Chapter 2: The Second Door
It was raining by the time I got back to Brooklyn.
Not the kind of dramatic thunderstorm you see in movies, just a slow, soaking drizzle that had already claimed my jacket by the time I unlocked the door to my apartment. Water dripped from the sleeves onto the hardwood floor. I didn't care. I dropped the bag by the door and toed off my boots.
Silence met me like an old friend. Familiar. Comforting. Damning.
I lived above a Korean market that closed at ten. After that, the only sounds were the city breathing through walls and pipes. A radiator in the corner hissed to life as I lit the old lamp near the window. Soft yellow glow filled the small space. Bookshelves, half-filled. A battered couch. A guitar I hadn't touched in fifty years.
I poured myself a drink—bourbon, cheap but effective—and sat near the window.
Evelyn Mars. The way she crumbled. How her confidence broke into pieces faster than her voice disappeared. It wasn't guilt I felt. I'd moved past guilt three centuries ago. It was something worse.
Emptiness.
I watched a dog trot past on the street below, its leash dragging behind it. Probably slipped free. The owner would panic soon. Maybe the dog would be fine. Maybe it wouldn't. Things happen. Choices ripple.
That's what I think about sometimes.
Choices.
My phone buzzed again.
New Contract: Fulfilled. Next Collection: 1 day remaining.
I didn't recognize the name. But I never did until I showed up.
---
The next morning, I went out early. Cold air. Clear sky. The kind of morning that made you forget the world was falling apart. I stopped at Café Olmo, nodded to the barista, and took my usual corner table. I pulled the contract from my bag and set it on the table.
"Margaret Lavoie," I muttered.
Signed twelve years ago. Favor granted: return of stolen artwork. Interesting one. I vaguely remembered her. She was younger then. A curator, maybe. Or a collector. One of those people who lived between auctions and pretended they didn't.
I sipped my coffee and read the final line.
Collection due: March 18, 2025.
Today.
---
Margaret lived in Queens, in one of those old brownstones that had somehow dodged the gentrification bullet. The door was painted a faded blue, the number crooked. A wind chime made of keys danced above the porch.
I knocked.
A moment later, the door opened.
She was older now. Fifty, maybe sixty. Wore a robe and thick socks. Hair tied up in a loose bun. She squinted at me, then paled.
"No," she whispered.
"It's time."
She looked behind her, into the quiet house. "I thought... I thought it would be later. Or that maybe you wouldn't come."
"I always come."
She let me in. The house smelled like tea and wood polish. Paintings lined every wall. Most were hers. A few weren't. One, I recognized—a piece stolen from a Parisian gallery in the 1980s. She must've kept it. After I returned it to her.
"You remember the favor?"
She nodded slowly, sitting on the couch. "They took everything. My collection. My work. You brought it back. I thought I'd rebuild. And I did. But..."
"But you didn't forget the price."
"I didn't think it would hurt like this."
I placed the Wheel on her coffee table.
She stared at it. The bones. The obsidian trim. The twelve symbols burned into its surface.
"Do I have to spin it?" she asked.
"Yes."
She took a breath. Reached forward.
Click. Click. Click.
The Wheel spun.
Her eyes were closed the whole time. I watched her lips move—a prayer? A goodbye? I never ask.
It stopped.
Segment 2: Paralysis. Lower body. Irreversible.
She exhaled. Then blinked. Then looked down at her legs.
Nothing.
She didn't scream. Didn't curse. Just sat there. Silent. Then slowly reached for the mug on the table. Missed. Laughed once, dryly.
"Tea's gone cold," she said.
I nodded. Packed the Wheel.
"You can stay, if you want," she said suddenly. "For a bit."
That surprised me. Most don't want to see me after the Wheel spins.
"I make terrible sandwiches. But the company's alright."
I stayed.
We ate in silence. Two broken things in a warm house filled with stolen art.
---
That night, I walked home alone again.
Sometimes the Wheel takes more than flesh.
Sometimes it takes the part of them that still hoped.
I wondered how much of mine it already had.