The Captive Muse
The streets of Numae, a sprawling utopia of golden skyscrapers and waterborne pathways, shimmered under the cool twilight of twin moons. Lanira stepped off the hovering tram, her burnt orange suit catching the aureate glow of the city’s reflective surfaces. The color was striking, yet sophisticated, blending subtly with the urban sprawl yet standing out enough to turn heads. Her blazer, perfectly tailored, hugged her frame, showcasing her athletic yet elegant silhouette. The black turtleneck beneath it added a sharp contrast, its neckline kissing the base of her jawline like a work of minimalist design. The large hoop earrings she wore gleamed coolly, moving with her as the city lights danced across her face.
Lanira’s face was a study in art and discipline, smooth cheekbones dusted with a subtle bronze hue, eyes framed by precise strokes of kohl, and lips the color of ripened plums. Her hairstyle—a sleek crown of tightly coiled braids secured into an elegant twist—spoke of both functionality and heritage, a nod to generations of Afran artistry. A long, delicate necklace with beads that glimmered like stardust poured down her turtleneck, resting lightly above her sternum. In one hand, she carried a camera made with magglass and obsidian—a model few could afford, but Lanira wasn’t just anyone. She walked with the confident urgency of someone deeply immersed in her craft, an artist chasing perfection, yet never hurried.
The city around her pulsed as if alive. Warm orange streetlights reflected in the obsidian pools of water separating smoothly paved sidewalks. Blurred figures of pedestrians drifted by, their holographic wrist displays casting faint glows like constellations onto the dark grey streets. Above, hovercrafts skimmed silently through traffic lanes in the sky. In the distance, a soft hum signaled a symphonic festival, one of a thousand open-air events scattered across district platforms. For Lanira, the night bristled with opportunity, each corner of this vivid hive offering a new vignette to capture.
As she pressed through the crowd, the camera clasped loosely in her right hand, she felt the familiar rhythm of anticipation rise in her. Tonight was special. Tonight, she wasn’t just documenting the moment—she was part of it. Lanira had been commissioned to immortalize the unveiling of Archaia, an urban exhibit that fused simulated environments with ancient art, projecting lost cultures into hyper-immersive dioramas. It was a task of immense importance to her, personally and professionally. For years, she’d sought ways to align her art with her heritage, to show those around her that history didn’t have to remain buried under the foundations of the new. That it could breathe again.
An Unexpected Detour
Turning a corner, her camera swung gently from her fingertips. The scene ahead stopped her mid-stride. An alley, framed by the reflective walls of towering buildings, glowed faintly in a way that didn’t align with the city’s usual illumination. She hesitated. The light wasn’t from standard halogens or holo-projections. It seemed organic, almost ethereal—as if stolen from the ancient skies of another world.
Lanira glanced at the timepiece embedded within her earrings. She couldn’t tell what nudged her forward—the curiosity to capture this anomaly or a deeper, unnameable instinct. But her feet moved before her mind could catch up, and the orange fabric of her suit swayed behind her like a comet’s tail.
The source of the glow became clearer as she ventured inward. With every step, the buzz of the city faded. The alley opened into a hidden courtyard. There, lit by bioluminescent plants that curled toward the stars, stood what looked like a sculpture—though it was far more than that. It was a figure, sitting cross-legged on a pedestal of translucent stone. Its form shimmered, as if carved from molten light. The features were strikingly human but imbued with an otherworldly beauty. Looking closer, Lanira realized it was an amalgamation of faces, expressions, and even cultures—as if the artist had tried to merge every human lineage into one transcendent being. It seemed to stare right at her, even though its eyes were closed.
Lanira stepped forward, her pulse quickening. She lifted her camera, her movements reverent. This wasn’t part of the Archaia exhibit—this was something different. Something forgotten, or perhaps hidden intentionally. Her lens snapped and clicked softly, preserving fragments of what felt like a deeply sacred moment. As her focus adjusted, she noticed faint inscriptions on the pedestal, too worn to read fully. But one word stood out: “Remember.”
The Silent Stranger
“What do you see?” a voice rasped behind her.
Lanira spun, startled, clutching her camera protectively against her chest. A figure stood cloaked in shadows at the edge of the courtyard, the hood of a long, dark tunic obscuring their face. It wasn’t unusual to encounter eccentrics in Numae, but something about this person felt different—imposing yet familiar.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice steady despite her racing heart.
The stranger stepped closer, the faint light catching the edges of their angular jaw. “A custodian,” they replied. “Of the old world.”
Lanira frowned, glancing back at the sculpture. “This… it doesn’t feel like something from today. Did you create it?”
The figure shook their head, their hood rustling faintly. “It was here long before the city. Long before the rivers were paved into channels. And it will outlast you, me, and every horizon these streets aspire to touch.” They paused. “But you’re the first one who’s noticed in years.”
Lanira tightened her grip on the magglass camera, her fingers brushing the smooth beads of her necklace. “Why show me this now?”
The stranger tilted their head. “You’re not like the others. You move through this city differently, see it differently. Someone needed to remember.” Their voice dropped, almost a whisper. “And someone always does.”
A Moment Eternalized
By the time Lanira turned back to respond, the figure was gone, leaving only the faint echo of bioluminescence fading into the surrounding walls. She glanced at the sculpture again and took one final picture with her camera, ensuring the details were captured perfectly. For reasons she couldn’t explain, tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.
When she finally returned to the tram station, her burnt orange suit setting her apart from the sea of passengers, the world felt heavier, fuller—like she had bridged a gap between the ghosts of yesterday and the city of tomorrow. As the tram glided away, she looked once more at her camera’s display. The image stared back at her: light, shadows, and a reminder etched into stone, refusing to fade.
Genre: Historical Fiction (Diverse Period Setting – Future Utopian City)
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Burnt Orange Power Suit with Black Turtleneck: Bold Business-Chic Style for Fall and Winter Urban Elegance
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