Salt Crown

Chapter 3: The City Doesn’t Remember You

“Excuse me.”

I step aside as a man barrels past, not sparing a glance.

Another body brushes mine. No pause. No recognition.

I glance up at the mirrored wall of Virex HQ.

I’m not in it.

I tilt my head, searching for my reflection between the clouds and chrome. There—faint. Pale.

“Do you see me now?” I whisper to the glass.

The security guard behind the revolving door doesn’t flinch. He doesn't look.

“You all used to flinch,” I mutter. “Used to lower your voice when you said my name.”

A group of interns rush past, laughing. One nearly bumps me.

“Sorry,” she says, eyes already on her phone.

I turn away from the building, my voice flat. “This city forgets you if you’re quiet long enough.”

I walk.

Each step an echo swallowed by the pavement.

But I’m not gone.

Not yet.

The screen above Market and Sixth flickers. Bright red text bleeds across the image of a shining tower.

HALE = FRAUD

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. The world doesn’t.

A man beside me scoffs. “Took long enough. That whole family was dirty.”

Another voice joins in. “She was just a kid, right? Probably knew everything.”

I reach into my coat pocket and feel the edge of the ID.

Clara Rowe – neat font, government laminate, fake smile.

My grip tightens.

“She’s probably hiding somewhere, plastic surgery and all,” one of them laughs.

I take a breath.

“Do you ever wonder if the ghosts are still walking beside you?” I ask, not facing them.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I mutter. “Have a good day.”

I turn the corner, heart steady.

They’re watching shadows.

They don’t know I’m the one casting it.

“Ma’am? Free paper today.”

The boy grins, cheeks red from the cold.

I take it, nod once. “Thanks.”

The headline stares back: VIREX EXPANDS AGAIN.

Of course they do.

I crumple the edge in my palm and look up. The tower stretches into the fog like it doesn’t remember its foundations.

“Funny,” I whisper. “I used to think I’d run this place.”

The boy watches me. “You work there?”

I smile without showing teeth. “Not really.”

“But you’re dressed like the important ones.”

I glance down. “Costume.”

He squints. “You used to be one of them?”

“No.” I unfold the paper and gesture toward the headline. “I used to be all of them.”

He tilts his head, confused.

I pat his shoulder. “Never mind. Stay warm.”

I cross the street without looking back.

They built their kingdom on my name.

They just didn’t know I’d be back to collect.

The bus jerks forward. I steady myself, one hand on the rail, the other gripping the paper still folded in my coat.

Behind me, two voices chirp like sparrows.

“Did you hear?”

“Nate Rivers is back. Like, officially.”

“Ugh, I’d take overtime just to sit near him,” one says.

“He was the golden boy, right? The one who disappeared?”

I don’t turn. My grip on the pole tightens.

“He’s not even that old. He’s, what, thirty-three?”

“Still hot.”

Laughter.

My voice cuts through. “He was always good at disappearing.”

They fall silent.

“What?” the bolder one asks.

I shake my head. “Nothing. Just... old headlines.”

“Wait, do you know him?”

I glance over my shoulder. “Not anymore.”

The bus hisses at the next stop.

“Hey, what’s your name?” she calls as I step off.

I pause just long enough to say,

“Someone you already forgot.”

The doors close behind me.

“Name?” the barista asks, not looking up.

“Clara,” I say, voice flat.

He nods, scribbles, slides my card through the reader.

I move down the counter. The espresso machine hisses, drowning thought. My shoes stick slightly to the floor near the sugar station.

“Carla? I have a latte for Carla!”

I step forward. “It’s Clara,” I correct softly.

He doesn’t hear me.

I try again, louder. “It’s Clara.”

He shrugs. “Close enough.”

I take the cup. My fingers brush the ink. Letters smudge.

Across the room, no one looks up. Just screens, AirPods, flickering lights overhead.

I raise the cup. “Thanks,” I say—to no one in particular.

He’s already moved on to the next order.

I sit by the window, sip the coffee slowly, and whisper,

“You could’ve at least remembered the lie.”

The cup keeps steaming.

The name fades.

The bench is still here.

Same rusted bolts. Same flaked paint.

I lower myself onto the wood slowly, pressing my palm to the worn edge.

“I saved your seat,” I murmur, tracing the initials we never carved.

The wind cuts through the trees. I close my eyes.

Flashback:

“You always frown when you concentrate,” Nate teased.

I didn’t look up. “Then stop distracting me.”

He laughed, soft and shameless. “Light bends around you, Sunspot. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

Present.

I open my eyes.

“Yeah, well…” I lean back. “They stopped saying that after the headlines.”

I pause. “I was golden once. Before they covered me in ash.”

A cyclist rolls by. A child squeals across the lawn.

“You promised you'd come back,” I say. “And I believed you. Idiot.”

I exhale, stand.

The bench creaks in protest as I walk away.

Across the street, a line of black cars idles beside the Virex glass entrance.

I stop just before the crosswalk.

“Same schedule. Same show,” I murmur.

A suited man opens the door. Bianca Voss steps out first, laughter blooming from her lips like she owns the air.

Her heels hit pavement like a gavel.

“Miss Voss,” someone calls. “Quick quote?”

She waves them off with a perfect hand. “No time today. Schedule’s war.”

I watch her glide past the cameras, through the doors I used to belong behind.

“She walks like the city belongs to her,” I say.

A stranger beside me glances over. “What?”

“Nothing.”

I tug my scarf higher. “That used to be me.”

He keeps walking. No one stops.

No one ever does.

I cross the street.

Not to follow.

Just to remind the ground who still remembers it.

The floor smells like lemon polish and cheap toner.

I empty the last paper bin, tuck a misaligned binder into place. My fingers skim over the cracked plastic tab.

Behind me, footsteps click once—then pause.

“You missed a page,” he says.

A single sheet flutters to the floor between us. I don’t look up.

“Did I?” I pick it up, smooth the corner. “Terrible of me.”

He snorts. “No worries, Clara. Not everyone’s detail-oriented.”

I meet his eyes, slow and cool. “Apparently.”

He walks off without waiting for a reply, muttering something about coffee and compliance.

I slide the page into its file, lock the drawer, and breathe out.

“He thinks I’m no one,” I murmur to the cabinets. “Perfect.”

The copier whirs behind me. My smile doesn’t.

They built a hierarchy of forgetfulness.

I became its foundation.

I sit at my desk, screen dimmed, fingers hovering over glass.

The message box blinks.

Do you remember who I was?

Typed. Staring back at me.

“You probably don’t,” I whisper.

The cursor blinks again. Too slow. Too loud.

“You remember my voice, though. Don’t you?”

My thumb hovers over Send. Pauses.

“You always remembered the little things,” I say to the room. “How I hated the smell of vinegar. How I hummed when I read.”

I glance around. No one’s listening. That’s the point.

My voice drops. “You remembered my father’s favorite tie.”

Silence.

“But you forgot the girl who watched you leave.”

The message stays unsent. I backspace slowly—one word at a time.

Was. Who. I.

The screen goes dark.

“You don’t get to remember me when it’s convenient.”

And just like that, the message disappears—like I never typed it at all.

The screen freezes mid-refresh. Then flickers.

I tap the space bar. Nothing.

A sharp digital whine pulses.

The folder name blinks once. Then again.

“Rosalind Hale. File not found.”

“What?” I whisper, leaning in.

I try again. Search bar.

Rosalind Hale. Enter.

No records found.

“Try harder,” I mutter, fingers tense over the keys.

She was the founder’s wife. A board member. A human being.

“You erased her,” I say aloud, voice hollow. “You wiped her too?”

The server hisses. The cursor blinks, mocking.

“You buried my mother with a keystroke.”

I stand slowly, push the chair back without sound.

“You made her disappear—like me. Like we never existed.”

In the glow of the screen, I see my reflection. Cold. Angular.

“She remembered everything. And you still buried her name.”

I close the file window. Not out of defeat.

But because I already downloaded the backup last night.

“You tried to delete the wrong girl.”

The train slows. Lights flicker across the platform glass.

My reflection stares back—hair pulled tight, badge clipped low, lips neutral.

Two faces. One truth buried.

“Camille Hale,” I murmur.

She stares, defiant. Polished, bitter.

“Clara Rowe,” I try next.

Her face softens. Smaller. A survivor’s mask.

The metal rails squeal beneath us. A rush of air fills the station. My voice shakes.

“We can’t both make it out.”

The girl in the glass blinks.

“I built you to hide,” I whisper. “But I was never meant to stay hidden.”

She doesn’t answer.

Just me now. Always has been.

“You were the smoke,” I say quietly. “But I’m the fire.”

The train doors slide open.

I don’t step in.

I turn from the reflection, leaving one of us behind.

The mirrored wall of Virex’s lobby reflects the lobby lights like water—cold, endless, untouched.

A janitor drags the squeegee in lazy strokes across the surface.

I slow my pace, drawn in by something.

The cleaner moves on.

One smear remains, uneven.

My breath stills.

Beneath the streaked glass, just faint enough to feel like fate: HALE.

Written. Erased. Resurfaced.

I press my fingers to it. The print disappears under my touch.

“You forgot me,” I say, my voice barely more than breath.

My reflection stares back—older, sharper, flame behind the eyes.

“But I never forgot you.”

My throat tightens. “You buried us under glass. Let’s see what happens when it shatters.”

The janitor pauses, glancing over. “Ma’am?”

I step back. “It’s fine.”

It will be.

I walk through the lobby doors without looking back.

Let the building remember what it buried.