A noteworthy feature of Artifex’s neighborhood was that the general structure of it—that was to say, not what lay inside the houses, but the houses, bushes, and sidewalks themselves—more or less became a linear pathway. One end, of course, led to the school; the other, obviously, led to the city of Canterlot.

This was what Artifex now focused on; the road to the city. Under the cover of darkness, he could more clearly see all of the colorful lights that emanated from there. It was reflective of Manehattan; both cities were literal beacons, refusing to sleep even after most had gone to bed. But unlike Manehattan, Canterlot was much quieter. Fewer cars roamed the streets; fewer pedestrians walked between them. The buildings, while huge in their own right, were never quite as big as Manehattan’s. And there were less people; less strangers.

As paradoxical as it would sound, this made Canterlot a highly unfamiliar place for Artifex. Even as he stared at it from the porch of his home, he could not help but look at it with subdued anxiety. It hadn’t been as apparent when he went to the party all those days ago; but now, after everything, it returned. Like a swirling dragon, it roared fire in his ear, burning his insides and making him sweat. It took all of his will not to turn and run.

Still did that fire burn. From it the smoke of longing, desperate and despondent longing, rose, and clouded the beautiful night sky above.

As waves upon waves of thought crashed upon his mind’s shore, as winds upon winds of temptations, ill-wills, and inner demons blew against the lighthouse sanctum of his internal self, his body responded accordingly; around the porch’s wooden railing, his fingers tightly gripped the edge; his jaw shook, and eyes stubbornly remained transfixed upon the city in the distance.

He mentally went over the time. About an hour ago, his parents had turned in, and now slept soundly and peacefully, unaware of their child’s inner angst. Artifex hadn’t been much of a sleeper in a good while, so staying up this late was a common occurrence. Sometimes he’d stay up way past his usual bedtime, to the point he’d see the moon begin to set before anyone saw the crests of the sun peek above the hills. But he had never gotten too tired, too worn down by this act. He’d conditioned his body to become accustomed to late nights and later hours.

Now, though, he did feel tired. The weight of the world seemed to rest on his shoulders; at least, that was what he imagined. He needed a way out, an escape route of some sort. And so, with calls from sirens ringing in the distance, as golden wishes glorified a temporary solution, Artifex, after grabbing his cane, stepped off of his porch, onto the sidewalk, and forward towards Canterlot, not noticing the presence of a smaller companion trailing behind.

With his limp still afflicting him, it took Artifex around twenty minutes to enter the city. The road had been mostly silent, with a few birds deciding that now was a good time to gossip. By the time he had entered, all outside noises had faded away, replaced with the city’s own ambience.

Copper streetlights stood like metal sentinels next to the cement sidewalks, illuminating trash bins and benches for passerby to see. Artifex could hear a low hum from each. Far above those lights were the lights coming from the office buildings, shining out of some of the windows. In some, he could see silhouettes of late-night workers, bent over their desks, typing presumably away at some document or another. Some of these silhouettes would suddenly straighten up, and raise their arms, and yawn; and then they’d go back to work.

In the smaller buildings, it was a much different case. Either the owners or tenants were asleep, as the insides were almost always darkened. Artifex stopped momentarily to gaze into the shop of one “Seamstress Savvy,” peering at the shaded display of a mannequin wearing a purple sequin dress. He brought a hand up to it, feeling the cool glass. Ruby would have liked this one, he thought, recalling her ecstatic cries one Christmas morning. I wonder if Rarity, as an amateur clothes-maker, could make one of these?

He blinked, then sighed, realizing how silly that sounded. Slowly, he lowered his hand; and even more slowly did he turn and walk away.

In the distance, Artifex saw Sugarcube Corner. Surprised to see that it still had its neon lights on, he considered stopping by. Then he thought against it, reasoning that it would be odd for him to show up unannounced and at this late hour. Still, as he recognized the poofy-haired outline of Pinkie Pie, he felt a sudden desire for companionship.

His mind drifted. He thought of Pound and Pumpkin Cake, how sweet they were to him, how innocent, how blissful. To have that treasured youth again… he knew it was impossible.

He kept walking. Sugarcube Corner once again became distant.

Mentally, he kept track of his trek, constantly retracing the route back to his home. With each turn, he added another section of the city to his memory. Now it stood beside his old home, his old Manehattan. Gradually, the details began eerily similar. A metal garbage can here reminded him of the same one there. One pothole on the left mirrored one that had been on the right. Even the pedestrians who roamed the streets began to blend with regular Manehattenites. Old faces reemerged; he saw the downtown gardener; the west side banker; the north end retired taxi cab driver.

Differences were there, too. The clothing in particular were much different than their Manehattan counterparts, as they were much brighter in color. Some places, like the subway station, were nowhere to be found. Even the sounds, as similar as they were, had their share of discrepancies; in Manehattan, the hustle-and-bustle had been notably louder, while here in Canterlot, it was on the quieter side.

In reflecting upon these observations, Artifex realized that these were two cities that led similar, yet at the same time different, lives. But they both embodied the same thing: large communities of culture, standing as cosmopolitan centers for the progression of people.

And he, he further realized, was much the same. He had led different lives in each city; but, essentially, he was the same person in each. There was some level of comfort to be found in that realization: the comfort of knowing that, in a tumultuous and terrifically changing time, he, at the most basic level, remained constant.

But it was a small comfort. So small, in fact, that it might as well have been a discomfort. Artifex stared at a streetlamp with this discomfort written on his face for the entire world to see.

“Mrow?”

He would have jumped in surprise had he not been concentrating so hard on the lamp. Turning slowly, he saw an apricot cat steadily trailing behind him, giving him an indifferent stare.

“Followed me all the way here, Francis?” Artifex asked. The cat answered with another “mrow;” Artifex offered a temporary smile. “Of course you would. Can’t leave me alone, can you?”

He looked away. “Not that I mind. No doubt you might have thought I was planning on running away, or something drastic like that. The truth is, Francis, I don’t know what I’m thinking. I’m just…” He struggled to find the right words. He walked over to one of the many bus benches and sat down, with Francis leaping up and landing beside him. “Wandering, I suppose. Yeah. Wandering.”

He softly rubbed Francis’s coat. “I bet you know exactly how that feels. You’re a genuine alley cat, with a heart for adventure. Remember that time you scampered off and nearly got into a fight with those crows? We had to literally drag you away from that.”

Francis did appear to remember, as he brought up a paw to his face and slid it down.

A person walked by, and Artifex fell silent, running his fingers through Francis’s fur. Once they were gone, he could speak again.

“I don’t know why I feel this way, though. And I don’t know why I felt the need to come out to here, at night, in the cold, when I could be home, in my warm bed, sleeping. I don’t know anymore. I just feel…” He sighed, hand coming off of Francis; the cat looked at him expectantly, then lay his head down on his lap. “I just feel confused, I guess. Just confused.”

He shook his head. “And I’m probably going crazy, because I’m talking to a cat, of all things. Not a person, not a friend, not a therapist or a psychologist or whatever. A cat.”

Francis purred in light protest. “Alright,” Artifex said, “my smart cat.”

He continued, “But I’m more than that. I’m confused, but also… angry. Angry at something or someone, I don’t quite know. But it’s such a faint yet persistent anger that I always feel tired out by it, even when it isn’t there.” He paused, thoughts turning slightly sour. “I wonder why that is. Or if it’s because of him…”

Francis tensed, as if sensing his owner’s growing anger.

“I shouldn’t feel this way, I keep telling myself. I want to believe that. But… why can’t I listen to my head?”

He fell silent, and the anger gradually dissipated. Francis relaxed.

They sat there for a good while, and Artifex, due to Francis’s warmth and nuzzling, began to grow sleepy. And though the moon above was full and bright, it acted as a welcoming nightlight. Artifex’s eyes drooped; his breathing slowed; his thoughts began to swim through the stream of consciousness, collecting dreams and nightmares along the way.

But a bed would have been nicer and, realizing this, Artifex opened his eyes and yawned. He reached for his pocket and took out his phone, checking the time. It was nearing ten. He sighed, loud enough to wake Francis. “I suppose we ought to head home, then,” he said, and rose.

He grabbed his cane, lightly tapping the ground with it. For a moment, he fought to find his balance; and after finding it, he breathed in the cool air. It was a good one. Fresh. Crisp. Beautiful. He’d hate to miss such a night.

“Come on, Francis,” he said.

Francis jumped off of the bench, and together, they headed back the way they came.

But the feline evidently had other plans in mind. Once they had reached the nearest crosswalk, rather than going over the way, Francis made a sharp left. It was so sharp that Artifex at first thought the cat had simply disappeared. “Huh? Francis, this isn’t—Francis!”

The cat appeared certain to at least give Artifex the walk of his life as, in ignoring the boy’s shout, he actually sped up. In return, Artifex gave chase, moving as best as he could with his limp. It wasn’t easy; several times his cane hit between the cracks, and he nearly toppled over.

“Francis, it’s too late for this,” he grumbled to himself. The cat paused, looking back at the boy. Then he stuck out his tongue, and surged ahead. Artifex thanked whoever was listening that the streets weren’t crowded tonight.

Francis crossed another street, and Artifex pursued. Francis dashed over potholes; Artifex maneuvered around them. Francis ducked into an alley; Artifex slowly followed. The cat even had the nerve to slow down just enough so that Artifex didn’t lose sight of him.

“What the hell’s gotten into ya?” he asked at one point. All he got in answer was a determined growl.

Momentarily stopping, Francis raised his head and sniffed. He ducked down an exit alley, and was back on the main street. As Artifex followed, Francis made another turn, this time right, and headed into a smaller street. Then, he slowed, and waited for his owner to catch up.

The boy briefly took in his surroundings. It wasn’t exactly decrepit, but it certainly had seen better days. A lone streetlamp rested at the corner where two buildings met. More trash littered the sides of the street, and several day-old newspapers could be seen scattered across black bags. Breathing in slowly so as to catch his breath, Artifex smelled remnants of cigarette smoke.

“Francis, are you just purposely trying to get us lost?” he asked.

He did not respond; all he did was stare at his owner.

Artifex walked closer. He noted that the brick that made up each building was old and sturdy. He touched one; it was somewhat cool. It reminded him awfully closely of the place where his parents’ old apartment had been; not quite in an alley, but in a smaller sector of Manehattan, with cool, old brick, and tinted windows.

Just out of curiosity, he looked at the windows, and found they were of an eerily similar tint as those in Manehattan, give or take a few shades of yellow.

He looked back at the cat. “Francis, you better explain yourself.”

When the cat meowed back, Artifex crept closer. “What do you mean we’re here? There’s nothing here; just a bunch of old apartment buildings.”

Francis meowed again, and cocked his head. Artifex grew closer. “Come on, Francis. It’s too late for a nightly escapade. Don’t you want to sleep?”

Artifex blinked. “Why am I talking to you like you’re a baby? You’re… what, middle-aged in cat years?”

Francis seemed to take offense at that, as he hissed, and disappeared around the corner.

“You’re older than you look!” Artifex protested. He limped after him, expecting to see a dead end, hoping he’d be able to go home soon.

The narrow backway opened up into a wide complex. Somewhat-mossy cobblestone covered the road, replacing the tar in the main city. Two gardens were fenced off with iron rungs, and several trees and flowers grew there; it reminded Artifex of a much smaller Central Park. Dark as it was, it came as no surprise that this complex had its fair share of streetlamps. But they were several feet smaller, and looked more robust and oil-run than their electrical counterparts. They were situated next to each step that led to presumably an apartment; though, one of those doors had a sign that read “Closed,” so he assumed it must have been a shop of some sort. At the end of the complex, opposite of where Artifex stood, he saw a lone gate, and beyond that, he could see the rest of Canterlot.

So surprised was he to find this place that he unknowingly bumped into a signpost. He backed up to look at it. “Esquire Square?” he read aloud. The name fluidly danced out of his mouth; he found it rather enjoyable to say.

He heard loud meowing. Turning his head, he saw Francis at the top of one of the stairs. He scratched and hissed at the door, but he didn’t seem particularly angry or fearful of it; rather, he appeared impatient, imploring the door to open.

Artifex swiftly walked over to his pet. He was at the first door to the left, so it wasn’t a far walk. “Francis, cut that out; you’re going to wake someone!” he whispered fiercely.

The cat paused to look at the boy, but then just as quickly resumed his fit. The loud, grating sound of Francis’s claws running all over the wood made Artifex wince. He picked up the cat by his torso, scooping his arm around so that he couldn’t wiggle free. “That’s enough!” he scolded. “You and I are going home right now!”

The cat hissed and growled, defiant and stubborn, and Artifex scolded him a little more, trying to keep the feline pinned under his arm. He did not notice the door open; he was too busy seeing Francis suddenly stop squirming, and wondering why that was, that he did not register the sound of someone tittering lightly.

But he did take notice his name being called. He heard a familiar smugness in her voice.

“Artifex?”

For a split-second, he stopped functioning. His arm loosened, allowing Francis to slip out. Fifteen possibilities raced through his mind, and he discarded them all, focusing in on the one conclusion that mattered. Slowly, as he worked himself back to the present, he rotated on the heel of his foot, coming face-to-face with the source of that smug, sultry voice.

“Adagio?”

They talked for a good while. Artifex’s irritation towards Francis melted into surprise that he even managed to find Adagio out here. Sure, he had known, from Sonata, that she lived in the city, but what were the chances of them meeting right in front of her apartment? On a Saturday, no less? And even more extraordinarily, at night, right when Artifex had intended to head home?

“I’m honestly asking myself the same question,” Adagio said, chuckling softly. Her hair was a little more disheveled. She had showered just a few minutes before, and had in her hand a cup of coffee. She looked pretty awake; and in the reflection of the moon, Artifex couldn’t help but see that her eyes were, pun unintended, truly eye-catching.

“If this were a romance novel,” Adagio said, “this is probably where we’d have our first awkward meeting.”

“I think our first meeting was awkward enough,” Artifex replied.

“You’re not still mad about that, are you?”

“Far from it.”

She laughed again. It was a gentle laugh, very much unlike her. He wondered if she was usually like this at night. “I guess it was awkward,” she said. “Still, what on Equestria are you doing out here?”

“I… went for a walk,” he answered.

“At this hour?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm.” She took a sip from her cup. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

“Really?”

“Mmhmm. You strike me very much as a night-owl.”

He looked briefly away. “For a good while, I couldn’t sleep at all.”

She nodded, already understanding—surprisingly already understanding, now that he thought about it. “But what brings you to my doorstep? You should be home now.”

“Francis bolted; I followed him here.”

“Oh? How odd of him. He must be truly fortunate to have found my place out of all the apartments.”

“If you really think so.” He looked at Francis, considering something. “Hmm… I wonder…”

He let the question hang; the cat didn’t appear inclined or willing to answer.

Adagio took another sip. “You’re not cold, are you?”

“Only a little. Cities like these have some pretty nippy winds now and then.”

“Mmm. Tell me about. In all the places I’ve lived, the wind has always howled the loudest and bit the hardest in cities.” She breathed in slowly. “It’s like the wind never changes its style.”

“In a way, there’s a comfort to be found in that constant.”

“In a way, indeed.” She regarded him with a mixture of smugness and knowingness. “You say a lot of wise things, you know that?”

He blinked, the corners of his lips almost turning upward into a smile. “I guess I do.”

“I wonder… in another life, might you have been a philosopher?” She tapped her chin, looking above Artifex at the moon in contemplation. “Perhaps in Equestria, your counterpart is that?”

He blinked; he had forgotten the mirror aspect of their worlds. While now he found himself wondering if Adagio had any human counterparts of her own, he simply nodded at her.

She took another sip. He was silent for a moment, before asking, “What are you doing up?”

“I’m a night owl myself,” she said, that knowing smirk still crossing her lips. “The coffee helps.”

“And your sisters?”

“Sonata’s snoring, and Aria’s grumbling quietly in her room. They don’t like the night, I guess.”

“I guess so.” He crossed his arms, unsure how to continue. The moon kept on shining down on the three of them. It might as well have been intruding on their talk.

He found that the silence was nice. Comforting. And, he realized, it was one of the few times it had just been himself and Adagio together. In most other cases, he had been among others; but this? Once again, he was reminded of the sheer absurdity of the situation. Somewhere, far above the clouds, he supposed, there had to be some higher power finding all of this absolutely amusing.

Deep down, he probably felt the same.

Once again, the silence was permeated by the sound of Adagio sipping. This time, though, she took a much longer one, finishing the coffee and letting out a satisfied breath, causing a whiff of white to slowly roll out of her mouth. “Do you drink coffee, Artifex?” she asked.

“On the occasion,” he responded, lips twitching and eyes momentarily twinkling.

“You really should. It’s one of the few things mortals got right. Even immortals hate late nights and early mornings.”

She laughed a little at her comment, and Artifex nearly joined her; he had to work his jaw hard just to refrain from laughing, though he did not know why. She saw this and said, “Too tired to laugh, then? Shame. I rather like it when you do.”

“I guess I am a little tired,” he said. Then he paused. “Sorry; did you say you like it when I laugh?”

She paused. “Did I? Well, I mean that in a kind way, Artifex.” Her lips curled like she had tasted something awful. “Mmm. That sounds too corny for me to say.”

He let the comment go, nodding. “Either way… it’s getting late. I suppose I’d better head home now.”

“Yes… I suppose you should.”

Francis meowed lightly, and Artifex bent down and picked him up. He looked back at the ex-Siren. He opened his mouth to say something; but then closed it, and nodded, seemingly content with the action alone. Adagio, to her credit, didn’t appear to mind, and nodded just the same. He noted that she was frowning.

He turned and walked down the stairs, his feet making light, clopping sounds against the hard pavement, like echoes of a journey. Just as he reached the tree and made to turn right, though, Adagio spoke.

“Artifex.”

Now her voice truly became laced with conflicting and confusing emotions. It was soft and hard, kind and strict, caring yet cruel. It was both a lawful request and a punishing demand; a whisper on the winds, a cry in the city. Quiet, yet loud. Enough to make him stop.

“Yes?” he called, turning back around.

“Are you alright?”

“What do you mean? I’m just tired, Adagio, that’s all.”

She was unsatisfied, and expressed it with a shake of her curls. She placed the cup down upon a table, then, surprisingly, stepped outside and walked up to Artifex. To his own surprise, he didn’t move.

She stared, and he stared. Magenta irises that sharpened at the edges—a sign of a conniving leader, no doubt—stared into cerulean eyes that lightly curled up at the sides—signs of tiredness, yet innate intelligence. Neither they nor Francis moved; neither blinked. Neither of them spoke a word; their eyes, their stares, did all the talking.

Finally, she did find her voice. “Your friends are worried,” she said softly. “About you. About how you’ve been acting lately.”

He said nothing.

“You’ve changed; and, so they say, not necessarily for the better. You’ve regressed. You’ve become cold and distant.”

Again, he kept silent; but the trembling of his jaw was all the answer she needed.

She almost stumbled over her next words. “You’re making Sonata worried, too. I… I thought you should know.”

I know.

“And Aria… well, she doesn’t even want to deal with you.” She tried for a chuckle, but it was weak. “In her own way, she’s a little concerned.”

Her gaze had shifted to Francis, and she reached out, as if to pet him. Francis gazed at her expectantly, yet not in a way that suggested he wanted to be petted. He seemed to be waiting for her to say more.

Her hand came back. “And,” she murmured, looking back at Artifex once again. “You’ve been… making me worried, too.”

She hesitated. Her hand came up and, after seemingly much difficulty, rested itself on Artifex’s shoulder. The action was stiff, uncommon, unpracticed. Her arm lifted a little; her wrist tilted down and to the left, the other side coming up. It now made a line to Artifex’s chin. This action as well felt unrefined and unpolished; yet it was so gentle, so miniscule, that he would not have noticed it, had not for the girl’s soft sigh, and the way her fingers danced to a soundless tune on his shoulder.

He became aware of how close they were; he could smell her hair from this distance. It was nice; disarmingly nice, much like the rest of her.

The fingers danced a little more, then fell a little closer to his neck, brushing against it with light taps. He felt almost compelled to lean into the slightly-open palm.

He already guessed the next question.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

His heart, for some reason, skipped a beat; but he said anyway, in a softer voice than he ever imagined he could have mustered, “Yes.”

She did not let up her gaze. If anything, it seemed to grow more intense, searching for any sign of hesitance or doubt. Her arm fell away from his shoulder; she stepped away, slowly, like she did not truly want to leave. “Promise me?”

At that moment, he felt almost everything inside collapse. The last vestiges of stubbornness, of fear, of all of his personal angst, of all his personal problems, of all of his wants and needs and desires, of all of his pain, his worry, his uncertainty, fell apart. He felt open, hollow, and vulnerable; his knees felt weak, and Francis became like deadweight in his arms, so he had to gently put the cat down to the grown. It took all of his willpower not to suddenly break out into tears.

He wanted to tell her, just as he had wanted to tell Rainbow. He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted; he needed. It was so strong that he thought he might break under that pressure. Already he could see himself talking about Ruby, about school, about the world, about friendship, about No Clue—

The last remark in his mind gave him pause, and the walls inside slowly began to build back up. He swallowed hard. He saw red flashes, felt red flashes. It was enough; the desire remained, but it also remained blocked, hindered by his self-made inhibitions.

She sighed. “No. Of course not. I should have realized…”

He turned, but lowered his head so that he wouldn’t have to meet her hurt gaze. “See you around… Adagio,” he said, and he said this not unkindly, but without any trace of previous warmth. It was just a statement of fact. Nothing more, everything less.

He walked away. Francis followed.

The night became colder and darker with each step they took.