Though many wouldn't admit it—the residents of the royal capital, Bel Diran, for instance—Nolan City was undeniably one of the continent's most prosperous and densely populated urban centers.
Monday mornings here were always a cacophony of noise. It seed a universal truth, regardless of the era: the first day back after a holiday was always t with a profound sense of lethargy.
Mr. Goodman was no exception. When the machine works he managed went bankrupt, he'd been forced to scour the newspapers for a new position. But as a manager with a wealth of experience, it wasn't long before he secured a new source of inco.
His new position was with the renowned Cookes Textile Company of Nolan City, a true multinational enterprise whose products could be found across the three great kingdoms. From a princess worrying over a mathematician's fate to the mathematician herself, everyone ca into contact with their goods.
Its headquarters were located right here in Nolan, and if not for a friend from his youth serving as the personnel manager, Mr. Goodman might never have gotten the opportunity.
He stood in the foyer of his ho, watching his wife rise on her tiptoes to adjust his collar.
"I might be ho late tonight," he ntioned. "Winter's just around the corner, and things are about to get busy at work."
"That's alright, dear. Just be careful on your way."
The woman rose on her toes again to kiss his cheek, then took off her apron and opened the front door. Heedless of the cold air, she followed him out into the yard in her cotton slippers.
"Things certainly have been unsettled lately," she remarked. "This morning's paper had an urgent story about the gas and steam pipes exploding last night. It's hard to tell what caused what."
Mr. Goodman was dressed in a brown wool suit, a black briefcase in his right hand and a pair of brightly polished leather shoes on his feet. Of course, without thick cotton socks, his toes would never have withstood such a chill.
"That hardly matters," he grumbled. "Those damned bloodsuckers charge us a fortune for steam and gas every month, and they won't take a single copper less. And now the pipes have exploded. Heh. Are the folks at City Hall just using our gold pounds for skipping stones?"
As a homaker, Mrs. Goodman was particularly attuned to such dostic concerns.
"Since when does City Hall care about ordinary taxpayers like us?"
At this, the middle-aged gentleman couldn't resist adding his own complaint, but he quickly straightened up. In truth, it was the biting morning wind that forced him to close his mouth.
After all, an explosion on the other side of the city was still a world away from their own lives. As long as it wasn't a deliberate act of sabotage and the culprit wasn't their next-door neighbor, they felt no real sense of dread.
"Speaking of which."
As they walked and talked, Mrs. Goodman glanced toward their neighbor's house—the ho of the unmarried Mr. Williams.
"What is it that Mr. Williams does, exactly? He leaves for work every day, but he seems to have a much more relaxed schedule than you do."
"He's an apprentice at an antique shop."
Mr. Goodman replied.
"Then how can he afford to live *here*...?"
Seeing the incredulous look on his wife's face, her husband gave her a gentle tug on the arm and whispered,
"Don't say such things. Rember that party last week, for my new job? My boss—that portly, miserly fellow—ntioned sothing about him."
He whispered the rumor he'd heard into his wife's ear, and the look of disbelief on her face deepened.
"Don't go telling anyone else."
The man cautioned, holding up a hand, though a smug look crept onto his face. He was clearly pleased to know a secret his wife didn't. "Mr. Williams may be on the younger side and look it, but he's a true gentleman. A real noble. It's best we don't go gossiping about high-society affairs. You never know what kind of trouble it could bring..."
He fell silent and tipped his hat to another neighbor from down the street, the widow Mrs. Margaret.
The woman looked a bit unwell, but she stopped to exchange a few words with the couple. After she continued on her way, a middle-aged man with a briefcase passed by Mrs. Margaret's house. He was a stranger to them; likely just taking a shortcut to work.
This train of thought led Mr. Goodman to ponder his own future. His previous company had gone under, and here he was, at his age, having to adapt to a new job. While a lifeti of work at the textile company wasn't a terrible prospect, the demands were simply too great.
"Has Mrs. Margaret put on so weight? She didn't look like that over the sumr."
Mrs. Goodman, oblivious to her husband's expression, stood on her toes to watch the woman's retreating back. She wasn't in the habit of prying, but when you lived on the sa street, a certain amount of curiosity was inevitable.
"She's probably just bundled up against the cold."
Mr. Goodman replied absently, his mind on his own receding hairline. It was a concern for all n of his age. He was no longer a young man like his neighbor, Mr. Williams. Ti, after all, was impartial to all.
The previous owner of Mr. Williams's house—a baron with a gambling problem—had rarely been around, so the Goodmans had actually interacted more with the widow, Margaret. Even so, they still knew very little about her circumstances, other than the few tragic details she had shared about her past.
"I'm going to be late. I'll see you tonight."
The middle-aged man pushed open their gate, glanced furtively from side to side, and then quickly pecked his wife on the cheek.
"See you tonight."
The woman echoed, watching her husband disappear into the thin morning mist.
"Cough, cough."
She coughed twice, not from sickness, but from the air itself.
"I think the papers ntioned a new bill to regulate the smog."
She mumbled to herself as she closed the gate, but quickly put the thought aside. She was just an ordinary citizen; such matters were for the gentlen in City Hall and Parliant to worry about.
Her pet cat darted out, owing softly at her before its gaze fixed on the second-floor window of the house next door. It trembled, as if it had seen sothing terrifying, then tucked its tail between its legs and shot back inside.
Mrs. Goodman turned to look as well. The curtains in Mr. Williams's bedroom had been carelessly left open.
"Chocolate, isn't it?"
She murmured, her eyes on the cat perched on the windowsill. The image of the young Mr. Williams fast asleep in his bed flashed through her mind, and a blush instantly crept up her cheeks.
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