Читать книгу The Towering Sky - Катарина Макги, Katharine McGee - Страница 6

December 2119

THERE HAS ALWAYS been something otherworldly about the first snow of the year in New York.

It gilds the city’s flaws, its hard edges, transforming Manhattan into a proud, glittering northern place. Magic hangs heavy in the air. On the morning of the first snow, even the most jaded New Yorkers pause in the streets to look up at the sky, stilled by a quiet sense of awe. As if every hot summer they forgot that this was possible, and only when the first flakes of snow kiss their faces can they believe in it again.

It seems almost that the snowfall might wash the city clean, reveal all the monstrous secrets buried beneath its surface.

But then, some secrets are best kept buried.

It was on one of these mornings of cold, enchanted silence that a girl stood on the roof of Manhattan’s enormous skyscraper.

She stepped closer to the edge, and the wind whipped at her hair. Snowflakes danced around her in splintered crystals. Her skin glowed like an overexposed hologram in the predawn light. If anyone had been up there to see her, they would have said that she looked troubled, and sharply beautiful. And afraid.

She hadn’t been on the roof in over a year, yet it looked the same as ever. Photovoltaic panels huddled on its surface, waiting to drink in the sun and convert it to usable power. An enormous steel spire twisted up to collide with the sky. And below her hummed an entire city—a thousand-story tower, teeming with millions of people.

Some of them she had loved, some of them she had resented. Many she had never known at all. Yet in their own ways they had betrayed her, every last one of them. They had made her life unbearable by depriving her of the one person she had ever loved.

The girl knew she’d been up here too long. She was starting to feel the familiar slippery light-headedness as her body slowed down, struggling to adjust to the decreased oxygen, to pull resources in toward her core. She curled her toes. They were numb. The air downstairs was oxygenated and infused with vitamins, but here on the roof it felt whip-thin.

She hoped they would forgive her for what she was about to do. But she didn’t have a choice. It was either this, or go on leading a shriveled, starved, half life: a life deprived of the only person who made it worth living. She felt a pang of guilt, but even stronger was her profound sense of relief, that at least—at last—it would soon be over.

The girl reached up to wipe at her eyes, as if the wind had stung them to tears.

“I’m sorry,” she said, though there was no one around to hear. Who was she talking to, anyway? Maybe the city below her or the entire world or her own quiet conscience.

And what did it matter? New York would go on with or without her, the same as ever, just as loud and electric and raucous and bright. New York didn’t care that those were the last words Avery Fuller ever spoke.