The voice arrived before the notification.
Not the written one.
The human one.
Marikka understood it by the way the street changed rhythm for no apparent reason. Not a crowding, not a flight. A selective slowdown. As if some people stopped walking not because they had to stop, but because they were waiting for something to happen.
She rested her hand on the nearest wall.
The stone vibrated irregularly, laden with micro-attentions. Not casual curiosity. Oriented anticipation.
Someone was talking about her.
Not with her name.
With another word.
Cedric and Aurelian had not returned. The corridor that had swallowed them still vibrated with registries, deadlines, assigned times. Marikka remained on the edge of the system, in the exact spot where information overlaps without yet choosing a form.
A woman approached her slowly.
She was not dressed ceremonially. No obvious symbols. Just a thin ribbon tied to her wrist, rough, worn fabric. Not a sign of official belonging. A personal reminder.
The woman did not speak immediately.
She stopped two steps away, waiting for Marikka to look up.
Then she did something wrong.
She placed two fingers on the back of her own hand, imitating Marikka's gesture.
A gesture that was not hers.
Marikka felt the vibration break.
Error.
The woman smiled, convinced she had done the right thing. "I didn't want to scare you."
Marikka took half a step back. The wall behind her responded with a dry, protective vibration.
She wrote in the notebook:
WHY.
The woman read carefully and nodded, as if that were the confirmation she was waiting for. "Because you have been... heard."
That word was wrong.
Not false. Imprecise.
Marikka felt Serian stir in the case, a restless tremor. The echo recognized the danger even before she defined it.
"Not by the registry," the woman continued, lowering her voice. "That comes later. We..."
She stopped. She searched for the right words.
"We listen first."
Marikka closed her eyes for an instant. Not to refuse. To filter. The street now vibrated with multiple points of attention. Not all close. Not all in agreement.
She wrote:
WHO ARE YOU.
The woman hesitated. Then replied: "Those who follow the Resonance."
Not a complete name. A concept.
"When something changes the rhythm of the world," she continued, "we feel it. Not like you." An uncertain smile. "In a... less precise way."
Marikka felt the friction rise. Not hostility. Appropriation.
The woman took a step forward. Too much.
"The registry wants to classify you," she said. "We want to recognize you."
Marikka shook her head. No.
She wrote:
YOU DO NOT KNOW ME.
The woman didn't seem offended. She seemed sorry. "No one knows what truly vibrates," she replied. "But we can protect it."
That word.
Protect.
The wall behind Marikka vibrated harder, as if reacting to an external pressure. Not physical. Narrative.
"The registry will use you as evidence," the woman continued. "As coherence. As acceptable deviation."
Marikka felt a cold shiver run down her arms. Not fear. Involuntary accuracy.
The woman lowered her voice. "We can offer you another reading."
A group had formed at a distance. Not a crowd. Three, four people. They weren't looking directly at Marikka. They were looking at the space around her, as if they feared that staring too much might break her.
Marikka wrote slowly:
AT WHAT PRICE.
The woman smiled, relieved. "None. Only presence."
Serian trembled fiercely. A painful tremor.
Marikka felt the lie not as a vibration, but as a void. A point where something should have responded and did not.
She wrote:
THAT IS A PRICE.
The woman lowered her gaze. "It is devotion."
The word landed badly.
Before Marikka could respond, the street reacted.
A sharp, orderly impulse crossed the stone beneath her feet. Not resonance. Procedure.
A figure in a light uniform stopped a short distance away. He wasn't looking at Marikka. He was looking at a rigid support in his hands, where lines and symbols flowed at a stable pace.
Registry.
The cult woman stiffened. The ribbon on her wrist vibrated, tense.
The agent looked up. "You are interfering with a procedure in progress."
The woman turned toward him. "We are offering counsel."
"Unauthorized," the agent replied. No anger. No curiosity. "Step away."
The group hesitated. Not out of fear. Out of internal conflict. Two readings of the world were overlapping without knowing how to resolve themselves.
Marikka felt the delay hit her again.
The agent's words had arrived before her gesture. Before her choice.
She wrote quickly:
DO NOT SPEAK FOR ME.
The agent did not react. The cult woman did.
"We are not doing that," she said, with sudden conviction. "We are responding."
Marikka pressed her hand against the wall hard enough to hurt herself. The sharp pain helped her isolate the vibrations.
She wrote, firmly:
I AM NOT A VOICE.
Silence.
Not the silence of the street. The one that arrives when a narrative cracks.
The agent consulted the support. "The presence of unauthorized third parties complicates verification."
The cult woman looked at Marikka for the last time. In her gaze there was no anger. There was disappointed faith.
"We will find you," she said. Not as a threat. As a promise.
They left.
The agent remained for another instant. He did not approach. "You are requested to remain available."
Not here.
Available.
Then he also left.
Marikka remained alone with the wall.
She felt two traces moving away in different directions, both convinced they had done the right thing. Two incompatible systems, both certain that she should be read.
She rested her forehead against the stone.
The vibration was tired.
The registry wanted coherence.
Faith wanted meaning.
Neither of them truly wanted to listen.
And Marikka understood that, from that moment on, every silence would be interpreted as an answer.