Work Text:
The city had no name.
This was a new state of affairs, and the city was still getting used to it. It had not been abandoned very long – a couple of centuries, no more – and it was only recently that its name had been entirely forgotten.
"I don't see why you're so bothered by it," said the lake, lazily. "I've been called dozens of things over the years, I'm sure. Hundreds."
"It's not the same," said the city. "You weren't made with a name. I had one from the day my first foundations were laid, and now even I can't remember it."
But the lake did not answer; it was too busy shimmering invitingly in the sun, for the enjoyment of plein air painters and dragonflies.
The city tried to distract itself by looking picturesque, but its heart wasn't in it, and none of the painters noticed.
"What is a city, without anyone living in it?" it reflected.
"You look the same as ever to me," said a star.
"Thanks," said the city, though it knew the star could hardly see anything from that high up, and was just being polite.
The star wasn't listening, anyway; it was too busy guiding lost fishermen.
"I hear nameless ruins are popular with poets these days," supplied a passing cloud.
"Really?" asked the city.
"Certainly," said the cloud. "You know, that writer, what's his name, starts with a 'W'…"
But what the writer did or said the city never heard, for the North Wind came up and blew the cloud away; there was a big storm scheduled that afternoon, and the cloud was running late.
Still, the cloud's suggestion seemed a good one. The city was already quite weathered; now, resolved to be the best ruin it could, it set about growing moss.