A Break in the Grey

Jostled between the analogous grey skyscrapers and roads filled with crowds of ponies hurrying to and fro was a large patch of green. Where all the other land had been grabbed up and developed into overstretched towers packed with office blocks and banks, one unicorn had held on fiercely to her land. She wouldn’t sell an inch of it for the world. She’d lived there a very long time.

Ponies often found it surreal seeing a scene that looked right out of the country in the middle of the city, but to her it was the rest of the city that was out of place. She’d always been here. Since the city was but a hamlet with grass reaching all the way up to the distant hills in an ancient embrace, she’d been here. She’d seen the hordes of ponies be washed up to work in the factories. She’d seen that embrace be severed. Sometimes she felt that the whole world outside was broken, and only her little world was right. So she clutched on to her little world as tightly as she could. Sometimes she considered selling and moving somewhere green and quiet like the old Ponyville—her Ponyville—but she could never do it. The thought of this last bit of green being built over crushed her.

Not to mention what stood on that green.

Up a meandering pebbled path was a tree. Inside that tree was a library. All were welcome, but very few went in. Not many ponies visited libraries these days. They were just too busy. Most simply skirted around the startling patch of life. Some would have it bulldozed, and instead build something useful there. Like a shop. But the unicorn wouldn’t have any of that.

Despite the city that had sprung up around her, the unicorn’s life was much the same as it always had been. She stumbled down the wonky stairs to open the library every morning, then brewed herself a cup of coffee. Sometimes two, if she was hopeful. Or particularly battered. She ran her errands: shelving books, doing chores, keeping the wilderness from completely overtaking the path. Once all that was done, she settled in for an afternoon of reading. Nobody wrote very much these days, but that was understandable. Nobody read very much either. They didn’t have the time. So Twilight usually read older books instead.

Much the same, only these days she had a few more angry letters sent through her letterbox. At least, she did, until she asked the mail-pony to drop all the letters from ponies she didn’t know down the chimney instead. They make very good burning in the winter. Though she’d noticed the winters were becoming less. They didn’t get snow every year like they used to. Sometimes she worried it might disappear altogether.

After that, she stopped getting letters through her letterbox altogether. She wasn’t sure who she might like to receive a letter from these days.

If anybody ever listened to her, they’d hear the most amazing tales from days now gone of Equestria beings saved dozens of times from threats of all shapes and sizes, from dragons to changelings to the spirit of chaos itself, all with the help of her amazing friends. Of winters passed with those friends around warm fires drinking deep from mugs of hot chocolate. Stories about her old mentor. Days with friends where they did nothing at all: strangely, those seemed like the most valuable memories of all. They trumped all the adventures and danger and monsters.

But ponies never had the time.

So, as the moon was taking its place in the sky, she once again closed the doors to the library with a sigh, and went to bed. She used to see the most beautiful view of snow-capped peaks from that window. Now she could hardly see the sky. Not even the mountain she’d awoken one morning to a plume of smoke, which turned out to be from a dragon who was threatening the whole valley was visible. The mountain might have been invisible, but that sight of smoke had become the norm. She used to look up to the sky and see constellations gallop across it, duelling, dying; others were hats, items used every day; others still were the smears of far-off galaxies. Now all were invisible. Blocked by the sickly pale light cast by the unsleeping city.

Twilight looked away from the window, and lit a candle. She still had her books. That world would always exist in them, no matter what happened here. Putting on her spectacles, Twilight picked one up. She only wore them for reading—so she rarely took them off. The book was an old favourite. A tale of a knight who had a very important letter for the queen. He travelled across the land to reach her, in constant danger from thugs and ponies wishing to stop this valuable information ever arriving. Through it all, the knight never read the letter. Even after it reached the queen, he simply went away, his duty done.

What struck Twilight most, however, was who the knight met along the way. Ponies from all walks of life, some friendly, some wary, some outright hostile. But so many who had something valuable to say, be it directions, advice, or a story, from recently or long ago. And every one was unique. That was what she missed most from the old days: every pony being different. And talking to each other.

And the book had the most dazzling descriptions of the stars. She worried she’d forget what they looked like without it.

Glancing out of the window for an idea of the time, Twilight learnt nothing. The city never slept. Ponies were hurrying about just as they always did. Taking off her spectacles, Twilight lay down and set a grey-streaked mane on her pillow.

She couldn’t sleep. Getting back out of bed, Twilight went downstairs and out into her garden. Her sanctuary. Only it was gloomier here than inside. There at least she could close the blinds on the outside and pretend it didn’t exist. Here she was surrounded by towers throwing their cruel glow on her night. She wondered how the plants ever slept. Even lying on her back and looking up at the stars just made her sad. It was just a pale grey, with only the moon daring to show its face. The sounds of the crickets used to calm her, but now all she could hear was the persistent clop of hooves on concrete streets.

Back inside.

Putting her glasses back on, Twilight picked the book back up again with a sigh. Her eyes slid down the page without really taking anything in. She considered getting a coffee, but no. That would only make it worse in the long run. Or what was left of it.

Twilight stumbled down the crooked stairs of the library, and opened the doors. She trotted off to the kitchen and put the kettle on, then settled down with a book by the window.