Garrett, upon his return to the City, took to the streets like a raven to a storm.

It had been a long time since he had seen the City… Too long perhaps. The streets were exactly as he recalled, grim and desolate, devoid of hope, full of life yet somehow, somehow, the streets were painfully foreign in their familiarity.

The cobble lining the streets was just as dirty as it had always been, the stones dulled by countless years of walking, uneven from sloppy construction, but, with age came wisdom, and everyone who walked the streets would eventually find their own rhythms, their own dance along the stone walkways.

Garrett knew his rhythm well, knew which stones were his, from years spent wandering the alleys as a urchin, to nights spent silently skulking along quiet deserted roads, avoiding stray eyes and lit windows. Garrett knew his rhythm well, he could dance his way from Cincerfall all the way to the docs in a single moonless night… Despite the sureness of his steps, despite the echoes of familiarity he faced at every turn, every corner, every home, street… Garrett would find himself stumbling along what he recalled to be well-worn paths.

The stones themselves had shifted in his absence, cracked or dislogned from where they had sat for centuries.

Of course, the very foundation of the city wasn't the only thing to change while Garrett was gone. Structures that had stood for generations, weathering storms, riots, famines and winters stood blackened in ruin, scorched from fires long extinguished, dark sludge, ash, blood and refuse caked between every stone, pressed deep into the crevices by fleeing women and children while the fires still raged, cementing the reeking stench of iron and death into the foundation of the city itself…

The city had become a mockery of a masterpiece, as though an apprentice had dared to try and copy his teacher's work, pristine in his rendition but not quite right, never quite right. An unkempt brushstroke here, the wrong hue there, familiar enough that, at a glance, all appeared well. But dare to pause and consider the work properly, and the canvas unraveled at the seams.

And Garrett had no choice but to contemplate every brushstroke, every colour, every detail and mistake and every little imperfection.

The only thing between his memory and the new city to remain exactly, inexplicably though unsurprisingly unchanged were the dead lining the streets, sprawled messily, some intact, many, many not… Garrett could not bring himself to examine each and every corpse he stumbled across, for fear of recognizing the dead.

Besides the abandoned dead, the only other thing that remained unchanged was the clocktower… Their, his and Erin's…

He prayed as he approached the looming spire that maybe, just, maybe… Erin had managed to escape. That she had either awoken before the Queens Beggars had managed to find him, or she had escaped whatever prison the Baron had constructed for her.

Garrett viciously shoved the clawing 'what if' and 'why' thoughts begging for his attention to the back of his mind.

What if Erin hadn't escaped? What if Erin had been buried in all that rubble worse than he had been? What if she was still buried?

If Erin had escaped, why hadn't she come home? Why hadn't she helped him? Why her? Why not him?

Garrett couldn't afford spiraling, and if the only thing keeping him from drowning in all those cold thoughts was hope, then, no matter how bleak, how dire things seemed, Garrett was determined to cling onto that little shred of hope. At the very least, he assured himself, his hopes weren't completely farfetched.

The Erin Garrett remembered was quick and clever, he had seen her get herself into difficult, seemingly impossible situations before and likewise, Garrett had seen Erin claw her way, tooth and nail, out, not always unscathed, but out all the same.

Garrett had every ounce of faith that Erin was more than capable of taking care of herself, no matter what she was facing, Erin would face it headstrong. Erin was a fighter. Erin would be ok. Erin had to be ok.

That line of thinking carried Garrett all the way to the base of the Clocktower, of their home away from home.

A looming spire of stone, metal and wood, which had stood strong since its reconstruction nearly ten lifetimes ago. The interior was hollow and gutted from those desperate and clever enough to try their hands at turning over rusted metal and ancient outdated equipment for a quick coin. The spiral staircase crawling along the interior had broken ages before, leaving the highest point, the clock face and all of her gears and circuits untouched.

It was the perfect home for thieves and Garrett considered himself quite lucky to have been the first to think of trying to scale the exterior.

They had settled in well, scrubbing the floor, banisters, rafters and anywhere the city crows and pigeons had made themselves comfortable. They hauled up bits and pieces of furniture to reconstruct into tables and chairs. They went on a frivolous stealing spree where they nicked as many blankets and pillows as they could carry, all to make the clocktower just a little more homey…

And it was… Home that is…

The one place Garrett was sure Erin would return to. For safety, for comfort. The clocktower was a place they had built together, a place where Erin knew she would always be welcomed… A place Garrett hoped she would hunker down until help arrived…

That hope began to dwindle as he scaled the clocktower, setting his hands into the same holds he always had, fingers coming away blackened and greasy with soot from wafting smoke, undisturbed before his arrival.

When Garrett finally slipped into the interior of the spire, onto the upper portion of that old staircase he likewise found his prayers unanswered…

A thick layer of dust had settled over the steps, disturbed only by curious crows and the infrequent gales of bitter wind which had managed to slip their way into the heart of the clocktower.

The clocktower which sat just as he had left it the night of the fated heist…

Not a single treasure was touched.

Not a single spec of dust out of place…

Nothing changed…

Erin wasn't there… She had never been there...

Garrett's knees hit the floor with a deafeningly soft thud. And there he remained for a long time, staring blankly around the room, seeing everything and yet, comprehending nothing. Garrett could see shadows dancing across his vision, twisting into familiar silhouettes, himself and Erin, from days long past, where they would cook and eat together, seated around the cold dead hearth, warming their hands against the warm glow of the absent fire.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, something fluttered. A real shape, solid, not some specter of better days.

Garrett turned sharply, hand already reaching for the blade tucked into his sleeve only to be stopped in his tracks by a surprised laugh tumbling from between his teeth.

Guinevere was a familiar presence at the clocktower, a little magpie with a nasty temper and sharp little beak that she so loved to stab into the fingers and thumb of her knave, or, at least, that is how Erin always described the bird's relationship with their Fence. Garrett honestly had no idea what Basso did to earn himself a place on Guinevere's shit list, she was easily the sweetest bird Garrett had ever had the pleasure of meeting.

Worryingly however… Was the apparent frequency Guinevere had been dispatched to the clocktower.

Typically, if Basso had a job for his thieves, he'd send out a missive, with either the job description or a meeting time to talk. If the sizable pile of matchboxes and rolls of paper were anything to go by… Basso had been trying, and failing to get in touch since Garrett went to ground…

With pursed lips, Garrett whistled to Guinevere and with a flutter of her wings from the windowsill she floated to his shoulder, cooing to him sweetly as she offered him her precious cargo.

The missive was short and heavy handed, a simple; "Are you dead?"

Something between a chuckle and a sob bubbled up from Garrett's chest as he rose from his place on the floor, Guinevere remained perched on his shoulder as he moved through the clocktower like a longtime absent friend.

Unlike the rest of the city, the clocktower had remained faithfully unchanged and to the tune of the still whirring gears and the ever-present tick, tick, tock of the clock, Garrett danced, silent and perfect, to his study, a glorified section of wall where he had strung up a sheet to create a makeshift cork board, below sat a desk, completed with drawers and little organizers to hold papers and such.

Garrett reached for a stick of charcoal, bound by twine and leather. Basso had only written on the outside of the matchbox, Basso only ever wrote his missives on the outside of his matchboxes, leaving the interior for responses.

Guinevere let out a excited trill as she watched the thief slide open the matchbox, scrawling a delicate little "Not Yet" within before slipping the small box closed.

"You know what to do don't you?" Garrett hummed as he offered the matchbox to the bird on his shoulder. Guinevere chirped at him, giving the thief's finger a small painless nip as if insulted by the question.

"Of course you do, clever girl." Garrett assured the bird gently as he brought her to the windowsill again. Guinevere gripped the missive in her claws and without further fanfare, was gone. Garrett watched the magpie until he lost sight of her through the rolling smog blanketing the city. Only when Guinevere was out of sight did he turn back to the matter at hand

Dismayed as he was by Erin's absence, there was some relief to finding the clocktower in such a state. At the very least, Garrett knew his old home had been undisturbed, that it was still safe and hidden. It only made sense for the thief to re-establish his base in familiar territory.

That very night, Garrett spent his time familiarizing himself with his old haunt, recounting the gluttonous stash of supplies he had collected over the years. He had left the Haven wearing little more than a stitched together mismatch of his old thief attire and the darkest cloak he could find within the Haven, needless to say, Garrett had never been more thankful for his habit of collecting 'just in case' equipment.

Garrett drowned out his anxieties by busying himself with reconstructing new garments, lacing gloves, boots, corset. Fashioning himself new armor, re-stringing his bow, and every other piece of equipment he could need.

For a while, it worked. Garrett could feel the tension draining from his shoulders as he thread and stitched together bits and pieces of leather and cloth until finally, the events of the day caught up to him.

When, and only when Garrett found himself beginning to nod off to the point where accidentally buried the stiff needle he had been using into his finger, deep enough to draw a hiss from his lips and blood from his finger, did Garrett finally set aside his work.

A long stretch, a flex of his fingers and Garrett rose to his feet, taking his time to round the belfry before finally coming to his final destination. The bedroom was little more than an elevated section of the interior, a halfway point between the designated entrance area and the lovingly dubbed 'collection', obscured from sight by the many cogs and gears of the clocktower, allowing the thieves an ideal vantage point over the clocktower without sacrificing the security of remaining hidden.

The bed itself consisted of a makeshift wooden frame, made of bits and pieces of a dismantled staircase, filled to the brim with more blankets than any two people would ever need. In that moment however, the bed looked too big, too cold for any singular person.

Without thinking, Garrett turned on his heels, back towards storage where he proceeded to dig out every blanket and pillow he and Erin had ever found, taken, collected or stolen. Dropping the armful onto the floor beside the bed, Garrett began crafting himself a mighty pillow fort, leaning pillows against the wall, draping blankets over and under and everywhichway until he made himself a perfect little hollow…

There was hardly enough room within for just himself, but Garrett knew damn well that had Erin been there with him, they would have no issue fitting the two of them.

But Erin wasn't there… So, alone, Garrett found himself curling up around a stray pillow, tucking it beneath his chin as he strived to make himself as small as possible.

In that small quiet fortress, hidden away from the rest of the city, beneath a small mountain of pillows and blankets and comfort and warmth, Garrett stole a single, silent, shuddering breath, staring out at the shining blue wall of his self constructed catacomb, feeling the world fall out beneath him the moment he closed his eyes.

"Quite an unorthodox shrine you've made for me, thief mine."