Crossing.

I counted the steps again. One. Two. Three. Her soles tore at the rubber like a hypocritical penitent, half in penance, half in pride. The air shivered, at least for me. For them, it was just Thursday. People like her never think about what's beneath their feet, yet she called out to me—with every step, every weight of her silly body on the white stripes, so divinely aligned against the pitch-black tar. The pattern is the key. Always the pattern. Idiots think zebra crossings are there for their safety. Ugh. A safety net, sure. But not for what they think.

She was different. Not smarter, not special—she could have been forgiven for that. Just… drenched in doubt, like a dishcloth soaked in lukewarm sorrow. That's what draws you in. Not strength, not faith, but that sticky in-between state of wanting to believe while laughing at yourself in the mirror. She had that. It was disgusting.

The first time she reached me, I thought it was a coincidence. I was mistaken. I know better now. She walked slowly, as if she sensed she was being watched, and perhaps she was—because I pressed myself against the asphalt, wriggling my being between white and black, between obedience and error. And when she stepped onto the fourth white square, she raised her head. Not to orient herself. But as if awaiting the verdict.

I didn't tear her apart then, which was held against me. The others—the Aurors, the Swallowers, the Swollen—they thought I was weak. But I wanted to look. To understand. There was something in her gaze I hadn't seen in a human in centuries. Not hope. Not fear. Exhaustion disguised as acceptance. She walked as if the world wasn't on fire, but had long since burned down and she simply had to walk through the ashes.

I gave her protection. Ugh. It tasted like metal and vomit. But she was under my control at that moment. On white. And whatever steps on white is under my control. Not because I want it to be. But because that's the way the rules are. I am the rules. And I hate that.

She looked at the cars. As if begging them to come. One hit the brakes. One honked. One didn't even look her way. What a spectacle. But she kept walking. And I had to go with her, caught in the rhythm, as long as her feet turned white. As long as she believed in the illusion of protection.

And then—she left the path. Stepped onto gray. Gone. As if I hadn't existed. And I was nothing. No grip. No voice. Not even a shadow. The asphalt was just asphalt again. I hate that. How they disappear. How I have to let them go once they stop dancing to my lines. How powerless I am once they're just people again.

But she comes back. They always come back. They have to cross after all.