The central fountain of the Village School was a massive, tiered basin of grey stone that supposedly never froze, thanks to the Luma-heaters humming beneath it. It was the unofficial border between Section A and Section B, and for Grace, it was the only part of the school day that didn't feel like a prison sentence.

  Mable was already there, sitting on the edge of the basin with her books neatly stacked. At nine, the "pretty" childhood features were sharpening into something more striking. Her golden hair was caught in the sunlight, and even in her bulky winter coat, she had a natural, quiet poise that drew eyes.

  Specifically, the eyes of a Section D boy named Jax, who was at least three years older and twice as tall.

  "I saw you looking at these in the commissary," Jax was saying, holding out a skewer of honey-glazed fruit—a rare and expensive treat in the Heights. He was leaning against the stone, trying to look like the older brothers Grace had seen loitering by the mechanic shops.

  Mable was shrinking back slightly, her face pale. "Oh. Thank you, but I—I’m waiting for someone."

  "It’s just fruit, Mable. Take it," Jax insisted, stepping closer into her space.

  A shadow fell over the skewer.

  Before Jax could react, a hand reached out and snatched the fruit right off the stick. Grace stood there, her obsidian eyes bored as she slid the entire honeyed strawberry into her mouth. She chewed slowly, looking Jax up and down like he was a particularly uninteresting bug.

  "A bit heavy on the honey, don't you think?" Grace said, her voice muffled by the fruit. She reached out and took the rest of the skewer from his stunned hand. "Thanks, Jax. We were starving."

  "Hey! That wasn't for you, find—"

  Grace stepped forward, her chin tilted up. She didn't look angry; she looked amused. "Well, it’s in me now. Unless you want to try and get it back?"

  Jax looked at her sharp, confident grin and then at the crowd of younger kids who were starting to giggle. He turned a deep shade of purple, muttered something about "weirdos," and stomped back toward the senior wing.

  Grace sat down next to Mable, handing her half of a glazed apple. "He’s got terrible taste in snacks. Way too sticky."

  Mable stared at the apple, then at Jax’s retreating back, and suddenly let out a peal of laughter that rang across the courtyard. "Ace! You didn't even say hello!"

  "I said thanks," Grace pointed out, her eyes sparkling. "Eventually."

  The walk home was punctuated by the rhythmic clack-clack of their boots on the stone. As they passed the neighbor’s driveway, Grace stopped. She watched as one of the older boys from the district pedaled past on a rusted, high-handlebar bicycle. His girlfriend was perched on the back, laughing as they zipped down the sloped alleyway.

  Grace’s eyes followed them until they disappeared around a corner.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  "Dad," Grace said that evening, sliding into the lab where Marin was tinkering with a pressure gauge.

  "Usually, that tone of voice costs me money," Marin murmured without looking up.

  "I want a bicycle. One with a flat seat in the back."

  Marin paused, looking over his spectacles. "A bike? The Heights are all stairs and slopes, Grace. You'll spend half your time carrying the thing."

  "I don't care," Grace said, her jaw setting in that familiar, stubborn line. "The neighbor has one. He gives rides. I want to take Mabes to school on it. No more waiting for the transport bus or walking in the slush."

  Marin looked at his daughter—eight years old, barely tall enough to reach the high shelves, already planning how to ferry her best friend around the mountain. He let out a slow sigh, a small smile tugging at his lips. "If I find a frame in the scrap heap, you have to help me weld it. Deal?"

  Grace’s face lit up. "Deal."

  The following Saturday was "Market Day," and the village was a chaotic swarm of colors and smells. Mable followed Sarah and Thomas through the crowded aisles of the Tech-Tier, her eyes scanning the glass displays.

  "Mable, stay close," Sarah warned, clutching a bag of grain. "The surge-collectors are coming through."

  But Mable had stopped in front of a small, dusty shop at the end of the row. There, sitting in a velvet-lined box, was a "Chronos-Spinner." It was a small, brass gadget with interlocking rings that spun in three different directions at once—a toy meant for training a mechanic's finger dexterity.

  She had seen Grace staring at one in a catalog for months, Grace had never asked for it.

  "Mom? Dad?" Mable asked, her voice small but firm. She pointed at the spinner. "Can I use my saved silver for that? For Ace?"

  Thomas looked at the price tag, then at his daughter’s determined face. He shared a look with Sarah. "It’s a lot of silver, Mabes. You’ve been saving that for a year."

  "I don't want the new ribbons anymore," Mable said, her blue eyes clear and steady. "I want Grace to have the spinner."

  The sun was setting, casting long, orange shadows across the shared terrace of the duplex. Mable walked toward Grace’s side of the house, her hand tucked deep in her pocket, clutching the small, heavy box.

  She found Grace in the driveway, covered in grease and soot. Beside her sat a monstrosity of a bicycle—the frame was mismatched, the wheels were slightly different sizes, but the seat in the back was padded with an old leather jacket and bolted down tight.

  Grace looked up, wiping a streak of black oil across her forehead. She saw Mable and gave her a wide, triumphant grin.

  "Look," Grace said, patting the leather seat. "No more walking, Mabes. I tested it. It’s fast."

  Mable felt a lump in her throat. She stepped forward and pulled the brass spinner from her pocket, holding it out. The gold metal caught the last of the sunlight, spinning slowly in her palm.

  Grace froze. She looked at the toy—the one thing she’d wanted but refused to ask for—and then at Mable. The "cool" mask she wore at school slipped, leaving her looking small and genuinely stunned.

  "You got it," Grace whispered. "The Chronos."

  "So your fingers stay fast," Mable said softly, stepping closer. "For when you're fixing our bike."

  Grace took the spinner, her fingers brushing Mable’s. She didn't say a big, poetic thank you. She just looked at the bike, then at the toy, and then back at Mable.

  "Get on," Grace said, her voice thick but determined. She hopped onto the front of the bike, gripping the handlebars. "I’m taking you to the Rim. Right now."

  Mable hopped onto the back, her arms wrapping around Grace’s waist. As they pedaled down the sloping stone path, the wind whistling past their ears and the brass spinner tucked safely in Grace’s pocket, the world felt perfectly, beautifully small.

  Just the two of them, and the mountain.