Miss Ezekaia Langstree is in a hotel room. They do not remember how they came to be here; or any other details of anything before this moment.
This happens sometimes.
Not to Ezekaia, of course. If they have no memory of any details of anything, there is no way for them to know if this is something that is prone to happen to them.
However, this does tend to happen to the people of Boxack.
They will suddenly have no memory of before. They only know two things: they’re names and that they are here. They are not even sure if they’re names are truly their names.
This bothers no one. With no memories of the past, there’s no reason to care.
So, Miss Ezekaia Langstree is born in a hotel room, fully grown and ready for the world, on the twenty-eighth day of winter, with no one else around.
And they sit.
And they listen.
No matter how much magic there already is in the real world, people will always imagine that there is more of it. A girl could turn a chicken to a cat before your very eyes, and you’ll still wonder if it’s possible that stars predict the future. A tree could speak to you, and you’ll wonder why you couldn’t live in a world with seven senses instead of six.
One wished for magic, attempted spirituality, is the time of which the people are born, not unlike our world’s horoscopes, but a little more simplified. There are five seasons. The typical that you know of: spring, summer, autumn, and winter. Then, comes the silent season.
Those born in spring are said to be kind, attractive, and social, wishing to aspire growth and new opportunities. Contrary to popular belief, these born do not wish for sex; they wish for others to achieve it instead.
Summer-born are the definition of peace. They wish to fish at the lake, lay in the sun, eat grapes and cherries and drink cold lemonade. Some say they are lazy. They simply believe no moment should be wasted on unhappiness.
The autumn-born are the busiest of the bunch. There’s much work to be done with winter on the horizon. They go this way and that, getting as much done in a day as they can, and get upset that they didn’t do more.
The ones born in winter are positively shy. They take rather long to warm up to companionship. But they are always listening. They always know you best, whether you want them to or not.
Miss Ezekaia Langstree is of the winter-born. Two weeks after they are here, they have not spoken a word since. They’ve walked around the hotel, not yet venturing outside. People greet them, but they only wave back.
They’ve listen to so many conversations, getting to know so many people. Mr. Yohemedi, the hotel manager who enjoys cats almost as much as he enjoys people. Ms. Jolen, the hotel owner, who is desperately trying to be rid of her money (to be rich is a dreadful thing). Mrs. and Mx. Funnel, the couple who seem to live in the hotel. Perhaps they are scared to leave, just as Ezekaia is.
And, of course, there’s That One.
That One, who has no name, no voice, no friends.
Once, out of pure curiosity, Ezekaia attempted a wave at That One, but nothing came of it. It was as if That One didn’t see her—or didn’t care for her.
That One is born of the silent season.
That One is not supposed to exist.
Every year, the days of the seasons vary. It is never known when a season will end or when one will begin. They simply keep track each day of the weather, for record keeping, and decide on the season upon that. If it is warm, and getting warmer, it is spring. If it is hot, it’s summer. Cold, and getting colder, it is autumn. Freezing is winter. Nothing is silent.
Once, there was a year where summer lasted two-hundred forty-two days, but autumn and winter only lasted six and twelve days, respectively.
Many complain that that is what’s wrong with people these days: too many lazy summer-born, despite the fact that many of the summer-born have plenty of energy and work ethics.
Contrary to popular belief, magic isn’t always right.
Four weeks have now passed since Miss Ezekaia Langtree’s coming here. They have many questions, but don’t feel quite ready to speak yet. Don’t feel quite ready to step out.
Plenty of offered the chance. Ms. Jolen had once invited Ezekaia to a theater, which they had declined.
“You are a textbook winter-born,” Ms. Jolen had said before leaving out the door.
Ezekaia wondered what a textbook is.
“I wouldn’t worry about her,” Mrs. Funnel said, causing Exekaia to jump as they weren’t aware she was there. “She’s a touch superstitious. I’m spring-born myself and I don’t even like the theatre.”
“What do you have against the theatre?” Mr. Yohemedi asked from across the room. He has the ears of a cat.
Mrs. Funnel leaned back, her eyebrows raised, challenging him. “Too dramatic.”
“Too dramatic? That’s like saying a love story is too romantic. A fantasy story is too unrealistic.”
Ezekaia sits and listens, as they are wont to do. Apparently, Mrs. Funnel isn’t too keen of stories of any type, unless they are of the nonfiction kind.
That One is beside her. She doesn’t have to turn to see; she knows they are there.
That One leans in and whispers in their ear.
“Life is more dramatic than we take for granted.”
And they’re gone.
It has been sixty days since Miss Ezekaia Langstree was born. They are starting to wonder if they are going—or have been—insane.
There’s talk that silent is upon them. The weather is changing, not getting warmer, but disappearing. The chill air is growing still. The snow is hardening so much, Ezekaia hears that it’s like walking on nothing at all. Evidence of outside animals—birds chirping, squirrels dashing, wolves howling—grow further and further apart, and Ezekaia suspects soon, there will be nothing at all.
It is not only the world that changes, but the people. Less come to the hotel now and everyone seems more concerned on boarding up the place, as if they want to keep people out rather than in.
“It must be awful being a winter-born,” Mx. Funnel whispered to their wife once. They thought they’re voice was low enough, but Ezekaia is a textbook winter-born (she learned what a textbook is). “To have this be the first season change.”
“Sh!” Mrs. Funnel scolds.
Ezekaia isn’t sure why everyone’s so frazzled. It seems that silent is when you are silent. There’s nothing wrong with a little quiet.
Most interesting, however, is That One.
That One also changes, but not like the others. Instead of getting nervous and hiding away more and more, they are active, walking, talking constantly, like they’re the owner of the hotel. Like they’re the owner of the world.
“There’s nothing wrong with a little quiet,” That One agrees with them. “But too much, and it’ll steal away your mind.”
They’ve been doing that recently. Reading Ezekaia’s thoughts and replying to them. Ezekaia remembers when That One didn’t so much as spare her a glance. Now they talk more than she does.
Most concerning, however, is that she’s the only one who hears them.
That One doesn’t mutter nonsense; they yell it, scream it to the sky, as if they can breathe life to the air that seems to have disappeared.
“Your eyes lie to you every day!” they shout. “You don’t see what I see! You don’t see the hell we live in!”
These words are concerning, to say the least, but only Ezekaia stops and listens. Only Ezekaia tilts their head and wonders. The rest pay no attention, too busy keeping the nothing out.
“You have it backwards,” That One says. “We are the ones with sense.”
The windows and doors are boarded. Everyone gags themselves with cloth, except for Ezekaia and That One. That One, because they may not actually be there. Ezekaia, because they are so silent and the rest are so eager preparing, they have honestly forgotten all about her. She’s only been here for sixty-eight days; that’s hardly enough time to remember a person.
There are no lights. No radio. Even the cats, usually meowing constantly, don’t make a sound.
Tomorrow is the first day of silent.
Silent comes.
And nothing happens.
Nothing keeps happening, day after day. Mr. Yohemedi finally realizes that Ezekaia doesn’t have a gag, but doesn’t bother giving them one either. He just puts a finger to his bound lips.
That One keeps talking, but no one reacts to them, not even the nothing. Ezekaia is certain now that they are not there.
Day after day in complete dark, with either silence and inane ramblings.
Ezekaia listens to all of it.
The nothing stretches out further and further. Ezekaia wishes someone would at least whisper, mutter a story, mumble a joke.
For quiet people, quiet is a dreadful thing.
They start to need to fill the silence.
“Did you know,” That One says, “that the moon gets hungry when you cry?”
Ezekaia wants That One to shut up.
Ezekaia wants That One to keep going.
Silent is ending soon. There still aren’t any sounds, no air, no light. But That One is getting quieter and quieter.
“So many people could end their doom if they stopped being comfortable,” they say, but it doesn’t have the same vigor as before.
The air is starting to come back. Ezekaia feels it.
Ms. Jolen slips her gag off temporarily to take a single breath.
That One hasn’t said anything in days.
Tomorrow is spring.
That One sits next to Ezekaia. They haven’t spoken in weeks. They turn to her.
“You would like to talk to me more, wouldn’t you?”
Ezekaia wishes they could say they hadn’t thought about it. It was a mistake. A slip.
But the truth is they had thought about it. They calculated the risk, and decided it was worth it. They are winter-born, and winter-born are quiet…and curious.
“Yes.”
Miss Ezekaia Langstree is in a hotel room. They do not remember how they came to be here; or any other details of anything before this moment.
This happens sometimes, though Miss Ezekaia Langstree is the first person to whom it happened twice.
No one knows of them. The hotel is full of completely different people, no trace of Mr. Yohemedi, Ms. Jolen, Mrs. and Mx. Funnel.
Not that Ezekaia looked for them, for she doesn’t remember them at all.
But That One does.
That One remembers for Ezekaia and keeps their thoughts within them, their sacrifice appreciated.
That One is Mx. Weyon Hixoric.
That One is the first to exist.
Okay, this one is a weird one.
This is a story that I freewrote—I was really more interested in the worldbuilding here. I would very much like to create a large, expansive world that’s completely unlike our own (though I know this is impossible as I only have experience with our world).
But I wanted to play around with the idea of astrological logic used with seasons instead of constellations. The plot got away from me as I was writing, but I still like the idea of the world and wouldn’t mind building onto it more.
I want it to have other weird little bits, though. I want it to feel fully fleshed out and different, and not a world based on this one major thing.
I’ll have to think on it more. Will definitely be keeping this story in the back of my mind.