The city shines in the rain, artificial lights mixing with the ever-present sparkle of magic in the gutters as it flows towards the drains. You're leaning against the rough brick wall, umbrella and long coat your chosen defence against the weather. Water streams off the umbrella, tinkling as it falls like tiny bells. You like the image it forms in your mind, a lone figure in the rain on an empty street.

The image shatters as a group of women exit the theatre, laughing and putting up umbrellas as they realise the weather has changed. One of them has forgotten her umbrella, and she links arms with her friend to take shelter under hers.

They pass by you, still laughing. Their eyes pass over you without seeing, another nameless stranger in the night.

You knew them, long ago though it seems now. You are like the third umbrella, lost and forgotten. You watch them leave through a haze of memory.

One of the women stumbles and turns back to retrieve her shoe. You see the flicker of mischievous hands disappear into the stone and murmur a warning. The stone gnomes are growing bold if they are willing to try their tricks in front of a guardian.

The woman glances up and catches your eye. Her brow furrows with the beginning of recognition and your breath sticks in your throat.

You turn and walk on.

--

If one just scratches the surface, the world is full of wonders. Everything has a spirit, everything has a personality of its own. There is love and hate and everything in-between. Ordinary humans live in this world with no knowledge of the tiny wars they cause just by walking out their front door.

To step into this world - the other world, the world of fairies and magic - you only need to step out of the other one.

That spark of recognition weighs on your mind. Some people are naturally sensitive to the currents of the other world. You've never heard of those people being able to recognise a guardian, but then, guardians are few.

You find her in the park with her son. He is on the climbing frame, dodging away from the irritated pixies who call it home as if he can see them. You whisper a few words and the pixies settle. The boy looks up and straight at you.

"What a coincidence," says someone beside you. "I thought I saw you the other night."

You jump and turn to face her.

"It must have been years since we've seen each other," she says, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear the way she always did.

She forms her lips around a word, a thought - your name. The colour is sucked out of the world in anticipation, leaving only ordinary greens and browns and blue.

You stop time.

This is not a power to be used lightly. It attracts the attention of the overseers, who hate watching almost as much as those they watch hate being seen. You have seconds to make this decision.

If she says your name, you step back into her world.

If you walk away, you can never see her again.

In the silence of timelessness, you cannot even hear your own breathing.

You turn the wheel back a few seconds and time settles back into its regular pattern. The pixies are flittering and muttering angrily again. The boy hasn't noticed you.

You turn your back on the playground and walk towards the gate.

"Guardian," she says.

You stop.

"You can come back. I won't say your name," she says.

You made your choice, you remind yourself. You reinforced it barely a minute ago. Nothing has changed in those seconds.

Nothing save that she called you "guardian".

You turn back, and every inch feels like moving through molasses.

"I know what you are," she says. "I can see the other world sometimes. It flickers in and out. Sometimes I blink and the world is in technicolour."

"Don't enter that world," you say. "They'll forget you. Everybody you ever knew. Your son, your parents, everyone."

"I know," she says. "That's why I won't. But when I see that world I think perhaps it could be worth it."

"No," you say. "It is not. But giving it up now will not bring those years back. And my work is important."

She nods slowly, then grins. "You were always like that. You carried the world on your shoulders at fourteen."

You shrug. Giving voice to your defensive urges only brings back uncomfortable memories of being fourteen. "Perhaps I did."

"Mummy," calls her son, impatient like he's been calling for hours. "You're not watching."

Her face twitches in long-suffering amusement. "Sorry, darling," she calls. "Do it again."

You turn away again while she is distracted.

"We're here every Thursday," she yells, once you're almost across the threshold.

You don't hesitate but the thought settles on you, seeping into your being and weaving its tendrils through you. The seed of a choice.

--

There's an overseer watching from the other side of the road. It is made of fire and wings and eyes, bright and beautiful and terrible.

"Was this some kind of test?" you ask, not quite able to keep the bitterness out of your tone.

The overseer says nothing, just fades away, leaving behind a vague sense of annoyance. You did not fail the test, if test it was. An overseer's displeasure cannot be mistaken for anything else.

Perhaps it is annoyed at being called to watch you not destroy the fabric of space and time.

The bushes that line the boundary of the park want your attention. They don't like the pet dogs that use them as a toilet, the grass is overstepping its boundaries again, and they think the local bridge troll is being blackmailed. Rhododendrons are notorious gossips, but the last is worth investigating.

You thank the bush for its news and it withdraws, pleased.

You bury your hands deep in your pockets and walk on towards the bridge.

END