Beauregard's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Beauregard stood at the community hall's entrance, his tendrils twitching against the doorframe. The whisper-shout-singing was louder here than anywhere else in the city. He needed to learn how to read these traces, decode what they meant. His paws crossed the threshold. Inside, chairs lay scattered across the floor. A table sat overturned in the corner. He moved toward the spot where she'd stood that night, where the sound screamed loudest. His multiple eyes focused on the floorboards. Something had happened here, something that made her stop existing and turned him into this. The traces weren't just noise—they were a language. If he could understand them, he'd find her. He pressed his nose to the floor and listened. The traces hummed in patterns he couldn't decode yet. He needed time here, needed to stay and learn their rhythm. His throat felt dry from hours of listening. Outside, through a side door, he spotted a small pond. The water looked dark and still. He padded out to drink, his multiple eyes tracking the surface. This changed everything. He could stay here now, all day if needed, returning to drink when his body demanded it. Back inside, he circled the spot where she'd last stood. The whisper-shout-singing rose and fell like breathing. He lay down on the floorboards and closed his main eyes. His other eyes stayed open, watching, waiting. The traces would teach him their language. He just had to listen long enough. Three days of listening brought him nothing but frustration. The traces kept their secrets locked tight. He needed something else, somewhere else that knew her daily rhythm. The department store rose in his mind—the place where she'd spent her weekdays, where her hands had touched cash registers and folded clothes. He left the community hall and walked until he found it. The Forgotten Emporium stood with cracked windows and faded signs. His paws crunched on broken glass as he pushed through the entrance. The whisper-shout-singing here felt different, quieter but steadier, like a heartbeat instead of a scream. She'd existed here for years before she stopped. If the community hall held the moment of her vanishing, this place held the pattern of her being. He moved between empty racks and dusty counters. His tendrils reached out, touching surfaces she'd touched. This was where he'd learn who she was before that night. And knowing who she was might show him where she went.