Lemon Concentrate

The wind clawed under Mark’s jacket, burrowing so persistently beneath his skin that it felt as though it meant to reach his lungs. He hid his cheeks behind a high collar and coughed. Every breath tearing at his chest like a heated dagger. He could no longer remember what it felt like to inhale freely.  Tuberculosis had long since become his shadow.  The street looked abandoned after the Christmas fair. Candy wrappers, paper cups, and faded strips of tinsel were trampled into the dirty snow. “Closed” signs hung on shop doors, framed by painted snowflakes. Only a few streetlamps cast a weary yellow light. A sudden gust nearly knocked him over. Mark caught himself on a cold metal post. The wind died… and the boy doubled over in a fit of coughing. Gasping, he hacked as though something inside him were breaking loose. A dark bead of blood trickled down his chin and fell onto the snow. Reluctantly he straightened: the pain in his chest had stepped back, ever so slightly. It was strange — wrong, even — but the relief was too sharp to ignore. The scent of lemon concentrate flickered through the air. Mark raised his head. A girl stood before him—wearing a yellow beret. Her hair was short and fair, with snowflakes clinging to it like to thin wires. Her face was porcelain-pale, her small upturned nose frozen in place. Her eyes were golden, attentive, measuring. But what mattered was behind her: a single wing, bare, its feathers falling away, streaked with gold that glimmered as though still flowing. She stepped closer, touched his nose with a hot, white, sharp fingertip, and then darted away. Golden feathers trailed behind her. The wind grew gentle, almost homely. Two moons lit the night as if the snow glowed from within. The cold stopped being an enemy. Mark drew a deep breath—and his chest answered with clean, unfamiliar peace. The grocery store that had been closed on Christmas Night now stood open. Mark walked inside. Silence pooled thickly. The Christmas trees in the corner seemed too dark; the toy elves, too watchful. A garland flickered in rhythm with the ceiling lamp, as if whispering. Mark glanced at the security monitor. His tired eyes slid sideways—into two glowing golden ones. She was standing behind him. He spun around—only a golden plume lay on the tiles. Mark lunged forward. The girl glided between the shelves, hardly touching the floor. Each step left a trail of golden shimmer. He chased her—and burst outside. The city had changed. Windows had become doorways opening into dense darkness. Rope bridges stretched between them, trembling in the wind. Some of the ropes led upward into the sky. Fog churned below, shadows moving within it, reaching. Mark ran after her along one of the bridges. He ran fast, effortlessly—faster than he had in months. No coughing, no pain, no tearing air in his chest. It was impossible, frightening. The girl stopped on the roof of a chapel. Mark caught up. She touched his nose again—briefly, warmly. “Sorry,” she whispered. “You’re not ready to go home yet.” She pushed him into the waiting arms of the thick fog. He woke in his own bed. The air was warm—and immediately seared his lungs. The pain returned hungrily, as if avenging the night he’d stolen from it. Mark swung his legs to the floor—and froze. Beside the bed stood a bucket filled with bright yellow lemons. They gleamed like little moons. From them rose that thick, unmistakable scent. The scent of lemon concentrate.