"Worse. The amnesia... it's like a hole in a blanket. The more you try to patch it, the more it unravels." Her grip tightened on the medical chart. "Yesterday, he forgot how to use a fork. Last week—how to walk. Now..." She nodded to an empty wheelchair outside a treatment room.
They stopped at the patient room door. Through the window, an elderly man stared blankly at his hands, as if they were foreign objects.
"Twice, he forgot to breathe," Angelina pressed her palm to the door. "His lungs just... stopped. Like his body forgot the most basic instinct." For the first time, helplessness seeped into her voice. "But you know what?"
She turned, and the fire reignited in her gaze:
"When I call him old pumpkin, he sometimes smiles. That means he's still in there. And as long as there's even a 1% chance—I'll fight for that spark."
"Prophet." Her voice turned steel-steady. With trembling fingers, she unbuttoned her coat and held it out. "Take it."
He recoiled like she'd offered contraband:
"Are you insane? This is your uniform! You could get—"
"Yep." Her lips quirked. "But for this, I'll risk it." Her fingers clenched the fabric. "You know how often he asks for you during his lucid moments?"
The Prophet froze. Then, slowly, he shrugged off his jacket. The white coat settled on his shoulders, alien at first—until Angelina adjusted the collar, and something about it felt... right.
"Thank you," he whispered, and in his eyes flickered the boyish hope she loved so much.
"Take him through the emergency exit," she nodded toward the stairs. "It's empty now."
As the door clicked shut behind him, Angelina slumped against the wall, suddenly aware of how violently her hands were shaking.
Inside the room, the Prophet hesitated. His father sat by the window, fingers plucking uselessly at the armrests.
"Hello, sir." His voice cracked as he stepped forward. "I'm... your attending physician. Andrei." The first name that came to mind.
The old man turned slowly. Blank eyes scanned the white coat, lingered on his face... and then—a flicker.
"Are you... in pain?" The Prophet swallowed the lump in his throat.
"No... no." His father shook his head, but his hand rose to clutch at his chest—where Angelina's pendant usually rested. "I'm... alright."
The Prophet knelt beside the wheelchair, clasping the cold hands.
"Tell me... what's your name?"
Silence. The old man frowned, chasing a thought. Then, barely audible:
"I... don't remember."
Behind the door, Angelina closed her eyes. She knew what came next. Knew how the Prophet's heart was shattering.
"That's okay. How about some fresh air?"
Getting him outside was harder than expected. They inched forward like a bizarre procession—Angelina holding the emergency exit, the Prophet guiding the wheelchair, his father trembling at the unfamiliar world.
"I'll give you space," Angelina whispered, retreating—but she lingered around the corner, hand pressed to her mouth.
"The air's... nice," his father murmured, face tilting to the sun, wrinkles rearranging into something familiar.
"Yeah," the Prophet's voice broke. "It is."
"Doctor." The old man's sudden address made him flinch. "Why... doesn't my son visit?" A childlike hurt laced the words. "Did I... upset him?"
The Prophet's heart hammered. "That idiot—"
"No!" His father's eyes flashed with startling clarity. "He's a good boy!"
The ground seemed to drop beneath the Prophet's feet.
"I don't... remember his face," his father struggled, dredging words from the ruins of his mind, "or name... but sometimes..." He pressed a hand to his heart. "Here... I feel it. He's kind."
The Prophet shut his eyes.
"Thoughtful," his father continued, each word a hammer blow.
"Loyal." A self-assured nod.
"Brave..." A whisper now.
The Prophet couldn't take it. His hand settled on the frail shoulder—gentle, like when his father taught him to ride a bike.
"If you say that..." His voice frayed. "Then... he must be."
"And his friends!" His father's face lit up. "Three wonderful girls..."
"You remember them?" The Prophet leaned in. "Niya? Adelina? Nellie?"
"Yes!" The old man grasped his wrist with sudden strength. "Tell them... they're good. So good."
Tears glistened in his eyes. In that moment, he wasn't a father—just a boy seeking approval.
The Prophet crouched to meet his gaze. "I'll tell them. And they... they miss you too."
His father sank back, radiant with joy—as if given the greatest gift. For that fleeting moment, despite the disease, despite the stolen memories, he was happy.
Then—
"WHERE AM I? WHO ARE YOU?!" Panic twisted his features, nails clawing the armrests.
The Prophet recoiled.
Angelina materialized like a guardian angel, her voice a calming balm. "Shhh, it's okay. He's new," she soothed, showing the hospital ID clipped to the Prophet's stolen coat. "See? You're safe."
Gradually, the terror ebbed.
"Let's get you back," she murmured. "There's... prune compote waiting!"
A blink. A flicker of recognition. Just for a second.
Later, by reception, the Prophet returned the crumpled coat.
"Pumpkin..." Angelina's voice wavered as she smoothed the fabric, straightening her name tag—armoring up again.
"It's okay," he said softly. "It'll be okay."
She inhaled sharply, and the fire returned to her eyes. "Yes. It will."
Then—
"So!" She bit her lip. "Coffee! Tonight! You! Me! Yes or no?!"
The Prophet pretended to ponder, though his lips betrayed him. "You're terrible at timing."
"Wha—?!"
"But fine. Lavender Café, six PM." He plucked a stray bandage from her sleeve. "No medical horror stories."
"But I've got this amazing one about a guy who swallowed—"
"Angelina."
"Fiiine." She crossed her fingers behind her back. "But if you're late..."
"Let me guess: rectal thermometer?"
"Worse." Her grin turned sinister. "I'll tell everyone how you screamed during shots as a kid."
He paled. "You wouldn't."
"Oh, pumpkin." She toyed with her pendant. "I have access to all medical records. All of them."
A beat of silence.
"...I'll be there fifteen minutes early," he croaked.
Angelina winked and strode off, leaving him staring after her—a man who'd just signed up for something between a dream date and absolute doom.
Fuck... I've never even been on a date. How did this happen?!