Ten years later.
The cobblestone streets of Mist City's Old District had been repaved. Fresh stones filled the potholes, lighter in color than those around them, like brand-new patches sewn onto a dingy old garment.
The gas streetlamps at the corners had been replaced with electric lights. Wires had been strung in from the factories, weaving a dense net above the Old District.
The bakery owner was still there, but her son had taken over the business.
She herself sat in a chair behind the register, knitting with reading glasses on, occasionally looking up at the customers passing through the door.
The Old Bookstore was still there.
The paint on its wooden door had been redone, and the hinges had been replaced. They no longer gave off that long, drawn-out creak.
The wooden sign above the doorframe had also been replaced. Its lettering was neater now, with a simple ring of carved patterns around the edges.
But the three words "Old Bookstore" had not changed. They were exactly the same as they had been ten years ago.
A small clinic had been expanded beside the bookstore.
Calling it an expansion was not quite accurate. They had simply rented the long-vacant building next door, knocked through the wall between them, and renovated the interior.
The clinic's frontage was modest: a glass door, with a white sign bearing blue letters hanging outside. It read: "Noren Clinic."
Below it was a line of smaller text: "Specializing in Aberrant Trauma and Soul Damage."
At that moment, the clinic door was pushed open from within.
Eric stepped out.
He was a little taller than he had been ten years ago, his shoulders broader and his back held straight.
The youth had entirely faded from his face, replaced by the calm steadiness that came only from