♡ TL: Khadija SK
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Theodore wanted to say that if she intended to do something dangerous, she should take him along, or better yet, not do it at all.
But his promise with Hazel sealed his lips.
“When will you be done?”
That was the most he was permitted to say.
“Three hours from now, at the park.”
“If you mean the park connected to Essent Street, that’s Westside Park, isn’t it?”
“Yes, connected to Essent Street by a small hill.”
“Do you mean you’ll cross the hill on foot?”
Hearing Theodore’s voice laced with concern, Hazel lifted her skirt and stomped her foot, clad in sturdy shoes, against the floor.
She exuded confidence, demonstrating she could walk as much as she pleased since they weren’t formal footwear.
Theodore wasn’t entirely reassured, but he didn’t try to stop her further.
The carriage finally halted.
Hazel cracked the window slightly, her gaze shifting between the road they’d come from and the one ahead.
From bright light to darkness.
A bitter taste rose in Hazel’s mouth as she observed the two streets, distinct as the two sides of a coin.
It was as if someone had drawn a clear line, declaring the start of Essent Street noble territory, with poverty beginning beyond it—so starkly different were they.
The buildings, the passersby, even the air felt different.
“I’ll go now.”
Hazel opened the carriage door. Theodore asked one last time:
“You really won’t tell me?”
Hazel left a smile in lieu of an answer and stepped out.
Theodore gazed quietly at the dress she’d left behind like a shed skin, then laughed in frustration.
Hazel’s unpredictability was what made her captivating—and what worried him.
But he had no intention of treating her like a bird caged.
The worry was his burden. So was easing it.
After deep thought, Theodore tapped the window linked to the driver.
“Go to Westside Park. Stop at the security post on the way.”
He couldn’t protect Hazel directly, but he could arrange for security to patrol Essent Street.
That was Theodore’s way of safeguarding a woman.
***
Hazel leapt from the carriage like a rabbit, her first act to survey her surroundings before darting swiftly into a darker alley.
Dirty water pooled in the street splashed onto her shoes and skirt, but she didn’t mind. Unlike the lavish gown, these clothes were of washable fabric, in a color that hid stains well.
She’d finally arrived. She’d soon meet a friend she’d corresponded with for so long.
Hazel’s heart, brimming with anticipation, pounded fiercely.
She stood near a wall plastered with torn posters, her eyes scanning Essent Street.
Essent Street was unlike the world Hazel knew.
Instead of violin strains or birdsong, there was the ceaseless clatter of machinery; from the chimneys rose not warm smoke but thick black plumes.
Narrow streets overflowed with haphazardly stacked, filthy baggage, and people wove through the gaps in droves. There was no trace of ease—only tense figures bearing loads on shoulders, backs, or heads.
Handcarts rattled, coarse curses filled the air.
While books exuded a pleasant scent, the printing street reeked.
Hazel gripped her bag tightly, taking in Essent Street—known to her from books—through her own eyes for the first time.
Not out of disgust or discomfort.
She simply needed to brace herself to pierce that crowd and reach her destination, that was all.
Tightening her hands around her leather bag as if steeling her resolve, Hazel stepped boldly into the throng, only to retreat the same distance and press against the wall. Wet posters clung to it, but she paid them no heed.
“Don’t block the way, move quick!”
“Why’re you dawdling? You gonna take the blame if the delivery’s late ‘cause of you? Tsk, *spit*!”
They treated her like an obstacle without her doing a thing, bumping her slight shoulders as they passed.
“Just a moment, I’ll get through!”
Hazel raised her hand and shouted, but no one listened.
[You have to do everything yourself. No one will help you.]
Recalling the contents of a letter her friend once sent, Hazel lifted the corner of her mouth.
“Hah, do they think I can’t?”
Though not in a contest, Hazel rubbed her palms together eagerly and thrust her arms forward.
Using her arms and hands like a spear, she waved them about.
“Move aside, I said move!”
Mimicking a gruff voice and shoving her arms through the crowd, she carved a gap just wide enough for her slim frame to slip through.
It was her first time visiting the street, but Hazel’s steps didn’t falter.
She wove through the masses like a slippery fish, walking for quite a while. Her carefully arranged hair spilled from under her hat, her neatly ironed clothes creased, but she didn’t care.
At last, Hazel reached her destination.
She looked up at an old sign hanging above an iron-barred door.
The letter “P” had partly worn away, resembling a “D.” That alone hinted at the printing house’s poor state. If the exterior was this bad, what must the interior be like? Still, Hazel wanted to enter.
She swallowed hard.
Unlike other places where machines hummed incessantly, no noise or vibrations emanated from the red-brick building.
Hazel knocked softly.
No response.
She cleared her throat awkwardly and knocked again, to the same result.
“You gotta kick it. Think they’ll hear inside with just a knock?”
An old woman passing behind Hazel grumbled.
She was right.
Amid Essent Street’s cacophony of noise, a knock was unlikely to carry clearly.
Even without machines running, distinguishing a knock from the mingled din—was it a tap or a baggage cart clattering?—was tough.
Hazel lifted her skirt and raised her foot. Then she kicked the door hard.
Her kicks were hesitant at first but grew bolder.
Finally, she struck so forcefully her ankle ached.
A response came from within at last.
“The factory door’s locked! It’s a holiday today!”
With an irritated shout, the door swung open abruptly. A man with curly brown hair, wearing a tilted cap, appeared, eyeing Hazel with one eye half-closed.
“What’s up? We’re not hiring.”
He spoke rudely without preamble. Hazel looked at him without a greeting.
Curly brown hair, pale skin, a scar on his right cheek.
Still the same as ever.
“Nick! It’s me, Hazel!”
Hazel grinned playfully.
Recognizing her belatedly, Nick’s mouth gaped as if he’d seen a ghost in broad daylight.
He only closed it when accumulated saliva nearly dripped.
Stammering, Nick asked:
“Ha-Hazel? The real Hazel?”
“Yes, Nick! Didn’t I tell you? I’d visit you.”
“Yeah, you did.”
Nick lowered his head and muttered:
“But that was a promise from two years ago. I thought you’d forgotten.”
“I always keep my promises. But, Nick, are you going to leave me standing here? Didn’t you say you’d give me a tour of the printing house?”
Hazel pointed inside with her finger.
“It’s a bit messy.”
“That’s fine. It’ll be better than this street.”
She gestured to the garbage piled like a mountain beside the road. Nick frowned.
“Sure, better than here.”
Nick quickly stepped aside.
“This way, Hazel. It’s dark inside, so watch the floor.”
He struck a match and lit a candle. The gas lamps on the walls and the electric bulb in the ceiling were only lit when the machines ran.
Once the candle flared, the hazy interior came into focus.
Hazel’s mouth fell open as she took in the vast desk stretching across the large space and machines she’d never seen before.
“There’s not much to show.”
That was Nick’s view as a printing house worker, but to Hazel, everything was astonishing.
Nick explained the newspaper printing process.
“When we get an article, we set the letters on the plate to prepare the page. We have to focus hard because spelling mistakes aren’t tolerated. Plenty of papers fuss over a single letter changing the meaning, and they’re right. After filling the cylindrical plate with letters, the machine spins and prints the paper. See that? When we load that black cylinder with ink, it flows through a long line.”
Hazel stood quietly, imagining the machine in action. Even with his incomplete explanation, picturing it wasn’t hard, thanks to the abundant visual materials.
“You said you operate the machines, right?”
“Yeah. I fix them when they break, load the ink, and make sure they don’t stop. That’s why my hands are a mess.”
Nick spoke casually, holding out his open hands. His trimmed nails were stained with ink underneath.
“Amazing. Handling a machine bigger than your body.”
Nick froze at her unexpected reaction. He coughed awkwardly and scratched his cheek.
“Wh-Wh-What makes you say that? You’re the amazing one. How do you write stuff like that anyway?”
Nick led Hazel further inside. A small room tucked under the inner stairs was his cozy retreat.
Honestly, Nick wasn’t thrilled about showing Hazel his cramped quarters.
But compared to the paper-strewn floor and pungent ink smell, his dusty room was the better option.
“Wait a sec!”
Just before opening the door, Nick suddenly stepped in front of Hazel to block her.
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