Page 7 of Cerulean Truth (Sapere #1)

I practically flew—yet again—to my desk and was relieved, though slightly surprised, to find my phone had survived the crash as miraculously as I had.

Someone must’ve dropped it off at the desk after my accident.

How nice! Gods, I had a about hundred messages, most of them from Lisa, who was beside herself with worry.

I quickly dialed her number and she answered on the first ring.

The essence of the call ranged from her insulting me for being careless and stupid to crying about how much she loved me.

During lunch, I took a quick break to grab a sandwich from the shop next door. As I walked outside the building, I was taken aback to see the same blond guy in the suit again, still standing there a few feet from where the accident had occurred.

He had been facing the street, so he couldn't see me, but as I walked out, he pivoted immediately, as if he had somehow sensed my presence.

He approached me with such enthusiasm, I began to wonder if I was supposed to know him from somewhere other than my recent "not worth smiling about-near-death experience.

" As he got closer, I noticed his hair wasn't blond at all; it was more of a salt-and-pepper gray, and he appeared quite a bit older up close than he did from afar.

He reminded me a little of the actor George Clooney.

"Hi," he said cheerfully, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to walk up to a stranger and greet them as if they were old friends.

I began to feel a little on edge, because it felt like I was missing something, as if this interaction were actually entirely normal, and I was the one being weird about it.

"I only wanted to say hello and congratulate you on that stunt last night." He grinned. I was almost certain I misheard him. Congratulate me on my accident? How weird. Perhaps he thought he was being funny by being sarcastic? Men often think they're funny when they're really, really not.

"I'm sorry," I said cautiously, "but I don't believe we've met."

"Oh, my," he chuckled, extending a hand, "I'm terribly sorry for the mix-up.

I'm Stephen Stone, from area 17. I shouldn't have assumed you knew who I was but I fear I've become rather conceited since the Battle of '59.

I apologize wholeheartedly, miss." He laughed again, and I caught a hint of a faint Australian accent.

"I suppose I deserve to be taken down a peg by a young one like yourself," he added with a wink.

I had absolutely no clue what he was going on about. Area 17? Battle of '59? Was I losing my mind, or was he? I managed a cautious smile, uncertain of how to respond.

"Well," I tried to smile while shaking his hand, "I appreciate your kind words. But I should really be on my way; I'm absolutely famished and need to grab a quick bite before heading back."

"Of course," he hurriedly responded, "I didn't mean to disrupt your routine. I was just so surprised to find a maga in these parts. I thought I was the only one nearby."

I simply stared at him and blinked.

“A what?” I asked, my confusion apparent.

As his eyes registered my lack of understanding, his demeanor underwent an abrupt transformation. His brow furrowed, and his eyes narrowed slightly in response.

I couldn't help but wonder if he might be a bit crazy, perhaps even an escapee from some asylum, though he didn't look the part.

He seemed rather wise, probably somewhere in his fifties, and he exuded the scent of old books.

I assumed he might be some kind of professor or a knowledgeable individual of some other variety.

Maybe he was a genius, and as the saying went, genius and insanity often danced closely together.

Deciding I wouldn’t await his answer, I politely saluted him and continued on my way, turning around one last time to find him still frowning at me. What an utterly bizarre man.

I tried my best to brush off the strange encounter, but it lingered in my mind throughout the day for some inexplicable reason. When I returned to the office, a persistent sense of something important eluding me gnawed at my thoughts.

By the time the clock struck six, a part of me was almost hoping this Stephen character would still be outside, but as I exited the building, he was nowhere to be found.

"Geez, Emma, maybe you did bump your head a little harder than you realized if you're actually yearning for conversations with street-side crazies," I muttered to myself.

I made a conscious decision to put it all behind me. It seemed entirely irrelevant, and I had a much more pressing report which demanded my attention. However, when I finally settled in front of my computer at home, prepared to work, I found it impossible to concentrate.

Resorting to procrastination, I typed Stephen Stone into Google, which generated an overwhelming number of hits. It seemed like I was going to need more than a quick online search to solve this mystery.

I Googled the word maga. The results were a bizarre mishmash that made absolutely no sense.

Something about pets, some odd trash-related references, and even something about a language spoken far away.

It was utterly perplexing. How in the world was I a maga?

And how was he one? It simply didn't add up.

Next, I tried a search for Area 17 but it produced a flood of matches related to companies and brands.

It was impossible to decipher which one he might have been referring to.

“There was a third thing,” I mumbled, “battle something… battle of 59!” I practically cheered, swiftly typing it in.

However, my excitement waned when I found only an article about some football game without any mention of a Stephen Stone.

In frustration, I closed my computer, turned off the screen, and resigned myself to the belief this Stephen character was indeed all sorts of crazy.

It was bedtime anyway, and I was still fatigued from the accident, my limbs feeling like they might fall off.

And for the third night in a row, I had an amazing night’s sleep.

The following day, I awoke with a strange sense of anticipation, as if something intriguing was on the horizon. I had dreamt of the word maga, and it gnawed at me incessantly but I couldn't quite pinpoint what had made it feel so familiar.

While walking from my place to the firm, I felt an unexpected need to call my parents.

"Hello?" my mother answered her phone after a few rings.

"Mom!" I exclaimed.

"Hi, darling." I could hear the smile in her voice through the phone, and an unexpected overwhelming urge to cry emerged, even though I hadn't shed tears in years. What was going on with me?

“How are you feeling, my love? Any headaches? Soreness?”

"I’m fine mom, I only wanted to let you know I miss you," I replied, my voice catching with emotion.

"Oh, my darling, we miss you so much. Why don't you come over for dinner this weekend?

Your father has a new chicken recipe he'd like to poison us with.

" She laughed. I heard my dad playfully curse at her in the background and joined her in laughter, swallowing back the sudden sadness that caught me. What was making me so emotional?

"I'd love to, Mommy," I replied, catching her attention immediately, as I hadn't called her so since I was nine years old.

"Are you sure you’re okay, my love?" she asked softly, concern lacing her voice.

I quickly tried to reassure her. "Absolutely, Mom.

Do you want to hear what Bill Ferrars said yesterday?

" Without awaiting her response, I launched into a detailed account of everything that had transpired at the firm.

However, for some reason, I omitted any mention of the weird guy talking to me about insane stuff.

By the time I arrived at work, I had nearly forgotten about Stephen Stone.

At least, until I spotted him once again, this time blocking the entrance to my building, clearly waiting for me.

His presence unnerved me; what the heck was he doing there yet again?

Plus, I typically didn't start work until seven, and it was only six-fifteen.

I was early, even for my standards, which made his presence even more peculiar.

I considered slowing down, perhaps getting a coffee from the nearby coffeeshop to avoid a conversation with him.

However, once he noticed me, he made a beeline in my direction.

Running away would have been ridiculous and I didn't feel any immediate danger.

It was clear he wanted to speak with me, and a part of me was genuinely curious about the reason why.

"Hi again," he greeted, his expression notably serious this time. "I'm sorry to interrupt your morning, but would you consider letting me buy you a coffee over there?" He pointed to the coffee shop ten feet away. Sensing my reluctance, he added, "I just want to talk to you for ten minutes."

It would have been effortless to decline the offer, but for some inexplicable reason, my gut feeling was saying yes. Besides, the coffeehouse was a public place, mere steps from the firm. How much trouble could I possibly get into? I nodded slowly, then began following him toward the coffeehouse.

As we entered, I noticed the wooden tables and chairs were still neatly arranged and the sound of soft, instrumental music played in the background, creating a pleasant atmosphere.

Large glass windows allowed natural light to filter in, and one could see the early morning cityscape outside.

The counter area was clean and well-organized, with the menu prominently displayed on digital screens.

Overall, the ongoing vibe was peaceful and inviting, despite the early hour and the lack of other customers.