Chicago Winter
Chicago winter didn’t play fair.
It was a killer.
The sky had been heavy since morning—those wide, gray clouds that just sit there, not moving, pressing down on the city like a lid.
Not a blanket.
A ceiling that made it hard to breathe.
It wasn’t really raining—it was more like the air itself was sweating.
That cold, damp nothingness that’s not quite rain and not quite snow.
The kind of in-between that slowly drives you crazy.
The streets were slick.
That raw, glassy wetness.
And winter had coated everything in a thin, salty film of ice.
Streetlights blurred in the moisture—shattered into fragments, like a memory you’re trying hard to forget.
The glow from the few shops still hanging on in the old neighborhood spilled its dying yellow across the crooked sidewalks.
And the people—bundled up in heavy coats, hats pulled down past their ears—they walked.
Fast steps.
Aimless steps.
Faces buried in collars, eyes fixed on the ground.
No hellos.
No eye contact.
Nothing.
On the main drag, cars were bumper to bumper.
Honks tore through the air every now and then—one short burst for impatience, one long one for warning, sometimes three in a row from pure desperation.
Right in the middle of it all, a sixteen-year-old kid was walking.
Lloyd Smith.
Short black hair peeking out from under his hood.
Big brown eyes with something anxious living deep in them—something that never really went away.
Plain black jacket.
Gray pants.
Ordinary sneakers.
Nothing about him would make you look twice—and that’s exactly how he wanted it.
Every step sent a sharp sting through his right knee.
He had a paralyzing fear of crowds.
A stutter.
And the memory of the ground being yanked out from under him.
But now, on a quieter side street, the crowd had thinned out.
Lloyd’s eyes dropped to a soggy piece of newspaper at his feet.
So old the date had faded.
But one headline was still readable:
“Ready for the Apocalypse?”
Lloyd walked right past it.
But the words followed him.
John Locks’ shop was buried deep in a narrow, old alley.
Fogged-up window.
On the glass, in faded black lettering: “John Locks — Rare Books & Comics.”
Lloyd let out a breath of cold air.
Pulled off his right glove.
Placed his bare, freezing hand on the metal doorknob.
He pulled.
The door creaked open.
A tiny, rusty bell announced his arrival with a weak ding-dong.
Inside, it was warm.
Not comfortable-warm—just the weak heat of electric space heaters.
But for Lloyd, almost-warm was heaven.
The place smelled like old paper, worn leather, and something that used to be new but now only existed in memory.
Dark wooden shelves bowed under the weight of books from floor to ceiling.
Comics, paperbacks, vintage magazines—all thrown together in beautiful chaos.
Like an antique shop where the owner had long given up on tidying up.
A warm yellow lamp lit only the counter area.
Behind it sat John.
An old man with neatly trimmed white hair.
Brown eyes behind thick, Coke-bottle glasses.
But when he saw Lloyd, he smiled like he’d been waiting all day just for this moment.
“Hey, Lloyd. Thought you’d skip out in this weather. Your comics are waiting.”
Lloyd tore his eyes away from a faded movie poster.
“H-Hey, Mr. John… thanks for letting me come… are they ready?”
John nodded.
He pulled four glossy comics from under the counter.
In this dim shop, they practically glowed.
“Th-Thanks… how much?”
John leaned back.
“Kid, you’re like a grandson to me. You’re on a separate tab. Take ’em and get out of here.”
Lloyd shook his head.
“No. I w-want to pay. Please.”
John sighed.
“You mention money one more time, and you’re cut off for months.”
Lloyd paused, then cracked a smile.
“Th-Thanks, Grandpa.”
John closed his eyes, a warm smile spreading across his face.
“Lloyd, you came alone again? Where are your bodyguards? I get that you want to see the world, but your dad Thomas won’t have it.”
Lloyd hugged the books to his chest.
“I… I d-don’t like crowds… but I want to be free.”
John studied him.
“Anyway. Heard any news? Nasty stuff.”
Lloyd raised an eyebrow.
“L-Like what?”
John paused.
Then lowered his voice.
“Hey Lloyd, heard anything about Madame Alice? The famous fortune-teller?”
“T-The one they said died?”
“Same one. The media said she died. Three weeks ago.” John took off his glasses, wiped the rim on his sleeve, and put them back on.
“But the rumor mill says otherwise. They say she died because of her last prediction. Something so terrifying it either killed her or drove her into hiding. Something about the end of the world. Everyone’s got a version. But they all agree on one thing—it was bad.”
Lloyd stared at the books.
Said nothing.
Then, quietly: “B-But my dad… one night in his study, I overheard him on the phone…”
A breath.
“He said Alice is alive. She just went underground because she was scared of that prediction… He told me not to tell anyone.”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
Like he couldn’t quite believe he’d said it out loud.
John froze.
His expression turned serious.
His glasses slid down again.
“Your dad’s right to be worried, kid. Thomas Smith isn’t just some tech CEO. Things that reach his ears… don’t reach most people’s. When someone like Alice—who’s never been wrong—gets so scared she has to disappear… well, Lloyd, I don’t know what it is. But I know we should all be scared.”
Lloyd said nothing.
Held the books tighter.
“I should go, Mr. John. Th-Thanks.”
John walked him to the door.
Put a hand on his shoulder.
Heavy.
Warm.
“Take care of yourself, Lloyd.”
Lloyd opened the door.
The bell jingled.
“I’ll be back next week, Mr. John.”
And he was gone.
Outside, the cold hit him like a slap.
Lloyd pulled up his hood.
Tucked the books under his jacket, against his chest.
His right knee started throbbing again.
The cobblestones were uneven.
Slippery with ice.
He took short, careful steps to keep from falling.
He moved away from the main street.
The alleys got darker and emptier.
The smell of cheap food drifted from tiny local restaurants.
Street vendors huddled behind second-hand fridges, their goods spread out on plastic sheets.
Lloyd reached the edge of a small market.
He stopped.
A tent.
Blue.
Worn.
The fabric was frayed, torn in places.
Loose ropes tied to metal poles.
Broken wooden crates scattered around.
On a piece of soaked cardboard tied to the tent with string, someone had scrawled in clumsy black marker:
“Want to know your future? Dare to come in?”
Lloyd glanced at his watch.
3:47.
He had time.
Just one look.
Carefully, he pushed aside the entrance flap and stepped inside.
Inside was small.
Dark.
Cold.
The only light came from a small lamp casting cold blue light, throwing strange, long shadows across the tent fabric.
The air smelled of old incense and damp dust.
In the center stood a small, scratched-up old table.
On it: a deck of worn playing cards with weird designs, a few yellowed pieces of paper, and a small, cloudy crystal ball.
Two plain wooden chairs on either side.
On one of them sat a woman.
Sofia Coppola.
Long, straight black hair falling like a curtain over her shoulders.
Flawless pale skin.
And eyes the color of something you couldn’t quite name—a mix of gold and dark brown, glinting in the blue light.
An unnatural gleam.
The kind that made you feel like there was something underneath you didn’t want to see.
When Lloyd walked in, she looked up.
She didn’t smile.
But there was something on her face—curiosity, maybe.
Or recognition.
Hard to tell.
“Hello, young man. Come to see the future?”
Lloyd got flustered.
He hugged the books tighter.
Opened his mouth.
The words got stuck.
Finally, they came out: “Y-Yes.”
Sofia tilted her head slightly.
Like she was sniffing something out.
“Social anxiety. It’s all over your body language. Always waiting for someone to say something you won’t know how to answer. Your last meal was pasta.”
Lloyd was stunned.
“H-How… how do you know?”
Sofia smiled.
A small one—neither warm nor cold.
A smile that said, more than anything: Figure it out yourself.
“Because my job is knowing what other people don’t. I’m a fortune-teller, Lloyd.”
Lloyd.
She said his name.
Without him ever introducing himself.
Lloyd’s hands started shaking.
He squeezed the books so hard the covers crackled.
Sofia gestured to the chair across from her.
“Sit down. Don’t worry. I’m just like everyone else.”
Lloyd pulled out the chair and sat.
His right knee shot a sharp pain under the table—but he didn’t flinch.
Sofia leaned forward.
The blue light lit up half her face; the other half disappeared into shadow.
Thin veins showed through her pale skin.
“So, dear, you want to know about the future? Or the past? Or maybe both?”
With effort, Lloyd said: “The future.”
“Give me your right hand.”
Lloyd put the books on the table and stretched out his right hand.
His fingers were trembling.
His nails were short and chewed.
Sofia looked.
She didn’t take it.
Just looked.
Open palm, tangled lines, an old scar on his index finger.
She closed her eyes.
Silence.
So quiet Lloyd could hear his own heartbeat.
And then—something else.
Another pulse.
Like a second heart, somewhere behind his own, had started beating.
Sofia opened her eyes.
She looked straight into Lloyd’s eyes.
There was a light in her golden irises that pushed back the blue glow of the tent.
Her eyes didn’t just reflect light anymore.
Her eyes were light.
“You walk between two mirrors, Lloyd Smith. In one, there’s a light this world has never seen—a warmth that heals wounds. But in the other…” A pause.
The light in her eyes dimmed, like a flame hit by wind.
“…there’s a shadow that will close all eyes forever. The path to both runs through your heart.”
A breath.
“But your past… all I see is grief. Just pain. And a deep loneliness. Things that had nothing to do with you, but made you who you are. Wounds you didn’t choose, but you carry them anyway.”
An involuntary tear welled up in Lloyd’s eye.
He pulled his hand back fast and wiped his cheek.
He wanted to respond, but the words wouldn’t come.
Not the stutter—worse.
Nothing.
There was nothing to say.
In a hoarse, broken voice, he said: “M-Ma’am, how much? I need to go.”
Sofia leaned back.
Her gaze drifted past Lloyd—into the darkness, into the tent fabric, into nowhere.
“No charge. From someone who’s going to serve the world that much in the future… why would I take money? Go, before your father gets worried.”
Lloyd picked up the books and stood.
His knee clicked.
“Th-Then I’m going. Goodbye.”
Sofia stayed seated.
Her hands rested on the table, palms up.
Like she was holding something—or letting something go.
“Go safely, Lloyd. And… be careful.”
Lloyd pushed the flap aside and hurried out.
Sofia murmured under her breath: “Who does that kid look more like? I think Liana… no, not really. Well, doesn’t matter.”
The air wasn’t raining.
Lloyd took a few steps, then stopped.
Breathing hard.
Hands shaking.
He held the books in his left hand and reached into his jacket pocket with his right.
Pulled out his phone.
Who was that woman?
How did she know my name?
How…
without even touching my hand…
He was about to dial.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
“Ah!”