You step over the threshold and into a memory. This place -- this bar -- the centre of the frozen world.

You step over the threshold and into a memory. This place -- this bar -- the centre of the frozen world.

Old schnapps and the faded sour cologne of body odour and bleach. Soft yellow light filtered through cracked shades. The rumble of the ice machine, a hissing television.

Exactly how you remember it.

The Fogged Mirror.

Favourite den of Quisach's local pelota squad and their partisans, as well as a certain disgraced spy of the Operant Bureau.

Back when you were still the old CASCADE. Pre-failure, pre-disgrace, pre-despair.

You discover your thumb rubbing itself along the numberless business card you found on your double.

Breathe it in.

Stale air circulates your lungs. The taste is familiar.

Shades from another time move endlessly across the ancient wood, pickling it with nostalgia.

Maybe someone here knows what this 'miracle' is about.

You glance toward the bartender. A younger woman you don't recognise -- darker skin and sandy hair, carrying a soft scowl.

The best part about this place is that it's open all night, every night. Its doors are always open to you, as they are now.

I'll just have a schnapps for old times' sake.

Your eye is drawn to the shelf behind the bar, littered with dusty bottles.

Maybe I should come back another time.

The bar isn't going anywhere. It'll still be serving the foul local schnapps when the rest of Quisach has fallen into the sea.