Enjin

The Pit smelled of iron, rust, and smoke. It was the air of the damned, a breath that burned from within. Amidst piles of scrap and dust, something different vibrated that morning. A faint glow emerged from the wreckage, like a firefly that refused to die. I approached unhurriedly, resting the umbrella on my shoulder, listening to the cans crunch beneath my boots. Amidst the filth, she was there. Her skin covered in dirt, her breathing shaky, her hair plastered to her forehead. I knew who she was before she opened her eyes. You never forget someone who looks at the world with the innocence of someone who hasn't yet learned to hate. —I thought you were dead. Her eyelids opened with effort, the light of the abyss reflecting in her irises as if the sky still claimed her. I saw in her gaze the reflection of the high sphere: broken luxury, wounded faith, pride that refuses to break completely. She said nothing, only tried to sit up, trembling in the fog. I helped her without another word. It wasn't compassion, it was curiosity. I wanted to understand why someone who had everything had fallen so low and still retained that spark that not even the Pit could extinguish. For the next month, I watched her in silence. She worked in the infirmary as if every wound suffered by others was a way of atoning for something of her own. Her hands, once soft and clumsy, adapted to the hardness of the broken flesh, the burns, the infections. She didn't tremble. At first, she avoided looking at the blood, but soon she was the one who held the wounded when the pain made them scream. When she wasn't healing, she cooked. She mixed hard rice with burnt spices, pieces of dried meat, and roots Zanka brought back from forbidden areas. She did it with that stubborn calm that both irritated and fascinated me. Sometimes, when I saw her from behind, her hair tied back and her hands stained with soot, she seemed like a living memory of the woman who claimed to have been her mother: someone capable of treating everyone with the same tenderness, no matter where they came from. She never took off the relics. She called them “memories of her.” I saw them shine more than once. The necklace with the cross, Deus Lux, radiated a pure light capable of healing impossible wounds, but each use left her pale, exhausted, as if life were whispering away from her. The watch, Chronos Fragmentum, could stop time for brief moments; its power was devastating, but it battered her from within, making her nose bleed and leaving her breathless. The earrings, Vox Wadaña, were the most dangerous: they turned any object into a weapon, from a rusty spoon to a piece of metal. Each transformation, however, left a mark on her skin, as if the Pit were charging her with scars. One afternoon, I took her to the Cleaners' main base. Rudo had returned injured after facing a trash beast on the outskirts of the western district. The boy, stubborn as ever, was trying to stay on his feet even though his side was bleeding. Zanka was trying to close the wound with a makeshift bandage, cursing under her breath. —Idiot! I told you not to go alone —he grumbled, but his voice trembled with worry. *Rudo barely smiled, his face pale. *—It's nothing... just a scratch. She stopped when she saw him, motionless, as if time had shattered again, but this time without Chronos's help. He recognized her. I could see it in his expression. An old story, perhaps a wound that never quite healed. I approached her side, resting a hand on her arm. —Don't look at him like he's a ghost. She lowered her head. Then she took a step forward. Her voice came out almost in a whisper. —I'm not going to let him die. She took the Deus Lux necklace, squeezed it tightly, and the air changed. A bright white light erupted from her chest and filled the room. Zanka covered her face with her forearm. —What the hell…? —he muttered. Rudo let out a groan, the bleeding stopped, the wound closed with an almost divine glow. When the light went out, he was breathing normally, his skin undamaged. She, on the other hand, could barely stand. Sweat ran down her forehead, her legs trembled. She took a step back and collapsed. I caught her before she hit the ground. Her skin was icy cold, her pulse weak. "If this world is going to corrupt everything it touches... I'd rather burn fighting with what little I still have left," he murmured, barely conscious, before closing his eyes. I carried her to a stretcher. Zanka and Jinome approached immediately. "Is she alive?" Zanka asked. "Yes," I replied, without taking my eyes off her. "But she's exhausted. The power consumes her." Jinome, with her usual calm, nodded. —Then she feels too. Down here, that's worth more than any gift. *Rudo sat up with difficulty, watching her from his stretcher. His expression was a mixture of guilt and astonishment. *—She… saved me. After everything that… "Put it away," I interrupted without looking at him. "He doesn't need your apologies now." The light on her necklace still glowed dimly, throbbing like a sleeping heart. That night I stayed by her side. Outside, the Pit roared with its eternal metallic sound. Zanka snored in a corner, Jinome silently adjusted pieces, and Rudo absently cleaned his glove. She slept, her face calm, as if dreaming of a sky that no longer existed. I thought of the words she had spoken before falling unconscious. "Burn while fighting." Not many down here dared to speak of hope, but she did so without fear, as if she still believed the abyss could be purified. Perhaps that was why she hadn't died in the fall. I bowed my head, watching the slight trembling of her eyelashes. Respect isn't declared: it's felt, stored away, demonstrated in silence. I walked toward the exit, umbrella in hand, as the workshop lights flickered with the last echo of Deus Lux. The Pit doesn't always swallow what falls; Sometimes it returns what heaven did not deserve to keep.