It is a perfectly calm rainy day. A completely ordinary one which is precisely why it’s nice. Low clouds build up and then stretch to the horizon again. The daylight is dimmed. Now and then the wind strokes the tops of the trees, still summer green.
There's enough to do. The rhythm of the work fits into the noise of the rain and the sound of droplets against the window frame: the soft tapping on the keyboard, the click of a ballpoint pen, the rustle of a notebook page, a tiny chime in the work chat. But also, the gentle clink of a spoon on a saucer, the crunch of a cookie, the heavy footfall of an English Bulldog’s paws. But also, human thoughts, abstract, far and near, that are difficult to fit into any words; the essence of this life.
For many, many years he hears other people's thoughts as if they were an undying radio broadcast. Often they merge into the background noise, into a migraine aching just above the temples. Sometimes he listens to individual thoughts and focuses on them as if tuning to the right station. Sometimes everything else fades away to let a single mind with all its secrets step forward. It is never quiet.
A daily call is a chance to discuss the project and for him to refuse another intern candidate because he doesn’t want any change, because he’s tired of getting used to new people. Humans are already too elusive. And people like him, having lived a hundred, two, five hundred, a thousand years, cease to notice the transience of human lives, become callous as if they merge with the stone walls, of which they are the living soul, with the asphalt glistening under the rain, with urban metal and glass, with the bitter earth. He doesn't want to be callous or arrogant; he's already gone far enough to protect his people. But what had happened to him? What’s the use of his rarest talent? What good can it do now?—
The thought is lost when one of the analysts quietly asks, 'Mr Thameson, haven't you heard the news?'
What was a noisy rumble turns into a thundering swarm. Thousands of people are scared, confused, and upset. Among their thoughts and feelings, he unexpectedly does not find his own but aims with his mind somewhere further where there’s still life, and hope. Immediately he withdraws from the call, runs down the stairs to his coat, and doesn’t even try to make his dog wait for his return. They go to the airport together.
On the way there he gets a few calls. He declines McClyde’s, ignores O'Farset's texts, and is about to answer Eddie Aberlieth, but changes his mind. The bulldog pulls the leash…
As the time stretches out, it is no longer possible to negotiate with it. A millennium turns into eternity. In the middle of the crowd he finds himself literally paralyzed by an avalanche of thoughts that descend on him as soon as he steps into the airport hall. No, no, not now!.. The world around him is accelerated and vivid with life, but the silence and otherness of the afterlife pull him backwards. He must answer this call, his nature won’t allow him to resist…


...The Tower of London stands in an impenetrable fog. The towers of the fortress have buried their spires in the thick white foam above. The air is still and frozen. It feels that one can hear one’s heartbeat, but the feeling soon subsides. The sole thought holds onto the surface; the last piece that keeps afloat after a shipwreck.
There’s always fog. It never occurred to him to move through, to look beyond. Are there other fortresses? Other waters? Other peoples and worlds?.. Not like he’s supposed to go there anyway. He has business here.
The moat around the Tower is too wide, and the drawbridge is too long and narrow. The thick ink of the water steadily and slowly splashes against the stone wall. It seems mute at first, but the sound in fact comes with a long delay and merges with its own echo without trying to outvoice. The whole domain is waiting.
And finally, there are short but confident steps. The fog parts before the small figure but covers it with patches of a white cloud and thus distorts its outline completely. As she arrives at the Tower she is a human no more. There is a being of abstractness now who has been someone just a moment ago.
But he knows and remembers, he won't forget. He is the Tower, he is the bridge, he is the water, he is the fog, he is the pavement under her feet, he is everything.
Out of habit he reaches out with his mind to look for human thoughts but those are unsteady and gritty now. Then he decides to speak but his voice, now a broken, jumping thunderbolt of words, sounds out of place in the milky modesty of the fog. She looks around but doesn't notice him. "Here," he calls again, and she finally looks down. 'Gotta go.'
They cross the bridge for what seems to be an eternity. But when her voice ruins the silence, it’s proper. She's neither scared nor is she surprised. She’s in a good mood and even makes a joke. She hopes that eventually her family will be okay. She shares the latest news as if they were walking in the park again, as if this is not their last time…
In the opening of the gate they see the smooth masonry of the secondary fortress wall. They follow the path between the two walls and shortly face the courtyard. He suddenly stumbles and falls into the water but jumps out and gets to the nearest wall; he can’t swim at all. But she goes forward as if nothing happens. The courtyard is flooded, and the only island of dry pavement is in the centre, next to the fortress gate. She's heading there.
Someone is waiting for her on the bench surrounded by ravens. A dark silhouette bends gracefully, stretches out a pale palm and feeds the birds. The long hair falls in mesmerizing waves over the knees and onto the ground.
Then this being raises her head and looks directly at him. His heart, slow at first, gains pace at the very edge of hearing. Once he recognises the face he tries to reach out with his mind, with his whole body, with his fingertips at least. But instead of arms there are pitch black wings, instead of a voice a raven's cry. The water calls to him, and in its murmur he knows to reveal the words. 'She's gone… Let go of her thoughts...' is said to him. 'Let go...'
And he finally does.
His black wings lift him into the air. He soars higher and higher but peers down still, not able to blink or look away. There they are, two tiny figures, one embracing the other, they leave the bench and disappear behind the fortress door, and then the Tower itself becomes too small, and then disappears. Everything disappears in the fog.

He’s back, he comes around. The policemen hover near, someone has already called for a doctor. His dog, nervous and miserable, tries to climb onto his lap. He is leaning against a cold wall, but feels the cold of the river, the cold of the fog, that merciless cold of eternity. The thoughts of millions of people flow through him like a neverending stream. He holds no more onto the echo of that one mind, that once cherished voice, now gone. But he listens closely to the silence that remains instead.