I counted the steps again. One. Two. Three. Her soles tore at the rubber like a sanctimonious 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 lies beneath their feet, yet she called 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 be forgiven for that. Just... soaked with doubt, like a dishcloth full of 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 wrong. I know better now. She walked slowly, as if she sensed she was being watched, and perhaps she was—for 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 considered me 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. Fatigue 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.