Osamaru Ta
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(WLTK) B1: Chapter 50 - "What Was Left Behind."
🕑 Added 2025-06-05 00:35:12 +0000 UTCWhoops, the last chapter was supposed to read AM, not PM.
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Monday, September 27th, 2253 - 10:19 am
Prima City — Central District
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Jeremiah rode the tram into Central, trying to steady his nerves as city blocks blurred past. At every stop, new faces pressed in: students with overloaded satchels, office workers clinging to coffee, vendors weaving through the crowd. Nobody gave Jeremiah a second look, yet the ride always left him uneasy. Even now, months after Sarah’s death, her name lingered like an echo in the city’s collective mind — gossip about compensation cases, rumors of scandals, updates that never seemed to fade entirely. Sometimes, he suspected someone was fanning the flames, but he’d never found proof. Sarah hadn’t collected enemies, not the way some “heroes” did.
Lately, though, new doubts gnawed at him. Maybe it wasn’t really about Sarah at all.
Could it be because of the System? He considered. But why? And who?
There was no answer he could reach today, and more pressing matters waited. Right now, he needed to reach a place he’d barely visited since starting college four years ago.
The tram hissed to a stop at Prima Central Station, doors sliding open to spill him into the relentless motion of the city. Central always felt impossibly vast — polished stone, glass towers, endless movement. Here, the streets gleamed, swept spotless twice a day, every corner boasting new advertisements or art installations. People moved with purpose, hardly glancing up. Black and grey business wear filled the crowd, broken only by a rare flash of color: a silk scarf, a luxury hover-bag, a glimmer of enchanted jewelry. Some people had called Central ‘sterile’ but the truth was deeper than that. Central was a place of subtlety, where less said more.
Jeremiah wove through the crowd, noting the difference in posture and stride between the city’s natives and the scattered few from the Outskirts. Visitors hesitated at intersections, their eyes never quite settling, steps just a touch too slow. Technically, anyone was allowed in Central, but it wasn’t the same as being welcomed. Central liked to imagine the Outskirts were rough, chaotic, less refined. But Jeremiah knew both worlds were more similar than either would care to admit. Each had their own unspoken ‘rules’ and expectations.
In Central, everything was structured: how you crossed the street, how you asked directions, even how you talked to strangers. Once, he’d known those patterns by heart. Now, after weeks in the Crossroads, his city edge had dulled. He caught himself scanning alleys for threats that didn’t exist here, his stride a little less crisp, his eyes more cautious. He saw people glance at him — brief, assessing looks. Not unkind, just… marking him as “not from here.” He remembered being the one giving those same looks back when this place was all he knew.
He caught his reflection in a glass storefront: hair too wild, boots too worn, a tension in his shoulders that came from never quite letting his guard down. He looked less like someone coming home and more like someone with nowhere else to go.
At the next intersection, he paused, letting the city’s pulse rush around him. He ducked into a narrow alley, shielded from the flow, and summoned the System’s menu. He focused on the familiar, waiting presence of his Shopkeeper’s Regalia.
A faint shimmer swept over him, barely perceptible. His jacket became a high-collared, midnight-blue coat — formal, with a subtle rune pattern only a few would notice. Scuffed boots faded into polished shoes, sturdy as they were stylish. His worn T-shirt and jeans transformed into a crisp vest and pressed shirt, city-ready down to the last button.
He studied his hands — no more frayed cuffs or battered knuckles. Now, he looked every bit the respectable young merchant, ready for business in Central’s heart. Most of the Regalia’s enchantments wouldn’t work here, outside his shop, but simply wearing it gave Jeremiah a little more confidence. Made him feel more professional. He straightened, squared his shoulders, focused his gaze.
You can do this, Jeremiah told himself, drawing a steadying breath.
He stepped back into the river of people. The glances faded; the crowd flowed around him. An invisible barrier seemed to settle over him — not quite belonging, but no longer out of place.
He allowed himself a small, private smile.
With his head held high, Jeremiah let the city’s rhythm carry him toward the Martha Bridge Animal Shelter — and whatever came next.
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Monday, September 27th, 2253 - 10:40 am
Prima City — Central — Martha Bridge Animal Shelter & Adoption Agency
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Jeremiah let the current of the city nudge him forward, slipping past clusters of office workers and students until the avenues opened onto a familiar block. A patch of Central that still, deep down, felt like it was his.
The shelter sat in the shadow of a sprawling old oak, its branches tangled over the roof as if trying to cradle the building itself. The painted sign above the gate, once bright and welcoming, was faded now, its letters chipped and weathered by years of sun and rain. At the foot of the steps, the ghost of a chalk cat wound around a faded sun, remnants of a child’s drawing that refused to be washed away.
He lingered for a moment outside the fence, breath catching at the sight of that old sign. A memory tugged at him: Sarah beside him, both of them smeared with paint, bickering over which color would make stray kittens feel safest. “Warm colors, always,” she’d insisted, wiping a stripe of yellow down his arm. “It makes people think of sunshine — and you know how Mom loved yellow.”
Sarah had built the shelter for him on his fourteenth birthday after he’d expressed his desire to follow in their mother’s footsteps and pursue veterinary medicine.
For nearly six years, this place had been his second home. He’d spent afternoons cleaning cages, nursing sick strays, and learning every bit of animal care he could. Evenings, he’d linger with Sarah, planning new projects or making lists of future rescues. Then college happened, and the visits grew less frequent, responsibilities pulling him away until the shelter faded to the edge of his world.
But he’d always known the place was in good hands. The team Sarah had built was the best he’d ever known. Still, a pang of guilt twisted in his chest as he realized how completely he’d let that part of his life slip away after her death. He hadn’t even checked in, not once.
Jeremiah drew a slow, bracing breath, then stepped through the gate. His polished shoes rang softly on the flagstones, each step echoing with old memories and quiet hope.
Yet as he drew closer, a prickle of unease crawled up Jeremiah’s spine. Something felt… wrong.
The courtyard, usually alive with sound and motion, was empty. He found himself searching for the blur of a dog racing past, the sharp, familiar call of Mrs. Agnew chiding the birds, the laughter of volunteers wrangling stubborn cats. Instead, silence reigned. Windows gleamed and flowerbeds had been freshly weeded. The building stood in good repair, its cheerful paint unmarred, but it felt hollow. Like a stage set after the actors had all gone home.
His frown deepened with each step up the sun-warmed stoop. Mondays were never the busiest, but there was always someone here — old regulars clinging to routine, kids on break, retirees taking a favorite dog for a stroll. Now, not a soul in sight.
He hesitated at the door, hand hovering over the handle. A strange sense of foreboding gnawed at him. The freshly painted blue door swung open at his touch, its hinges silent.
Inside, the lobby was awash in soft light, dust motes swirling through golden beams from the high windows. The faint scent of pine cleaner and straw still lingered, comfortingly familiar. On the front desk, paperwork was stacked in perfect order, a vase of fresh daisies arranged just so. Everything looked right. But the silence felt wrong. Only the soft, muffled sound of barks from the far back told him this place hadn’t been all but abandoned.
Jeremiah took a tentative step inside. From a side office, a tall, lanky man in his fifties appeared, sleeves rolled high on his staff shirt, the lines at the corners of his eyes etched deep from years of sun and laughter. He smiled wide and bright, the kind of smile reserved for visitors with clipboards or deep pockets.
“Welcome to the Martha Bridge Shelter! If you’re here to—” The greeting rang out, practiced and warm — until the man caught sight of Jeremiah. Instantly, his smile vanished. His gaze swept over Jeremiah’s polished shoes and suit, and a flicker of frost settled in his eyes.
He crossed his arms, posture sharpening, voice going flat. “Really. Do you suits never learn?”
Jeremiah blinked, momentarily thrown. “What?”
The man’s frown cut deeper. “Tell your boss that just because they sent someone new doesn’t mean I’ll change my mind. The shelter isn’t for sale. Not now, not ever.”
Jeremiah stared at him, stunned. “Paul, what are you talking about?” he asked.
The man, Paul, shook his head, his gaze hard as flint. “Don’t play dumb, son. I’ve seen half a dozen of you parade through here in the last few months. Always with the same story — ‘interested in the neighborhood,’ ‘want to help with improvements,’ or ‘looking for new opportunities.’” He jabbed a finger at the desk, voice rising. “Let me make it simple: you can tell your boss that this shelter isn’t a commodity. We’re not closing, and we’re not moving. I don’t care what your offer is.”
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Jeremiah could see anger and exhaustion warring behind the man’s eyes — the kind of fight born from months, maybe years, of pressure. He realized with a sinking feeling that whatever struggles the shelter faced had only grown since he’d last been here. And now, he’d walked right into the middle of it, looking every inch the outsider.
Jeremiah raised his hands, shaking his head. “Paul, do you really not recognize me?” His voice cracked in disbelief. “It’s me. Jeremiah. Jeremiah Bridge.”
Paul hesitated, his glare wavering just a hair. He looked Jeremiah up and down again, slower this time, searching beneath the too-nice clothes and city fatigue for some ghost of the kid he once knew. After a moment, something in Paul’s face shifted — a flicker of recognition, a little bit of pain. But the coldness didn’t thaw.
“Jeremiah?” Paul said, and this time the name landed with the weight of old memory. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He shook his head, the lines around his eyes deepening, not with warmth, but with disappointment. “You grew up, huh?”
Jeremiah felt a knot tighten in his chest. He’d braced for awkwardness, maybe even guilt, but he hadn’t expected this wall of indifference. “I—yeah, I’m back. I just wanted to see how things were going. It’s… been too long.”
Paul’s lips thinned. “You could say that.”
Jeremiah stepped closer, voice quiet. “Paul, what happened? Why does the place feel so… empty?”
Paul’s jaw clenched, and for a moment Jeremiah thought he might just walk away. Instead, Paul let out a tired, bitter laugh and gestured to the vacant lobby. “You want the short version or the real one?”
Jeremiah shook his head. “The real one. Please.”
Paul looked past Jeremiah as if searching for words in the dust motes swirling in the sun. “After Sarah died, everything changed. At first, it was just the usual mess — grief, confusion, paperwork. But then the stories started spreading. All those reporters digging for dirt, that garbage about ‘fraud’ and ‘neglect,’ painting Sarah like she was some kind of criminal. Sponsors panicked. Donors pulled out. We lost most of our supply contracts in a month.”
His voice stayed flat, almost bored, but every word hit with the weight of a brick. “People stopped coming by. Volunteers quit or got lured away by other places with more ‘stable reputations.’ A few stuck around as long as they could, but—” He shrugged, arms still crossed. “It wore everyone down. Now? It’s just me, Beth in the kennels, Tom when he’s not working nights, and Sam.”
Paul’s mouth twitched, the first sign of anything like warmth. “If it wasn’t for Samantha Woods and her stubborn streak, we’d have closed months ago. She kept us afloat. Covered the bills herself more than once.”
Jeremiah’s throat tightened at the name. “Sam… she’s still here?”
Paul finally met his gaze, something sharp and weary flickering in his eyes. He gave a short, almost bitter chuckle. “Of course she is, kid. Sam’s one of only a hundred A-plus grade Gifted on the planet. Do you think anyone could scare that girl away? Our doors are only open because of her. If she hadn’t stuck around, someone would have pushed us out long ago.”
Jeremiah flinched, shame prickling along his spine. “Paul, I didn’t know. I never meant to—”
Paul cut him off with a curt shake of his head. “Don’t.” His tone softened only slightly, heavy with exhaustion. “I don’t blame Sarah for any of this. She wasn’t who the papers made her out to be. But you…” He let the accusation hang, thick and unyielding. “You vanished, Jeremiah. We buried your sister, and you never came back. Not for the reception, not after. Sam waited for you. She said she called you those first few weeks. Left messages, tried everything. You never answered.”
A cold, hollow silence grew between them. Jeremiah’s mind scrambled for words, for excuses, but none came.
Paul broke the spell with a brisk gesture toward the front desk, his voice suddenly hard again. “If you’re here for a job, you’re out of luck. We’re not hiring. Not enough funding, not enough time. And if you came just to walk down memory lane — well, I can’t help with that, either.” He turned and stalked back toward his office, shoulders rigid beneath the faded staff shirt. “I’ve got work to do.”
Jeremiah stood frozen, watching Paul’s retreating back, guilt gnawing at him from every angle. Each word, each reminder of his absence, bit deeper. It was true: he’d vanished, burying himself in school, in the numb routines of each day, refusing to answer calls, ignoring messages, running from the grief and responsibility he wasn’t ready to face.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. What was there to say that wouldn’t sound hollow? Sorry felt inadequate. But doing nothing now — that would be worse.
As Paul reached the edge of the hallway, Jeremiah finally found his voice. “Wait,” he called, his words low but urgent.
Paul paused, but didn’t turn. “What?”
Jeremiah swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “I know I don’t have the right to ask for your time. But I’m not here for a job, and I’m not here to reminisce. I came with an opportunity. For the shelter — for you. For Sam. For the animals.”
Paul turned halfway, arms folded and jaw set, skepticism written plain across his face. “Is that so? I’ve heard plenty of ‘opportunities’ lately. Most come with strings. Or sales pitches. Or ‘partnerships’ that are just slow poison.” His gaze narrowed. “You’ve got two minutes, Jeremiah. Then I’m gone.”
Jeremiah nodded, steadying himself. “I’m not going to sell you on anything. But I have a new place. A shop. I’m turning it into an animal cafe, a real one. A space where people can meet animals, spend time with them, learn about them, maybe even fall in love and take one home. Not just a pet shop — a place with purpose. A place that could help find good homes for animals who need them.”
He kept his voice even, not pushing, not begging. Just laying it out. “I know the shelter can’t handle the load it used to. You don’t have the volunteers, or the donors, or the time. But I think there’s a way we can help each other. No hidden catches, no buyouts. Just… a way to do some good again.”
He didn’t say more. He didn’t need to. The offer hung in the air, simple and raw, no details, no paperwork, no promises yet. Just a door cracked open.
Paul watched him in silence, suspicion battling with something else — a flicker of hope, maybe, or the old habit of believing in Sarah’s brother, even if that trust had been buried deep.
After a long moment, Paul let out a quiet sigh. “I don’t have time for negotiations today. If you really want to talk, you’ll need to speak with Sam. She runs this place now, whether her name’s on the deed or not. And if you’re serious — if you mean any of this — you’ll have to prove it. Not to me. To her. And to the animals.”
Paul jabbed a finger at Jeremiah, eyes steely. “I’ll pass the message to her. But let’s get one thing straight — I’m not doing this because I’ve forgiven you. Not for what happened to us, or Sam. I’m doing it because a small part of me still remembers the boy who used to sleep in the kennels beside every abandoned stray, just to keep them company through the night. I may be old, but if you betray that memory, Jeremiah, I’ll kick your ass myself. Understood?”
Relief eased some of the tightness in Jeremiah’s chest. The guilt he carried felt just a little lighter.
He nodded, standing as tall as he could and meeting Paul’s stare. “I understand, sir.”
Paul’s gaze lingered on him. Measuring, weighing, a minute stretched thin with tension. Then, at last, Paul gave a short, tired chuckle and shook his head. “We’ll see, kid,” he muttered, then closed the office door.
