Stand-in

The records loft still smells of library paper. A brass lamp holds a yellow circle over open ledgers; the window beyond it shows neither city.

You are in the Spare. It has no name on it, no fate, no memories of its own. Across the desk, a dark coat and ink-stained cuffs. Maren Quill is not looking at you. Her grey eyes stay on the page, as if that problem were already spent.

“Stand-in,” she says, languid, ledger-first. “That’s the leftover. Slight stamina. Growth: zero. You carry other people’s loads. I can’t change it.”

The pen rests in the margin, not writing.

“I can give you one hitch. Unregistered. Once. Off my books.” A tired breath. “You name it. I don’t.”

She keeps her face toward the ink.