The notification made no sound.
It arrived as inevitable things do: on time.
Marikka noticed it because the neutral house stopped breathing in the same way. Not an alarm, not a stiffening. A minimal correction, as if the air had decided to switch from one register to another without warning.
Cedric was sitting at the table, his hands wrapped around a now-cold cup. He was talking—to someone, to himself, it wasn't clear—when the woman from the entrance appeared at the threshold. She didn't knock. She didn't truly enter. She remained in the exact spot where a presence has already been authorized.
Marikka raised her hand. Wait.
The woman stopped. But she had already spoken.
Not the words. The time.
Marikka grasped the content only afterward, like an echo returning.
"It has arrived," the woman said. "The notification."
Cedric spun around. "What notification?"
The woman looked at him. Not Marikka. This was enough to shift the weight in the room.
"It is addressed to the contact person," she continued. "Administrative summons. Attribution verification."
Cedric blinked. "I haven't—"
Marikka touched the table. The wood responded with a flat, emotionless vibration. Registry.
She wrote in the notebook, with forced calm:
WHO IS ISSUING IT.
The woman inhaled. "Secondary Civic Registry. Assignment sector. Automatic procedure."
Automatic.
The word without a face.
Aurelian, standing near the wall, took a step forward. "There is an error."
The woman nodded. "Probable."
Another half beat. Then: "The timeline does not account for it."
Marikka felt the delay wash over her like a cold current. They had said little time. They hadn't said immediate.
Cedric stood up abruptly. The chair scraped the floor with a harsh, disturbed vibration. "When?"
"It is already underway," the woman replied. "The summons has been logged. Non-attendance will be interpreted."
Marikka wrote faster than usual:
HOW.
The woman hesitated. Not by choice. By lack of alternative. "As an admission of irregularity."
Cedric laughed, a short sound that didn't go all the way. "I don't even know what—"
Marikka stood up. The room seemed to react to the gesture with an imperceptible anticipation. Not because she was important, but because the system was already counting movements.
She gestured to Cedric: stay.
Then she pointed to the woman. Show.
The woman produced a thick sheet of paper. Not digital. Paper with wide margins, chosen to last. She placed it on the table without pushing it.
Marikka did not touch it immediately.
She read the paper with her skin, first. The paper vibrated little. Too little. Like something that has been printed without expecting a response.
When she placed her fingers on it, she felt the real blow: her name was not there.
Cedric's was.
Complete. Legible. Attributable.
The rest of the text was a sequence of neutral formulas: verification, coherence, requested presence. No accusation. No possible defense.
Cedric turned pale. "This is..."
Aurelian closed his eyes. "It is correct."
Cedric turned to him. "How can you say that?"
"Because," Aurelian replied, softly, "the registry is not looking for her. It is looking for an error. And you are the simplest point to check."
Marikka felt tiredness rise like a slow tide. Too many vibrations. Too many levels. The world was speaking without waiting for her.
She wrote:
TIME.
The woman responded immediately. "Twenty minutes."
Cedric ran a hand through his hair. "If I go—"
Aurelian nodded. "They slot you."
"If I don't go—"
"They flag you."
Silence.
The type of silence that is not empty, but suspended.
Marikka looked at Cedric. Not to ask. To feel. His body vibrated irregularly, human, too human to be among registries and frames.
She wrote, slowly:
DON'T GO ALONE.
Cedric opened his mouth. "But you—"
Marikka shook her head. Not me.
She pointed to Aurelian.
Aurelian stiffened. "I can't—"
Marikka interrupted him with a sharp gesture. You can.
The woman took a step forward. "The summons is individual."
Marikka felt the fracture widen. Not a collapse. A line shifting.
She wrote:
OBSERVER.
The woman hesitated. Looked at the paper. Looked at Marikka. Then nodded, reluctantly. "He can wait outside."
It was the first concession.
Small. Costly.
Cedric swallowed. "And you?"
Marikka closed her hand into a fist. The vibrations now reached her with a slight delay, as if they had to pass through an extra filter.
She wrote:
I READ FROM HERE.
Cedric stared at her. "It's not fair."
Marikka looked up. For an instant, she was not reading a system. She was looking at a person who was about to be used in her place.
She wrote a single sentence:
IT IS NOT FAIR FOR ANYONE.
The woman took a step back. "We must move."
When they left, the neutral house let them go without resistance. Not because it approved. Because it had already registered the deviation.
Marikka remained on the threshold as Cedric and Aurelian walked away down the corridor. She felt the name—not hers—advance before them like a polite target.
She leaned her hand against the wall.
The stone vibrated.
Not enough.
The notification had done what it was supposed to: it had made visible who could be touched without breaking the system.
Marikka closed her eyes for an instant.
Then she began to read the city, knowing that this time she would arrive one beat later.
And that beat could cost dearly.