Chapter 1: The Symphony of Silence
Right at 6:30 a.m., the slender second hand of the old tall clock in Arthur Penn's front room snapped neatly toward the top number twelve. Though dusty, its tick stayed sharp, each pulse cutting through morning silence like tiny drumbeats echoing off wooden walls painted decades ago with colors now faded by sun and time. Arthur woke up. No alarm needed, his body just knew the time from that old clock ticking out there. Up he got, kicking the covers down with a quiet swish. Cold air hit his skin and the place stayed exactly 19°C to keep the wooden clocks safe. He sucked in a slow breath. Air hung empty with no scent at all. Not even dust, just sterile stillness. Everything felt exactly right.
Arthur dangled his legs off the bed, sliding his feet into slippers, lined up just right beside the mattress edge. Up he rose, a lanky guy with high cheekbones, hair combed itself almost by habit. Heading toward the kitchen, each step barely made a sound across the wooden ground. The kettle clicked off. Then he tipped the hot water onto the tea and saw the deep haze spread through the cup. He stayed slow. Hurrying leads to errors. Spills happen when you push. Moving fast ruins what needs care. He glanced at his watch, old-school, from '54, ran on mechanics, had a leather band he treated with oil every week. It showed 6:45 AM. So far, so good.
Arthur had a job at The Grand Archivum. Most folks in town saw it as nothing more than a dull, windowless slab stuck right in the middle of downtown taking up twice the space it should. Government files ended up there. So did old company documents. Think of it like a graveyard for paperwork, reels of film, even dusty construction plans nobody remembered. To Arthur, this felt like heaven. He drank the last of his tea, rinsed the cup, wiped it fast so no drops would dry, then tucked it away in the shelf. Pulling on his light brown coat, he patted his pocket to make sure the soft white gloves were there. After that, he walked outside into the noisy rush.
The subway trip? That's what Arthur hated most every day. Close to the exit, he held his case tight - like a shield over his gut. Instead of standing tall, he hunched down, shrinking on purpose. Some teen blasted music right beside him, way too near. Meanwhile, a lady chewed a bagel, dropping bits by his feet. Arthur shut his eyes, picturing the constant click-click, back-and-forth of a clock's inner gears. Instead of thinking about anything else, he ran through the math of cogs turning inside his head, then suddenly, the train groaned to a stop where he needed to get off.
He rushed on foot through two blocks toward the Archivum. Right after scanning his ID, with the thick metal doors closing behind, city sounds dropped off completely. Silence. Thick - yet calm and quiet. Heavy but peaceful stillness. Beauty hidden in hush. The Grand Archivum's lobby glowed faintly, lit by weak security strips where specks floated like slow snow. Arthur let out a breath, tension slipping from his back. Safety had finally caught up with him.
"Morning, Arthur," said Mrs. Higgins low. She worked at the desk, older, always clicking knitting needles, talking like someone in a quiet room where noise wasn't allowed.
"Good morning, Mrs. Higgins," Arthur whispered back. "The humidity feels low today. Good for the parchment."
Forty-two percent," she said, giving a quick nod.
Arthur grinned. Maybe today'd turn out okay.
He rode the lift up to level four where they kept old stuff and fixed broken things. That's where he belonged. Shelf after shelf went deep into the shadows, filled with dusty files from the eighties plus legal papers dating back to the twenties. He headed to his desk, a bright, tidy spot among towering shelves. With slow care, he pulled on soft white gloves made of cotton. This morning's task? Fixing the worn spine of an old ship company logbook from 1912. Taking a seat, he grabbed fine-tipped tweezers, then got started.
Arthur sat still for three hours, only his hands worked. He wasn't aware of anything else. Outside just faded away. No conflicts, no government stuff, yet quiet moments took over. Instead of noise or duties, there was paste, paper, along with peace. After that, a sound hit his ears. A damp, gentle plop. Arthur stopped dead. Above a ripped piece of paper, his tweezers just hung there. Slowly, inch by inch, he shifted his gaze sideways. Walking through the archive's central path, there came a figure, more like a heap of clothes than someone alive. A oversized hoodie draped over them, way too large, colored like deep green lichen. Pulling the hood low, it hid everything except a small bit of a light-colored nose peeking out, along with tangled bits of black hair showing underneath.
It was Cleo Vance. She worked down in the basement, part of the team handling digital locks. Arthur had heard about her, yet they'd barely spoken. Down below, workers acted different, odd, almost. These folks handled servers, scanned old files into digital formats. He stayed close to paper records; she? She flipped history into ones and zeros. She moved slow, eyes stuck on the spot by the cooler. Then she halted, squatting low, yanked a tiny glass jar from her hoodie's pouch.
Arthur stared, confused. Could it be she was brushing stuff from the ground?
Cleo grabbed a tiny metal scraper, lifted some green gunk from the gap between tiles by the water cooler, then slipped it quietly into her container. Holding the jar toward the sunlight, she paused and Arthur immediately caught a flash of an eye under her hood. Not repulsed. Filled with quiet wonder. She closed the jar, gave it a light tap almost like soothing a tiny animal, then moved off toward the lift, her big shoes whispering across the floor with every step. Arthur shook. Down below, folks acted wild. Who'd ever go after mildew? Mildew meant trouble. It chewed up pages. Ruined old records. He snatched a cleaning cloth, rubbed the corner of his table hard imagining spores might've floated over. He looked at his watch, 11:59 a.m. Lunchtime. Instead of heading out, he'd sit at his desk with his usual sandwich, no crusts, filled with ham plus cheese. Same as every day. Always by himself. Yet when he went for his lunchbox, the intercom suddenly sparked on. The noise hit hard in the quiet space, Arthur almost flinched right out of his seat.
"Attention. Attention all staff," the voice of the Branch Manager, Mr. Henderson, boomed. "Mandatory meeting in the Main Hall in ten minutes. Attendance is required. I repeat, mandatory."
Arthur's gut tightened like ice. Every time there was a required gathering, things went sideways. Most likely, somebody dumped coffee near the main computer or worse, they'd tweak the medical benefits once more. He let out a breath, took off his gloves, then tucked them into the right drawer. Getting up, he mixed in with the quiet line of workers drifting out of the aisles, pale, silent, like shadows. The Main Hall stretched wide on the first level, bare most days. Today though, it was packing in all two hundred workers from the Grand Archivum. Over to the left, the repair crew gathered sticky fingers, old-book scent clinging to them. On the opposite side, the tech group huddled, skin dull, squinting under the bright ceiling glow.
Arthur picked a place by a post at the rear. The post suited him fine, sturdy, reliable. It had his back covered. Being close to it felt safe. He glanced around the room spotted that green hoodie once more. Over in the back corner stood Cleo Vance, almost glued to the wall. Earbuds plugged in, sure, but Arthur figured they weren't even on; she used 'em like a shield against chatter. Hands sunk low in her pockets, probably gripping that little jar of moldy dust.
Mr. Henderson stepped up to the tiny platform near the front. A big guy, his face flushed red, wearing a tie way too short by like two inches. Sweating heavily now, he seemed out of breath but super pumped. Excitement radiated off him as he stood there.
Good news, folks! Henderson shouted. His words bounced around the room. Arthur flinched, sharp and sudden. Noise hit hard. Way too much.
"As you know," Henderson continued, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, "The Grand Archivum has been looking to expand its operations. The world is going digital, and we need to keep up!"
A ripple of worry spread among the crew fixing things up. They hated that digital stuff because it sounded wrong to their ears.
Henderson smirked, "We've landed a fresh deal." He tapped a small gadget and down came the screen from above. A picture flashed on the display. A photo showed the sea. Waves, dark and rough, smashed into old metal posts. Right in the middle sat a huge, clumsy machine setup. Not an oil platform, yet packed with cargo boxes and round signal receivers on top. Smoke poured out of a chimney. Meanwhile, waves crashed onto the lower decks.
"Behold!" Henderson shouted. " The North Pacific Offshore Data Sanctuary!" The room fell completely quiet.
"Because of the cooling costs of servers," Henderson explained, oblivious to the horror on everyone's faces, "The company is moving a massive portion of our digital archives and physical overflow to this offshore rig. It uses the freezing ocean water for cooling! It's efficient! It's the future!"
Arthur looked at the screen rust caught his eye. Salt spray was next, showing up clear. Moisture followed, damp and faint. Sea breeze eats brass bits fast, Arthur figured, pulse ticking up. Dampness bends clockwood slow. Wild weather hits hard, rocking waves never quit.
"It is a harsh environment," Henderson admitted with a chuckle. "I won't lie. It's loud. The generators run twenty-four seven. The living quarters are cozy. Shared bunks. Communal showers. And, of course, no Internet access for personal use due to security protocols."
Arthur felt dizzy. Bunk beds, what about them? Showers shared by everyone? That didn't sit right. Noisy generators humming all night instead. It felt like torture. Not just bad pure nightmare.
"We need to send a vanguard team," Henderson said. "Two employees from this branch will be transferred to the Rig for a one-year tour. You will oversee the migration."
Arthur couldn't breathe. His journey lasted twelve months. That whole time, no home. No quiet rituals with tea. Stuck in a steel cabin, surrounded by damp bodies, far from shore.
"Now," Henderson said, looking down at a clipboard. "I know what you're thinking. Who gets the honor? Well, the company has a policy. We cannot send employees with heavy family obligations. It would be unethical to send parents with young children or people caring for sick relatives."
Henderson glanced up, his gaze moving across the people.
"So, the candidates will be selected from our pool of single, unattached employees. Those of you with no ties to the city."
The words stayed there, heavy as a falling weight. "Single. Unattached."
Arthur sensed everyone turning to stare. Those wearing rings let out a breath they'd been holding. Parents grabbed their phones, checking pictures of their kids, weirdly glad for the noise back home. Yet when it came to Arthur? Total loner. Just him at home. No partner around. Nope on pets, too much hassle. Family drama? None close by. He fit the role just right. Panic hit right in the gut. Going to that rig meant trouble, maybe worse. This wasn't fear talking. His head would give out. No schedule, dirty spaces, endless racket, a few weeks tops before it broke him. He glanced around the space, hoping someone else seemed just as scared as him. He looked over there toward the edge. Cleo Vance slumped against the wall, ending up hunched on the ground, hands pressed tight over her ears. Back and forth she swayed a little, barely noticeable. Arthur wasn't sure about Cleo, yet one thing was clear, mushrooms thrived on steady conditions. Not just any moisture level would do; it had to be precise. Light messed them up, so they grew best in complete blackness. Movement? That threw everything off. A shaking, noisy oil platform sat out at sea, rough and soaked in salt spray. Not just movement but constant jolts messed up the fungal webs stored in her glass containers.
Henderson pressed the button once more. On display appeared the rig's "Rec Room." Inside, just a compact space. A foosball setup sat in the middle. Alongside it, ten guys cracked up, no shirts on, gulping down cold drinks.
"We will announce the selected candidates in one week," Henderson said cheerfully. "If you have a valid exemption specifically, if you are married or engaged to be married soon, please submit your paperwork to HR immediately to be removed from the selection pool. Otherwise, pack your bags! Meeting adjourned."
The light inside shut down. The sound rushed back, chatter roaring up, while laughter spilled out from the married pairs, yet breaths eased at once. Arthur stayed still. Because he was frozen. His legs were heavy, almost lifeless.
Arthur glanced at his palm empty. A light patch marked where the glove rested every day. He spun around, then shuffled off like some sleepwalker drifting away. Air was what he craved. Quiet came next. He ended up heading into the little yard at the back of the place. A worn stretch of gray slab sat there, along with an old soda machine and some struggling plants. Most times, nobody was around. Arthur shoved the door wide, then moved outside. It felt damp like storms were coming. He wasn't alone. Cleo Vance kept talking under her breath. Arthur paused - shouldn't he just walk out? Maybe head back, start typing that quitting note. Except walking away wasn't an option. Jobs were hard to find; anywhere else would drive him nuts with noise. He moved ahead. But his foot dragged across the ground. Cleo's head jerked upright. Arthur finally got a clear look at her face. Under her eyes, dark shadows made her skin seem even paler. Like some hidden thing from beneath an old bridge, she appeared strange, yet her gaze was locked open filled with real fear.
She sat with a tiny glass case resting on her legs not the same one she had earlier. A delicate mushroom glowed inside, soft blue light fading in and out like breath. While before it'd been clear and empty, now this thing lived there, quiet but breathing somehow. It'll fade," she said softly. Her tone sounded rough like words had been locked up for ages.
Arthur blinked. she spoke first. That caught him off guard.
Pardon?" he asked, staying back by about ten feet.
Cleo looked down at the jar. "The vibrations. The salt. The Blue Mycena, it took me five years to grow this culture. It needs zero vibration. If I go to the rig, it dies." She glanced toward Arthur. "Uh… you're the one with the clock."
Arthur stiffened. "I am the Restoration Specialist. But yes, I collect horological instruments."
"The salt will eat your gears," Cleo said bluntly.
Arthur felt a phantom pain in his chest. "I know. The humidity variations will warp the mainsprings. My 1890 Vienna Regulator, it wouldn't last a week."
They looked at one another, two strangers with no shared past, yet both facing total ruin thanks to a metal box drifting somewhere in the vast Pacific.
"I can't go," Cleo said, her voice trembling. She pulled her hood tighter. "I can't be around people. In the barracks, they snore. They talk. I need the dark."
"I require a sterile environment," Arthur added, his voice rising slightly with anxiety. "I require tea at 8:00 AM, 12:00 PM, and 4:00 PM. I cannot share a bathroom. The bacteria and all"
"We have to stay," Cleo said.
"We have no choice," Arthur countered, adjusting his glasses. "We are single. We are the primary targets."
Cleo chewed on her lip. Her gaze dropped to her sneakers. After a pause, she glanced up at Arthur. It was like she was running numbers in her mind, breaking it down step by step, just how someone who writes code might think.
The exception," she whispered.
"The marriage exemption?" Arthur scoffed. "Yes. Helpful for those who have lives. Useless for us."
Cleo said, "Really?".
Arthur stopped. Then he turned to stare at her. "Huh? Not sure what you're saying."
Cleo got to her feet. Not as tall as he was, she only reached his shoulder. Her hands trembled inside her coat, face pale with fear, yet something fierce flickered in her gaze.
"They don't check," she said fast, the words tumbling out. "The company. They don't check if you're in love. They just check the paperwork. They just check if you're engaged."
Arthur's mind froze. Could it be…
"I don't want to go to Siberia," Cleo said, realizing she meant the Rig, but using the term as a metaphor for exile. "I want to stay in my basement with my mushrooms."
"I want to stay with my clocks," Arthur said.
"If we were engaged," Cleo whispered, looking around to make sure no one was listening. "We would be safe. For a year. Until the project is over."
Arthur stepped away. This thought made no sense at all. Everything felt messy. He knew it wasn't true. Someone else would get too close right into his zone. Yet a memory hit. His time at the Rig. Stale sweat hung thick in the air. Corrosion crept through his old timepieces. Constant clamor never let up. He glanced at Cleo. Not tidy at all. Kinda down in the dumps. Might've reeked of wet soil. Yet she stayed silent. She got why staying by herself mattered.
A kind of team-up," Arthur said quietly, trying it out.
"A cover story," Cleo corrected.
"We would have to pretend," Arthur said, his face heating up. "In public."
I can pretend," Cleo said, but she seemed ready to throw up. Still, I've gone through plenty of stuff on how people talk and behave. Arthur breathed in slowly. Then he checked his watch, 1:00 PM already. Lunch time had ended.
"I possess a similar determination to avoid the Offshore Rig," Arthur said formally. "However, this requires planning. Precision. We cannot simply say it. We must construct a narrative."
Cleo nodded vigorously. "I can write a script."
Arthur stared at the woman - she might as well have been nobody. Doing this felt totally off, like nothing he'd ever thought about before. His whole life ran on order, and this broke every single one. Yet the other option? The sea.
Arthur reached out. After a pause, he took out an extra set of light gloves from his coat and handed them over.
"Put these on," he said gently. "I don't like skin contact."
Cleo glanced at the gloves, then shifted her eyes to him. Her lips curled up just a bit, barely noticeable. With that, she grabbed the gloves, sliding them onto her light-colored fingers. She gave him a handshake.
Arthur Penn," he mentioned.
¹Cleo Vance," she said.
"It appears," Arthur said, his voice steadying, "that we are now engaged to be married."
"In 365 days," Cleo added. "Just long enough to save the mushrooms."
"And the clocks," Arthur said.
Above, the dull clouds split open, moments later, drops started drifting down. They stayed put, gripping palms in the wet hush, both shaky inside with a quiet deal now sealed between them. Arthur's mind snapped back into place. From this moment on, time started ticking. A full year until a marriage no one expected.