Claire
Claire Min hated mistakes. She hated surprises even more. She wasn't raised to accept either. Nothing happened without a reason and if it appeared to, someone simply hadn't looked close enough. Her parents believed every misunderstanding had two solutions: convince people they had drawn the wrong conclusion or convince them they remembered it wrong.
Claire closed the archive. The cover read: Year Three. She opened it again, but the entry remained unchanged.
Claire Min — participant.
For several seconds, she didn’t move. Across the table, the Puzzle Guild archivist continued sorting registration forms into neat, silent stacks. He was a heavyset man in crisp black dress pants, a white button-up tucked tightly at the waist, and a thick handlebar mustache that framed a mouth that had not moved once since Claire sat down. He had introduced himself when she arrived, but Claire had already forgotten his name.
“Excuse me,” she said, leaning forward.
He looked up as Claire turned the archive toward him and slowly tapped the line with her finger several times.
“Why is my name listed here?”
The archivist leaned forward, his eyes scanning the page as he twisted the gelled ends of his ‘stache.
“You participated in Year Three?”
“No...”
He paused, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head. He shifted his gaze side to side before settling on the entry a third time, as if repetition might make the mistake less visible. Claire painfully forced herself to not roll her eyes.
“The archive says you did.”
“I can see that.” Claire’s voice came out flatter than she intended.
The archivist straightened in his chair. “It may be a transcription error.”
“From what source?”
“I would have to check.”
“Then check.”
A small silence settled between them. The archivist glanced toward the closed office door, then back at the archive. Claire kept her finger pressed beneath her own name. She had not competed in Year Three. She remembered that clearly.
Claire Min hated interviews. People rarely lied outright. They omitted. Rearranged. They simply remembered the pieces in whatever way made it easier to wake up the next morning. When it came to looking into herself, Claire preferred to close her eyes.
Somehow, interviews had become a pivotal part of her “promotion.”
Officially, she gathered information. Unofficially, she gathered secrets. The distinction was smaller than most people realized. On the outside, she was respected, accomplished, and trusted. She had access to nearly every Level of Hiraeth. She could go wherever she pleased, ask whatever she wanted, and call it research. On the inside, Claire didn’t know what she wanted.
Claire had expected to find Grant’s name there. His proposal was in textbooks, policy summaries, Guild retrospectives, and anniversary broadcasts; the story had become less like history and more like scripture. His name appeared everywhere. She did not expect to find herself. Seeing her name in black and white made her skin crawl. Twirling the end of her thick black braid, she waited in silence. The archivist returned several minutes later with a second record pulled from the internal registration logs. He set it on the table without comment. Claire opened it and flipped through the pages.
Claire Min — participant.
District Affiliation: Stewardship.
Status: Registered.
“Is there another source?” She asked.
The archivist folded his hands in front of him. “Not for Year Three registration.”
Claire looked up. “So, if this record is wrong, every copy is wrong.”
He hesitated. “Uhh…yes…that would appear to be the case.”
“Does that happen often?”
“No.”
The answer came far too quickly. Claire closed the second archive.
“Flag the discrepancy.” The archivist reached for the file, but before he slid it off the counter, Claire slammed her hand on the cover.
“Actually, don’t.”
He stopped. “No?”
“Not yet.”
That made him uncomfortable. Good. That made two of them.
She packed her leather bag with reports she marked for follow up: New citizens to Hiraeth continued to report missing physical sensations during their first month. Yet ninety-eight percent reported they would choose Hiraeth again. They were doing something right. Or the external world was doing something very wrong.
Claire Min believed every problem had a solution. Usually, it was preparation. Sometimes, it was control. And when those failed... Well. Memory was surprisingly flexible.
Claire left the Level Seventy-Two Guild archive, and walked home through the Upper Levels as the sun set. A neon light flickered. Brow arched, she watched the sign struggle to ignite.
C and G flashed together twice. A and T pulsed on the third beat. Then U and A flickered in unison. Again. And again.
The sign buzzed and sputtered in the window of a closed boutique clothing store called The Catalogue. She watched the light flicker once more before continuing toward home.
Entering a glass elevator labeled “Prestige Level Seventy-Five and Higher,” she spotted children dancing together in a light drizzle, parents with umbrellas calling them to step out of the rain. She shook her head. People still had the propensity to warn against old wives’ tales. The rain was artificial. Sickness was rare. Why would so many people have voluntarily uploaded their consciousness permanently if suffering was required? Umbrellas were obsolete.
When she stepped out of the elevator, she was on Level One Hundred. The light rain had stopped. She passed the library and clusters of citizens lingering on the grounds in quiet conversation. The open sky was bathed in golden light that ricocheted off the waterfall spilling from the Level above. The city was alive in greens and golds; every vine followed its concrete support perfectly, every blossom turned toward the artificial sun.
Her parents’ home sat in the penthouse of one of the four towers. The ceiling was entirely glass, allowing sunshine and stars to brighten every corner of their space. Sometimes, it made Claire feel exposed.
“Claire, dear, is that you?” her mother called as Claire stepped through the entryway.
“It’s me, Mom.”
Claire kicked off her shoes, placing them in a neat row beside the two other pairs by the door. She passed photographs of her family and friends in the hallway picture frames. Claire avoided their stare. Every photograph insisted memory could be trusted.
As she turned the corner into the dining room, candlelight had begun taking over for the falling sun. Her mother stood near the window with one hand lifted toward a projection of Hiraeth She was barefoot with hair pinned loosely at the back of her neck, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She moved pieces of Hiraeth apart with two fingers before they snapped back in place. Its translucent rings of gold and blue glowed. Several districts blinked softly where she had marked them for review. A glass of wine sat within reach.
Without looking away from the projection, she asked, “Learn anything good today?”
Claire reached for the wine bottle before answering. She filled her mother's glass first, then her own. “Nothing that deserves to be discussed right now.”
That was not entirely true. Claire sat beside her and watched The City turn slowly above the table. It wasn’t because she didn’t want to talk about it. It was because she didn’t know how. She had incomplete thoughts jotted in the margins of her Puzzle Guild logs. Records that shifted. Reports that contradicted themselves. Patterns that appeared only when nobody else was looking. Today’s find wasn’t the first. But it was the most personal.
“Well,” Claire said after a moment, “there was something.”
Her mother separated two Upper Levels with a careful sweep of her hand. She didn't look up. “…Hm?”
“Apparently I competed in Year Three.”
Her mother stopped, only for a second, then she lowered her hand, looked up from behind a pair of sleek black glasses, and the model of Hiraeth stilled above the table.
“No, you didn’t.” Her mother turned then, fully, and sat down. “We watched that Competition together.” Claire looked at her and shrugged, her mouth pressed into a thin line.
“We were there during the final presentation. Your father said Cameron made people feel understood. He hated that.”
Claire remembered that. Her had father interrupted every few minutes to tell him he was wrong. Her mother had tried and failed to keep the peace. It was a spectacle. And it was watched by every citizen. Live.
“I remember,” Claire said void of emotion.
Her mother studied her face. “Where did you find this?”
“Level Seventy-Two Guild archive. Historical registration.”
“Did you check another source?”
“Yes, Mother.” Claire sighed.
Waiting for her to say more, her mother’s brows raised, and her eyes drifted back to the projection.
“It was there, too.” Her mother’s expression shifted into something Claire couldn’t quite read. Concern, maybe. Calculation. Then it was gone.
“Then it’s probably a clerical error copied across systems.”
Claire waited. For what, she wasn’t sure. Concern that lasted longer than a breath? Interest she didn’t have to earn? A question she could actually answer? Nothing came. Her mother lifted her hand again, and the projection completed another perfect rotation. Claire couldn't shake the feeling that something inside it was missing.
She leaned sideways and rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. She felt her mother's shoulder tense for a fleeting second before she relaxed. For a while, neither of them spoke. She half paid attention to the projection and tried not to think about Year Three. Tried not to think about her name printed in black ink where it should not have been.
A familiar sense of absence settled over her. As though something inside her had shifted just enough that she could feel the outline it had left behind.
Something had refused to go according to plan.
And for the first time in a very long time… Claire wasn't sure changing her perspective would be enough.
(Chapter 2 coming soon)
