Chapter 2. Spindle (Part 2)

Bastovar was not a city that welcomed you

It swallowed you.

From the moment they stepped off the bus, the air pressed in — thick with the reek of fried food, engine exhaust, and the sweet-sour tang of cheap alcohol poured onto sticky floors. The streets glistened even when it hadn’t rained, as if some invisible tide rolled through every night, leaving a film of grease and cigarette ash.

Her mother led her through the district without slowing. Neon lights burned in jagged colors, reflecting off wet cobblestones — red, pink, electric blue — buzzing and flickering as if they could go out at any second. Shopfronts wore names in languages Zoya only half-recognized, each window crowded with mannequins dressed in lingerie or suits too shiny to be real.

The further they walked, the narrower the streets became, until the buildings leaned toward each other, hemming in the sky. At last, they turned into a courtyard ringed by four crumbling barracks. Each building was a tired block of concrete with rows of doors and tiny balconies sagging under rust. The smell here was stronger — sweat, mildew, the ghost of old cooking oil.

They moved into Barrack No. 75. The number hung crooked on the door, half the paint flaked away. Inside, the space was one room, a bathroom just big enough to turn around in. The sink in the corner dripped into a basin already stained brown. The wallpaper peeled like old skin, revealing cement underneath.

Her mother didn’t bother unpacking much. A few clothes. A jar of instant coffee. Two plates. The rest of the suitcase stayed closed.

That night, she brought home her first customer in Bastovar.

Zoya learned quickly that her part in these nights was simple: disappear.

A week after they moved in, her mother handed her the oversized headphones. The plastic was cracked along one ear cup, the foam fraying.

“Wear these in the closet if I have company. Never come out. Don’t let them see you. I don't want them eyeing on you.”

The closet was barely wide enough for her to sit cross-legged. Its single shelf was stacked with folded clothes that smelled faintly of perfume and damp air. Coats hung on wire hangers above, their hems brushing the top of her head. In summer, the heat inside swelled until her shirt clung to her back. In winter, the air grew cold enough to make her breath fog.

She developed small rituals. Closing the door gently so the latch didn’t click too loud. Curling up against the wall with her knees drawn to her chest. Counting the steps her mother took between the front door and the bed. Memorizing the rhythm of voices, the rise and fall, the moments of silence that made her grip the headphones tighter.

Sometimes she played with the old phone her mother had given her — its screen scratched, the battery barely holding charge. She played Snake in the dim glow, the soft click of the keypad the only sound she allowed herself to make. The light felt like a small shield against the dark.

She lost track of how many nights she spent in that closet. Time blurred into the smell of coats, the faint hum of the refrigerator, and the steady thump of bass from the bars outside.

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