Morning didn't bring light. It brought colorless air and the smell of iron. The kind of day where you don't notice the sun's missing until you check your watch. I'd left the window open overnight, and my coffee was cold before I poured it.
The newspaper on my desk looked like it was printed in gray instead of black. Headline read:
"CITY HEALTH CRISIS DEEPENS — SURGEONS REPORT 'ABSENT HEALING RESPONSE'."
I skimmed it. The words felt detached from meaning. Same as the photographs: doctors in masks, holding instruments that didn't shine anymore.
The phone rang. This time it wasn't static.
"Murphy."
"Detective, this is Dr. Keller, Mercy Hospital. Hannigan gave me your number. He said you're looking into the museum theft."
"That's right. What's your part in this?"
"I'm part of the team handling the new cases. I think you'll want to see something for yourself."
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and paper. Keller met me in the corridor — tall, dark-haired, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes like he hadn't slept since the last war.
He led me into a room where a man lay in bed, chest bandaged. The smell of iodine hung thick.
"This patient was in a car crash two nights ago," Keller said. "We closed the wound three times. Every time the sutures separate. It doesn't bleed much, it just… refuses to knit."
I looked closer. The skin wasn't torn or bruised — it was smooth, pale, like wax where the body had forgotten how to be flesh.
"Can't be infection?" I asked.
"No. Blood counts are normal. Cells won't divide."
He picked up a scalpel and made a shallow cut on a scrap of gauze. The fabric parted, but the edge didn't curl — it just stayed open, raw and flat.
"This started the same night your gem disappeared," Keller said. "We checked the records. Midnight. You see the connection?"
I stared at the wound. "I see coincidence."
He didn't answer. He just said, "Follow me."
We went up two floors to the maternity ward. He stopped by the viewing window. Inside, a nurse was holding a newborn, murmuring softly.
"Healthy delivery," Keller said. "But watch."
The nurse pinched the baby's foot for the standard reflex check. No cry. No reaction. Not pain — absence of it.
"The body doesn't recognize damage," Keller whispered. "It's as if the concept of recovery — of harm and mending — doesn't exist anymore."
The way he said it reminded me of the janitor's words: Looked like he was holding a star.
Back outside, the city was quieter than before. People spoke in half-whispers, like sound itself had gone thin.
A newspaper vendor said the reservoirs hadn't dropped because no water was leaving the system. The city was full of clouds that never burst and pipes that never emptied.
I walked toward the museum again, cigarette burning too fast in my hand. The place was locked up tighter than a tomb, but Hannigan was waiting by the back door, pale and sweating.
"You heard the news," he said. "Whatever was taken — it wasn't just the gem."
We went inside. The display room was sealed off, still marked with tape. The pedestal had been moved, and the marble underneath showed something new — faint lines, branching outward like veins or cracks, leading in every direction.
"What do you make of that?" I asked.
Hannigan rubbed his neck. "Engineers say it's settling cracks. I say it's spreading."
I crouched, traced one of the lines with my finger. It wasn't raised or carved. It was absence — like a pencil mark erased from stone.
When I stood, Hannigan was staring at the skylight. "Murphy," he said quietly, "you ever seen the light act strange?"
I looked up. The sunlight was filtering through, but it didn't scatter. It moved straight down, perfect as a column, no dust, no shimmer. The air around it looked still, as if time had thickened there.
Then, for one second, something crossed through that beam — a silhouette of a man in a long coat, no features, no face. He turned his head, and the column dimmed. When I blinked, he was gone.
We both stood silent. Hannigan said, "Tell me you saw that."
"I saw something."
That night, I filed my notes again. The words came slow.
> Observation: Physical matter responding abnormally.
Witness statements: Conceptual absence spreading.
Working theory: Not natural, not chemical. Something taken.
I shut the notebook, rubbed my eyes, and went to pour another drink. The bottle was empty — though I could've sworn it was half full in the morning.
The street outside was gray again. A faint hum filled the air, low and steady, like a far-off engine. Then I realized it wasn't outside. It was coming from the glass of water on my desk. The surface wasn't rippling — it was trembling in place, refusing to fall still.
I backed away, slow. When the hum stopped, the reflection in the glass didn't match mine anymore. It was delayed, like the night before. Then it smiled.
I smashed the glass before it could move again.
[Third-Person Cutaway]
Across the river, the power plant engineers gathered around the turbines. The dials read zero output, though the engines were still spinning. One of them leaned in and said, "We're losing energy, but not burning fuel."
"Where's it going?"
Nobody answered.
Back to me — Murphy, tired, shaking hands. I lit another cigarette and stared at the city through the blinds.
Every case has a pattern. You follow cause, you find motive, you find man. But this — this wasn't about money or revenge. It wasn't even theft in the ordinary sense. Someone was taking pieces of the world.
And if they could steal healing — what else could they take next?
I closed the notebook. The clock on the wall had stopped again. Only this time, I knew it wasn't broken.
End of Part II: The Wound That Wouldn't Close