November 11, 2024,

The lanterns of Toronto’s trendiest omakase blurred as 16-year old Leo Sou sat alone and rested his arms on the hinoki counter of the establishment. The teen had spent 3 months and saved $1,500 to get a reservation at the Michelin-starred Sushi Masaki Saito, the most prestigious restaurant in the country and THE buc. He snapped photos of the establishment and posted them for his 67 followers on Instagram.

The omakase was flawless, but as the courses flew by fast. As Leo finished the last, chewy bite of his mochi dessert course, a familiar, hollow ache filled his chest. It was the same feeling he has that caused him to scroll through food blogs from the time he got home from school to midnight and spend his work money on tasting menus. He even snuck out without his parents’ knowledge just for this meal. Leo was always hungry for the next trendy thing, but was never actually full.

After it was all over and Leo received a gift basket of delicate wagashi from Saito, he left the establishment and began wandering the dark, dreary streets of Toronto at 2 in the morning. As the chilly autumn air bit his chin, Leo began looking back on what he had to learn to get where he is today. He could tell anyone what part of Jane and Finch you had to dodge bullets and Toronto mans to get to the best oxtail, which decrepit basement in Yonge and Finch served the best Korean fried chicken, what sketchy industrial plaza in Richmond Hill has the most authentic crispy tahdig and what Markham office building had the best hand pulled noodles where the staff only spoke a specific dialect of Mandarin. He had learned to discern when a Japanese restaurant was Korean or Chinese owned (avoiding those places like the plague), how to differentiate the many shawarma joints in Ridgeway Plaza or how to taste when the local Thai joint uses ketchup instead of tamarind in their pad thai. He had even debated Redditors over whether halal beef gets a better Maillard reaction than regular beef. Leo had become an expert of food, more discerning of authenticity than most, but as he continued to walk, Leo’s feeling of emptiness continued to grow, as if his digestion was in line with his soul.

As Leo continued to walk and ended up in Parkdale, it began to rain hail. Leo panicked to preserve his gift basket and ran to a nearby pavilion to seek shelter. Just as he sat down, a wandering robed Buddhist monk, also seeking shelter from the drizzle, sat on the same bench. “Hello, young man. I am Tenzin”, the monk introduced himself “You look like you are still in school. What are you doing out here in the middle of the night wandering these streets?”. “Uh, I’m Leo. I’m just out tonight”. Feeling a rush of generosity (and a great photo-op), Leo offers Tenzin a handcrafted sakura mochi from the gift basket. He accepts it with a deep bow.

Leo watches attentively, fully expecting Tenzin to be blown away by the nuanced, artisanal flavor. Instead, the monk simply chewed the confection as if it was a regular piece of bread with the straightest face Leo has ever seen. He humbly finishes the mochi and thanks Leo for the gift. Leo, utterly bamboozled, asks “Wasn’t it the best thing you ever ate?”. The monk simply states “It is merely a morsel. Yes, it satisfied my bodily hunger, but my soul is already well nourished”. 

“But it was a handcrafted wagashi made from imported rice flour from Iwate! It costs $40 to make just one piece! You are telling me the history, culture and elegance of it doesn’t matter?!” Leo erupted. “Young man, you are getting mad over a mere piece of rice dough”, Tenzin replied calmly. “You place much emphasis on your meals, and yet you are here alone, a wanderer. You talk of rich textures and high prices and yet I see a man living in the depths of spiritual poverty”. Tenzin’s soft words hit Leo like a car crash to the groin. He reflected on the rejections, ridicule and social isolation at school that had driven him to become a foodie, the hobbies he neglected, the countless hours he spent doomscrolling instead of spending time eating home cooked meals with his family and his lonely nights. Leo realized that he had become so obsessed with quenching his hunger he had starved himself of inner fulfillment. Tenzin stands up and pats Leo on his back, as if he understood what Leo had gone through. “Perhaps ask yourself every once in a while; am I feeding both my body and my soul?”, Tenzin said calmly before walking out and vanishing into the storm. Leo, finally having his epiphany, reached out for him, but he was nowhere to be found.

Even after returning home (and getting grounded for a week for disappearing at night), Tenzin’s question rattled Leo’s brain. Deciding to take up his advice, Leo decided to get into a new routine to take up his old hobby of fashion designing. His bed became littered with shirt designs and his phone started to blow up with text messages. He also began to hit the gym. For once, Leo felt at peace.

Epilogue: December 28th, 2024,

One chilly day on Christmas break, Leo got an invitation to meet up with his friends at KAZE Sushi for a hangout. Knowing damn well the place was Korean-owned and inauthentic, he almost passed on the opportunity out of sheer disgust. However, he remembered Tenzin’s words and realized that it truly was not that deep. So, swallowing his pride he willingly walked in and ordered the kimbap as for once, the table mattered more than the plate. As he dapped up as his homies, Leo realized he had finally found the one thing he was really craving; contentment. 

The End.

It was a minute past midnight and the moon outside the castle was deliciously bright and round. I stood admiring it at the window, the fire crackling in the hearth behind me, shadows dancing along the flagstones. Though none were cast at my own feet.

Beyond the castle, the black cliffs crumbled away into a deep ravine, where dark trees bundled together like matchsticks, and a gushing river swelled between the rocks like a silverbacked serpent. The wind whistled through the broken casement of the window, chilling the air and threatening to extinguish the fire.

There was a whisper of movement on my left and one of the sisters appeared beside me, bowing her head. Her dress was a deep red, the same colour as her eyes.

“It’s a pleasant night,” I mused, raising the collar of my black coat against the chill as the moonlight dusted the windows. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders as she raised her head.

“Yes Master,” she said in a subdued tone. “However, I fear I shall ruin it with my tidings.”

I turned to her fully, examining the grave expression on her face. Her lips were pinched. “Why is that? What tidings do you bring?”

Her red eyes glowed in the firelight. A long shadow was drawn across her features. “A peasant house is in the midst of construction beside the castle.”

I stared at her for a moment. The fire crackled sharply. “A… peasant house?” I finally repeated, scoffing at her words. Surely she was mistaken. The area around my castle was a perfectly barren wasteland; the peasants in the settlements knew better than to encroach on my land without permission, never mind erect a building on my grounds. “What is this trickery?”

“No trickery, Master. Come see for yourself.”

The vampire sister turned and strode towards the opposite side of the tower, her long red gown trailing behind her like a pair of folded wings. Curious, I followed her, our footsteps silent on the stone floor. I assumed I had misunderstood her, for nobody would be foolish enough to even approach my castle. Unless they were naive or ignorant of my nature.

But as we paused by the window, and she lifted a hand to point outside, I stood aghast at what I saw. A short distance away from the front gates of my castle, visible through the fog, there was indeed a house being built. Beneath the cold glow of the moon, I saw piles of stone and wood, the loose structure of rafters and foundations already laid. What sort of fool would dare build a house so close to my castle? Who would dare to become my neighbour without first consulting the master of this tower?

I was furious and intrigued at the same time. Only the dumbest, and perhaps bravest, of men would do such a thing. And I found myself feeling very much inclined to meet him.

“The house seems deserted now,” the vampire sister observed, resting her hand against her cheek. “Perhaps they have given up?”

“Or perhaps they only build during the day, knowing the weakness the sunlight inflicts upon us creatures of the night,” I said with a harrumph.

“You are wise, Master,” she said. “Shall I take my sisters over there and tear it down? It is a stain upon your grand castle.”

I pondered her offer. “No. I should like to meet the fool first,” I decided, extending my fangs below my lips. “Perhaps he would see fit to grace my castle with his… delicious presence.”

The sister covered her mouth with a low chuckle. “I understand, Master. You would see it fit to make a meal of him?”

I nodded. “Leave the peasant house for now,” I told her, turning away from the window with a flourish of my coat. “I wish to see how far he dares to go.”

The following night, as I rose from my coffin at the heart of midnight, my first thought was of the house being built by the castle. Had more progress been made, or had the owner seen the measure of his own foolishness and deserted? It would be a shame if he had fled before a meal could be made of him.

It had been a while since I had anything to amuse me on these long nights, just as long as it had been since fresh blood had passed these lips. The peasants in the surrounding settlements had grown wise to my nature and seen fit to ward their houses, stringing garlic and crosses upon the threshold. I was only able to feed when an unwitting traveller passed by, or a fool decided to build a house directly beside my castle.

The tower was quiet as I made my way to the top, winding through the warren of rooms and climbing the narrow, crumbling stairways. The sisters were nowhere to be seen; perhaps frolicking outside in the moonlight as they so often did. I reached the highest point of the castle and strode to the window that overlooked the barren grounds. From this height, I could even glimpse the closest settlement in the far distance; a small cluster of thatched houses and burning torches that lit the foggy hills like burning eyes.

But my concern was much closer. Lowering my gaze to the land right outside the gates, I saw that the house had changed. There were more walls than yesterday, denser foundations, the first signs of carpentry. The fool really had continued building the house. Had he not been warned of the dark Count that occupied the castle? Had he not heard the rumours of the blood-feasting creatures that stalked these lands once the sun went down? Why else would he choose to dwell in my vicinity, if not for ignorance?

I shook my head, almost pitying the poor halfwit for what he had brought upon himself. But I should delight in showing him the truth soon enough; that he had elected himself a willing sacrifice for me and my hungry brides.

It was a shame that he vacated the house during the night, for I would have to wait longer to lay my eyes upon him. Would he not show himself before the house was finished?

“I see the building is progressing,” a voice whispered behind me. I’d been too lost in my thoughts to hear them approach. I turned, seeing two of the sisters behind me. They too were observing the house through the window. Their wild, windswept hair and bright eyes confirmed my suspicions that they had been dancing outside.

“Yes,” I muttered. “It would seem so.”

“What a blight upon the castle,” the other sister said, her fair skin glittering in the moonlight. “I hope the trouble is worth the meal.”

“It will be,” I said, casually flicking my hand towards the half-built dwelling, “if only the fool would hurry up and be done with it.”

The next night, more progress had been made on the building, but the owner had still not shown himself. I grew more agitated that I was allowing this to happen, but reminded myself that I would soon enough be able to quench my thirst.

So night after night, as the moon began to wane, the house’s shadow grew bigger, and my hunger grew stronger. The fool always fled before night fell, leaving the evidence of his daytime activities for me to observe. The dwelling had taken on the same shape of the peasant houses in the surrounding settlements; white stone and timber, with a long thatched roof. He had even tilled the soil into a small garden, erecting a wooden fence around the plot in front of the building. But compared to my grand castle, with its dark crumbling bricks, spiralling towers and winding, labyrinthine rooms, it was a blight. And I wanted it gone.

Finally, more than a week after the house was little more than a pile of stone and timber, one of the sisters woke me with news that the structure was finished.

I rose from my coffin, sluggish and weary from slumber, and fastened my coat about my neck. The sisters had already lit the fire, but the air was chilled.

I followed her to the window and set my gaze upon the house. A single candle sat in the windowsill, guttering in a draught. A lit candle. Did that mean the house was occupied? The fool had not fled this night.

“It’s time,” I announced, “to show this fool once and for all what happens when you anger the Count.” The other sisters joined us, and I turned towards them with a slow smile. “I hope you are hungry.”

The three sisters screeched in delight, grasping each other’s hands and dancing in circles, their gowns fluttering around their legs. The fire roared in the hearth.

But as I began to cross the room, one of the sisters stopped me with a gasp.

“Master, wait. There’s someone at the gate.” She was pointing out of the window. I peered down at the large wrought-iron gate that fronted the castle, my eyes narrowing. A figure stood by the fence, carrying a lantern. His face glowed in the flickering light, revealing a sharp, sloping nose and dark eyes.

“Who would be foolish enough to call upon me at this hour?” I snarled, my black coat twisting around me as I turned from the window.

“Perhaps your new neighbour,” one of the sisters answered, “has come to hasten our feast.”

“Perhaps,” I said, already striding towards the doorway.

The sisters swept after me, whispering amongst themselves. Flames guttered as we passed lit candles, stirring the dust at our feet and disturbing billowing cobwebs. There was a haste to our movements as we descended the tower. It had certainly been a while since we’d had prey wander into our arms like this.

Crossing the foyer, the long red carpet spilling out like blood, I threw open the doors and stepped out into the chilled night, the three sisters stepping in my wake. The moon was a pale sickle, its silvery glow dancing around my shadowless feet as the stranger at the gates called out to me.

“Hello there!”

Struck by his brazenness, I almost flew at him in anger, but restrained myself. Ignorant minds really were unfathomable. With a flick of my wrist, the gates began to creak open. The man remained at the threshold, holding his lantern aloft as he stared back at me. He was of medium build, with stocky shoulders and a mop of thick tousled hair. His clothes were poorly made, covered in dirt and patches. He had the audacity to smile at me as I glared in return.

“What business have you here at my castle?” I demanded, wanting to sate my curiosity before I sated my hunger.

The man cleared his throat, raising his lantern to the crude house sitting barely thirty metres behind him. So this was indeed the proprietor of the building; what a brave, albeit dimwitted, man he was to present himself before me like this. “I’ve just this morning finished constructing my house,” he said, not seeming to notice the displeasure on my face, “and a slight issue has come to my attention.”

“An… issue?” I repeated, my brows arching sharply.

“Yes. During the day, the leftmost tower of your castle casts a shadow over my garden,” the man said regretfully. “I hoped that you might be amicable enough to remove it. Or at the very least relocate the tower, so that it does no harm the roses I am trying to grow. All life needs sunlight, after all.”

I stared at him, completely aghast. Behind me, even the sisters had been stunned into silence. The audacity of this imbecile, to ask me to change my own castle for his benefit. The man was not right in the head, surely.

“How dare you–” I began to seethe, but the man interrupted me, lifting a finger as if hushing a child.

“I do understand it is a large undertaking I’m asking of you, but my gratitude would be immense,” he added.

“You think I care about your gratitude?” I sneered at him, clenching my fists beneath my coat. The gall of this man. Who did he think he was? “Do you know who I am?”

The man stared at me, the lanternlight dancing over his blank expression. “You are the owner of this castle, I had presumed?”

“Precisely. And what makes you think that I, as the Count of this castle, would do the bidding of a mere peasant?”

The man scowled at me, a shadow encroaching upon his face. “I shall ask you again, and I do hope you will be quite civil this time. Will you remove the tower from your castle so that my roses might see the light?”

“I don’t give a damn about your roses,” I snapped.

“Now, there’s no need to be rude,” the man said, his voice turning bristly. The shadows deepened around his eyes as he narrowed them. “I’m asking for a simple favour–”

I scoffed in his face, my rage burning beneath my skin. It took a lot to make a vampire’s blood burn hot. I almost couldn’t believe what he was saying. This fool considered the reconstruction of my ancient castle a mere favour? Asking me to tear down part of my fortress so that he might grow some roses.

I took a measured step towards him, lifting my shoulders to appear taller. My fangs were itching to taste his blood. For all the disrespect he had shown me, there was no escape. I would suck this man dry by the night’s end, leaving nothing but a fleshless husk.

“Once again, I implore you to consider my–”

I was no longer in the mood to listen to his insane ramblings. He had agitated me far too much to go back from this. I would show him, and anyone else who might learn of tonight, what happens to those who cross me.

Baring my fangs, I lunged forward, ready to sink my teeth into his neck.

In one swift motion, the man pulled his hand back into a fist and threw it towards me. Blinded partially by the lanternlight, I did not see the attack until his knuckles met my face.

Pain exploded through my jaw, and there was a terrible snap as my left fang bore the brunt of his punch, splitting completely in half. The hit landed with enough force to send me staggering backwards and, incredulous and in shock, I fell to the ground.

Dirt bit into my eyes as I landed face-down, my broken fang scraping against my lower lip. Sputtering, I raised my head, just as the man lifted his light and calmly made his way back to his house.

Behind me, the sisters watched him leave in a choked silence, before hastening to help me back to my feet.

To say I had been dealt a great humiliation was an understatement. How did a mortal man possess such strength? Enough to break one of my precious fangs and completely overpower me.

With a bruised face, and an even more bruised ego, I hobbled back into my castle, the three sisters trailing silently after me.

By the following night, the leftmost tower had been partially disassembled, leaving a gaping wound in the side of the castle. Wind gusted through like howling wraiths, immediately extinguishing any fire I tried to light, leaving a heavy chill in the air. The sisters, at least, seemed to delight in the pool of moonlight that was cast upon the open ground.

Workers had been swarming the castle all day, interrupting my sleep with their banging hammers and chiselling tools as they took the tower apart brick by brick, but I had little choice. The man had made his demands, proven his strength, and forced my hand. Now I had to destroy my own magnificent tower so that the fool might grow his roses. And I hadn’t been able to harvest even a drop of blood either.

This was a defeat, and a humiliation, that would take centuries to heal.

Peel an apple.

If you're all fancy and have one of those apple core-er gadgets you line up and press out perfect slices... Good for you. I usually bore through the core with those.

Anyways... slice your apple into half-grape size. Be sure you remove every inch of the core including those little plasticy parts of outer core beyond the seeds. Divide and place apples into two ziplock baggies with one tablespoon of water and a dash of lemon in each.

Ever reflect on the contrast between modern, rushed mornings and intentional, slow rituals?

As a wee toddling child, I knew mama's hope of a morning was that the youngest siblings would continue slumbering at least long enough to allow her to finish her dawn rituals.

She enjoyed savoring the quiet times, getting daddy's milk delivery man uniform ironed. She kinda' liked the way his muscles moved under starched white cotton broadcloth. Especially on that powerful frame.

I always thought it was sad to wear stiff hard clothes with big sweat stains on the pits and back. "Jack" was written in fancy script above his shirt pocket in shiny deep green threads. I couldn't read but mama said it stayed dirty 'cause he reached in for Camel cigarettes all day. Because daddy had a habit, you know.

Zip, shake and store behind something healthy in the fridge beyond the kale. Take your time, mama said. Do it right the first time.

No matter how white the uniform, one might think they smelled. To this day, I prefer not to sweat, ever. Mama had a sprinkle head screwed on an old abused RC Cola bottle to steam those creases. This was a task she certainly could have done last night but nooo. So now shes standing in curlers, red-faced sweatin', ironing for this man under a swinging tobacco stained lightbulb at DARK:30 a.m. You damned right!

He'd come around from the back of the house in his boxers, smellin' all like Vitalis hair tonic and old spice. His Jackson Blu eyes sparkled and he'd kiss her, smack on the mouth, on the way out he'd let the screen door close quiet like. That's a consideration ya'll and that man looks good in a uniform.

Standing at that screen door, shirt and shoeless, mangy teddy in hand I'd wave byebye, byebye... Someday he wouldn't be back. That story is a sad one, comes later.

On a rainy day in June you could smell the sun in the soil. The entire skin slightly moist, it was a discomforted edge. When daddy leaves, he always honks twice as he gets on the paved road yonder past the pond. Beep beep, and mom would always blow a kiss off loving shiny red fingertips in that direction. That always make me blush.

She'd sigh, and perch on the edge of the banana yellow plastic chair. It matched the stainless steel formica topped table squozen into the cramped throughly lived-in and cluttered kitchenette. With her precious Maxwell House instant coffee, in a lipstick stained plastic mug. Lightened with Carnation evaporated milk right from the can, and bleached white sugar she'd pause.

She coveted her alone time in the one bathroom shared by our family of three young'uns, daddy and that good ol' hound dog named Hambone. She'd have to fix her hair, dress for work secretarying for the welfare folks in downtown Lake City, Florida. Applying blobs of make-up to those funny faces many women folk know, and finally blending, blotting and powder. Or was that powder and blot?

Daddy used to tease mama and get her all riled about how hard he worked in the heat and flies at the dairy while she sat down there in that air-conditioned office building telling dirty jokes and goofing off. Then they'd bust out laughing. They both knew better, they held certain knowledge of one another.

To dress mid-50's, required under-wired torturing contortion. Fancy snapping clothing that cinched, boosted and clung tight here and loose there. The effort usually sharpened and softened with lace or ruffles, then nylon stockings with seams in back and some kind of opened toed shoes. Where were they? Have to get the kids up, fed and drive across the tracks to pick up our beloved maid Miss Evelyn. Where were the keys?

Funny what memories oatmeal can bring. I always soak my instant oatmeal overnight in the fridge. Let us say it's better for me. If I'm feeling particularly decadent, I'll soak those oats in pure -T Half&Half ya'll. Most of the time it's lactose free whole milk.

Mama was good at answering certain questions mechanically in the same way. Maybe this was a result of raising what would grow to seven young'uns.

Example:

Question -

Is today Tuesday? Always, "All day long."

Question - Can we go to the beach? Always, "Let's don't and say we did."

My friends get to stay up late. Always, "If your friends stuck the heads in a bucket of, Let's say goo, would you?

Mama, mama, Mama, whine, whine, whine. Always, "You're cruising for a bruising."

Question - Why do boys peepee's stick-out and girls peepee's stick-in? Always, "ask your Daddy".

Tomorrow after coffee and meds kick in, you'll get an un-fed feeling. That vague uncomfortable sensation that usually creeps up just as you would have gone back to bed. An undeniable echoing rumble of vacant space that is more than just empty. Approaching hangry.

This is the time in our hectic schedule. A special way to start the day that is just for us in every way. At seventy years of age, this old man looks and listens in my heart to that oatmeal from long ago, blurping in the big pot of a morning. That usually meant we were out of Cornflakes. Why God? Just why do we have to eat gruel? Trust me, the dog didn't like oatmeal either.

Meanwhile A hundred miles away, in Jacksonville, Grandma sat at the small table in an impeccably clean teal blue tiled kitchen with black trim. She's enjoying the last of two pieces of cheddar cheese toast she'd browned under the broiler. Rising at 5 a.m., she'd been at her easel two hours already.

Grandma loved her house. It was was once a carriage house for the large Victorian residence next door. The three stalled structure had an apartment on the top she moved there and built a home of the space below. She was always so proud of the steel beams she'd used in its construction. Hurricanes worried her. Grandma's house was located in Springfield, the oldest neighborhood in he city. On the sundappled sidewalk of East 17th street,the area survived the great fire of 1901 it was a neighborhood fit to live in.

A young widowed mother of two she'd worked hard and long to live here and to enjoy her contented retirement. Sigh, poor Grandma, I was sure she must be terribly lonely. Dry kisses and all.

Ever wonder how many times your Grandma told you to wipe your feet? Or sit up straight, mind your manners, not to pick your buggars or fart on the bus? Get your feet off the couch and leave your sneakers on the porch? The lady who kisses you with her lips so un-puckered it looks painful. Another oatmeal eater a saint and an angel.

Grandma use to tell a story about 1918 after the war she married my gandpa. Well Mr McGruder was a salesman for the John Deere company. He came home one day to find my grandma applying a cream from a tiny bottle under her arms. Well, he laughed and laughed when she told him how much he wasted on that new-fangled "deodorant!" The next afternoon as grandma returned home from the market, there sat grandpa, rubbing that expensive cream all over his salesman feet and toes. How they'd enjoyed each other.

“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” - John Milton (9 December 1608 – 8 November 1674), an English poet and intellectual. From his 1667 epic poem Paradise Lost.

Inebriation Hell defies description in real terms. I describe it like the overflowing content of an empty box. Nothingness infinitely. It is striking. Not flames. Not demons. Just absence. No echo. No texture. No resistance. An eternal blank. Quieter than fire. It’s the kind of Hades you brush up against in early sobriety sometimes — not pain exactly, but vacancy.

Noise stops and what remains is… space. Untreated, that space can feel terrifying. Treated gently, it becomes possibility. An empty box can be: a studio before the paint, a lined page before the ink, a cleared junk drawer, a craving without a fix. My humble thought is: If the mind can make hell of heaven, conversely it can make heaven out of the smallest square of ground. An empty appliance box can become a massive mansion if you've currently no roof to call your own. A heavenly haven if you will.

Far and long ago, six decades, my Daddy would give me the first sip off his frosty beer can. I should have known an immediate head to toe shiver, though pleasant and somehow familiar, probably wasn't good for children. I felt that same sensation on the first jigger of the last night I drank. That was 738 days ago. I should have known alcohol wasn't a friend.

Twenty years later, 1974 high school graduation marked my first big life timeline event. A time anticipated and dreaded, also a continual referral point im my memory for years. I was eighteen a giant pimple bag of naivety, anxiety and luck. It had been a childhood of love, contentment and Disney-like enchantment. I'd grown up in alcohol related violence, desperation, betrayal, lies, and abandonment.

In other words - just like every other kid excluding the violence and booze. It probably doesn't surprise you to hear I was a late bloomer, a loner kept to myself mostly. I was invited to social gatherings, but I was shy. I was actually handsomely attractive for about five minutes one night in the summer 1984.

It was the year before my thirtieth birthday

THIRTIETH year, my second life-event timeline. It was then I began abusing whiskey and smoking cigarettes heavily. A ton of both wouldn't be an exaggeration. There were tears in my Cheerios that birthday morning. But I digress...

I don't know why I keep writing this. Except I am compelled to not forget what I mustn't remember. I want to hold it close to me. And to know these are my thoughts. True life memories and not my protective heart/mind speak! Maybe you are still reading me, I do hope so.

I believe It was that hot Jacksonville summer of my first eighth grade, I did two years in 8th, I was hovering around and near the cinderblock house because I sensed Mama might need me. I heard yelling so I stuck my head under the mid-century modern by-folding living room window and saw my dad wobbling in front of my mother, his double-barrel shotgun inches from her nose. It was then I heard the words that still sear my very psyche today, in my near dotterage. Mama was sitting straight in her rocking chair, It wasn't rocking, it was trembling. She was sweating in her lacey slip and no shoes. Staring into his Jackson Blu eyes and in a low steady voice she said, "Pull the trigger Jack, I'd rather be dead than married to you."

This oatmeal is delightful.

It's a giant step up especially pre-soaked. Cook In a medium microwaveable bowl empty one baggie of apples (we stashed them in the fridge behind the kale last night after the ambien but before bed.)

Within days begins the move to Grandma's. Poor Grandma. Thank God she loved us all is all I can say. We slept on scattered oriental rugs wrapped in soft clean blankets under a roaring air-conditioner and on shiny waxed tile. Honey child; we thought we were living High on the hog. Mama slept with the youngest two. As quiet fell somebody screamed and as one, we all jerked up to daddy's kicking on the front door. We all saw his face and a shotgun barrel bobbing there, backlit by the streetlights, as it appeared through the small stair-step windows. Grandma told him she was gonna call the Police. She was convinced he'd been possessed by Satan and hearing Hells bells. He said it wouldn't be the first time tonight. But he did leave.

As I settled down to sleep that night, all of us in the hallway, i cried a little it's hard to be a strong 13 year boy and be so scared at the same time. You have to wonder what went wrong and how was it your fault somehow.

I think from grandmas perspective she may have actually lived a fuller life the following half decade than those peaceful early retirement days. She had a way of shining the grandma pride beam of joy and the ability to look a thirteen year old boy in the eye, and say, "That's none of your business" too. A new home, a new way of life for us eight in the two bedroom apartment upstairs Grandma gave us. The one she rented out. Grandma liked to rest in her convictions.

You know I couldn't say as why, but I've had a burning drive to write these little stories down. Memories of characters all wanting to be recalled collectively. And placed in the best light. I'm feeling over-worded. Too many thoughts coming so fast they pass by, and me using a stylus. Sun shines brighter there even as there fades behind us. It all slips away forever eventually. Why do I feel like a lovely funeral dirge. Maybe not enough oatmeal. Dad's leaving wasn't the first time. They divorced before. Yeah! Two kids before. I guess we'll never really know the why of that. And I've accepted spilled milk is only good for the lucky kitten.

I own there is no way to excuse or deny physical, or emotional abuse. Nor must incompatibility, attraction or substance abuse be the end of all relationships. But I know one thing as a fact. My dad shouldn't have had children. He'd conveniently have jobs that had shifts so he'd be home sleeping when the house was empty. But you can believe he was there of a Saturday, ordering the boys into the bed of the current pick-up truck for that buzzed hair cut. He'd cut a watermelon on the picnic table and go in the house to eat his alone. And hunted and fished more than most. Mama used to say those were expensive hobbies. He'd say he was the mighty hunter and feeding his family. He'd lean in for a kiss, right on the mouth, and light her cigarette. That always makes me blush.

And finally gentle friends remember, sometimes it's hard to receive a gift, until it isn't given. My new sobriety won’t change who I am with you. Not how I see you, not my tone, not my care, not the ease with which I meet your sentences. What evolves is living and responding to the space we create.

It’s feeling less afraid of the edges, the pause that enlightens and brings closer everything we used to push away. Dont ever allow provocation and response—become your only conversation thats just wrong. The ability to not know, to hold two responses and choose one, to move forward without resolving everything, to say “this, for now” without demanding forever.

Animals react, humans hesitate— in that hesitation, we imagine, forgive, invent, and sometimes love better. To live in reality, here and now, turns into the reward all that booze tried to hide. The why's are still there for dusting and valuation. Maybe that is what my stories can do. Ignite a pattern of images to help clarify. To clear the mud in the puddle that is the growing into a man in the early seventies, a time of chaos societal and personal.

I've never been comfortable in close proximity to horses. They find me suspicious and I'm knee-knocking a-skairt of um'! Truth be known my country cousins lived on a dairy farm. My especial cousin's friend rode this mammoth white mule. I was visiting them, it had rained, we boys were all standing around barefoot in the mud.

Well, I want to tell you that mule gently picked up her foot closest to me and, shifting her weight, and with deliberate malice of forethought, smashed my eight year old bare foot into the gushing mud! I didn't think my foot was ever gonna hit ground bottom. But when it did she stopped. No pressure at all, just touching still but, freeze frame. Course I'd been staring at my foot the whole time unable to move.

So I chose this moment to raise my eyes very slowly . Seemed her foot was about the same size as mine and as I saw her saucer nostrils she snorted wetter than loud and, noiselessly lifted that foot and stuck it right back into that empty muddy mold it had left. Heart racing I patted her and went to be grateful alone, and yes, I cried some too.

Stir in a pat of butter, a healthy sprinkle of Ceylon cinnamon, and a sweetner; couple tbs of sugar, honey, Splenda, the pink pkg type stuff. Don't forget a wee dram of maple syrup. Now microwave on high two and a half minutes. Add the waiting soaked oats, stir, and cook one minute.

Yourself will love you for the effort. We reap what we sow, a stitch in time... like water under the bridge, and that sand in an hourglass

Alright mama, sending hopes to everyone! Enjoy breakfast

In conclusion, anyone who sees themselves in my stories, I'm humbled you think so and for your lost childhood. I used alcohol and my wits for forty years to learn this story. The others who were there or who grew up in the deep south and know we never talk about a thing easier talked around, will admit to similar events. But memories are unique and personal to each. Most are no longer here to tell the other versions.

But it's sobriety now that fills the ink in my pen and the pace of the journey. Opening and closing doors of hope and missed opportunity. The future, long or short. The future and a promise of my continued success in that ignoble endeavor.

With that and a deep bow for your kindness in reading this through to the end. With utmost respect, here's to your continued good health.

May you receive the love you give.

Lewis waited for his name to be called as he sat in the viewing area, stimming off of his towel and watching the matches. Margaret looked at him, puzzled as to how he was so calm.

"How are you not worried?" She asked him. "Aren't you incapable of using magic?"

He shrugged. "What happens, happens. You'll see."

She scoffed in disgust, flicking her hair with sass. "Ugh, whatever. Don't say I didn't warn you. Besides it's not like I was worried about you or anything." She walked away.

"Okay..." He said, and went back to watching the matches as he stimmed off of his towel, waiting for his name to be called. His mana was stable and flowed at a steady rate. His breathing was calm, and he was more than ready and eager for his upcoming match.

Thirty minutes later, his name was called. Lewis got up and went into the arena, still carrying his towel with him and stimming off of it. He put a magical barrier on the towel to ensure that it was safe from magical attacks and any shrapnel that came its way, then turned to face his opponent for the match.

Chester walked forward, chest puffed out and confident. When he saw Lewis, he scoffed, sneering at him and laughing at the apparent absurdity of what his assigned opponent was doing. "Aww, is the wittle baby so scared that he needs his blankie-wankie?" He said, mockingly mimicking the movements of Lewis's fingers and mouth. Face flushing, Lewis simply glared at him and rolled his eyes, waiting for the match to begin as the audience jeered, waiting for the match to begin so that they could see it end the way they thought it obviously would.

The referee declared the beginning of the match. Lewis immediately trapped Chester in a giant bubble of water and held him inside it for a full minute before releasing him. The audience gasped, shocked at the scene that had just played out. Chester coughed up water and saw red, then charged at him. Lewis simply responded by surrounding him with an electrically charged flaming whirlwind and aiming jagged rocks and iron rods at him from above. The heat dried him off quickly while the sharp, pointy projectiles floated dozens of yards above his head as they pointed right at him. Frightened, Chester froze in place for three minutes, shuddering helplessly before finally he surrendered. The audience went silent.

Lewis dispelled the whirlwind, then gently lowered the projectiles toward the ground, rotating them to point upwards as he did so. Stunned and surprised, the referee stood frozen in place for a few moments before finally declaring Lewis the victor.

The audience began whispering to each other, still overcome with disbelief at what they'd just witnessed. Margaret and her friend Aislinn went sheet white, realizing just how powerful he'd been this whole time. Lewis simply bowed humbly, then left the arena to go take a seat in the viewing area. Margaret and Aislinn approached him cautiously. There was an awkward silence between the three of them for a few moments.

"So..." said Margaret, finally speaking up, "about what we just saw... have you-"

"Have you been capable of all that this whole time?" interrupted Aislinn, cutting straight to the point.

"Yes and no?" replied Lewis.

Aislinn frowned. "What is that supposed to even mean? And why would you-"

Margaret motioned for her friend to stop talking for a moment, then signaled for Lewis to resume talking.

Lewis picked up where he left off. "It's complicated," he said, matter-of-factly. "I have had strong magical abilities my whole life, but only very recently have I been able to fully control it. I was born with autism, you see. My parents tried their best to be understanding but never fully understood me until a few years back. I wound up having to suppress my true self so much just to try and be 'normal' that I became prone to frequent emotional outbursts, making my power rather... volatile. I would turn into a destructive force of nature."

"So what did you do?" asked Margaret, concerned.

"I tried to remedy it by suppressing my power. It didn't work, however, and after one particularly bad outburst several years back, I wound up getting much needed professional help instead. Only after I stopped suppressing my true autistic self did I learn to better control my power." He answered. "Though even then, it wasn't until very recently that I became able to fully control it."

"Oh," responded Aislinn and Margaret, "sorry that you had to go through that. And for coming off as rude."

"No worries. It was all in the past. And I wasn't really offended."

"Well, in any case, thank you for sharing this with us," said Margaret and Aislinn. If you've any concerns, we'll help get them addressed."

"Thanks for the kindness," responded Lewis with a smile. He then turned to continue watching the matches play out, stimming off of his towel.

The legend of "Praia da Rocha" (Boulder Beach).

Many millennia ago, before the emergence of the first humans, when the world was ruled by powerful and merciless gods and mystical beings roamed freely in the wild, and before the great war between gods and titans, two lesser gods, cousins, lived on the southern coast of what we now call Portugal, but was then called Lusitania. One was the son of the great Pontus, the primordial god of the sea and its creatures, and he disguised himself as a fisherman.

The other was the son of one of the great Ourea, primordial goddesses of the mountains, and he disguised himself as a giant. There was a rivalry between the cousins, but after centuries, they came to terms. The fisherman would live in the sea, and the giant would live in the mountains. Until one day, a mermaid that had travelled a very long distance arrived on Portuguese shores and lay to rest. The fisherman, who had witnessed what had occurred, came to meet her.

- “I don’t know from where you came, but I must warn you that all that you see is mine, for it was the sea that made this place, and I am the son of the sea!”

The mermaid smiled in a way that soothed the fisherman, and then answered:

- “Hello fisherman, I come from a distant land, a very distant land, so distant that you might never have heard of it. I have been swimming for so long, and when I saw this beautiful beach, I decided to lie down and rest, and now it seems I have fallen in love with your beach.”

- "What is your name?” - asked the fisherman.

- “I have travelled for so long that even my name I have forgotten, I am but a mermaid.”

- “Then welcome, you may rest now, for this beach is now yours,” answered the fisherman, enchanted by the mermaid. At the same instant, a deep and fierce voice echoed:

- “DON'T GIVE AWAY WHAT ISN'T YOURS, FISHERMAN! THIS LAND IS MINE, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN THAT MADE IT, AND I AM THE SON OF THE MOUNTAIN, AND SO, ALL YOU SEE IS MINE!” - The giant had come down from the mountain peaks to see what was going on.

- "Then maybe you shall be my mate, oh great giant!” - answered the mermaid.

After the explosive entry of the giant, a fight had broken out between the two gods to decide who would marry the beautiful mermaid and be the owner of the beach. In the sea, enormous waves were forming out of control, and in the mountains, the ground had started trembling, the trees shaking, the rocks cracking, and the mountain appeared like it was moulding and remoulding itself to match the waves. The fight between the two gods seemed inevitable until the mermaid calmed them down by ordering:

- “Don't be enraged! Bring me proof of your love for me and show me what you can offer for mine. I will wait for you here. Now go, I am tired and must rest.”

The two gods hesitantly left to search for their offerings, the fisherman was submerged by the sea, and the giant hiked up the mountain.

The fisherman was the first to arrive with his offering; he brought with him the sea. The beautiful, mesmerizing ocean, coloured with shades of blue and green, the scent of seaweed spreading through the atmosphere.

- “This is all my sea, and it will all be yours!”

The mermaid gazed with wonder. Then, suddenly, the giant spoke:

- “HERE I AM, AND I OFFER YOU THE GRACEFUL ROCK AT THE TOP OF THE WORLD, WHERE THE EARTH MEETS THE SKY. I HAVE ALREADY ASKED OUR UNCLES AND AUNTS FOR THEIR SUPPORT. THE SUN SHALL KEEP YOU WARM, THE FOUNTAINS SHALL REFRESH YOU, AND THE WIND SHALL LULL YOU TO SLEEP EACH NIGHT. YOU WILL BE THE QUEEN OF THE MOUNTAINS!”

- “You are too late, giant; I already feel like the queen of the seas,” - answered the mermaid.

Enraged by the rejection, the giant made it so that huge rocks rolled down the side of the mountain cliffs, down to the beach, and surrounded the mermaid, trapping her in a type of natural prison. Another fight broke out between the gods, with the giant hurling boulders down to the beach and the fisherman creating waves large enough to swallow ships whole, that crashed against the stone prison, trying to break the rocks but without success.

 And so they fought on and on, day after day, night after night. Until one day, the mermaid, unable to decide, magically turned into mystical sand, the finest and thinnest of all sands. At that moment, the gods ceased their fighting, realizing their mistake, and to honour the mermaid, created a natural shrine to her, both with the power of the sea and the mountains. Legend says that if you go to that same beach today, find this natural shrine and listen very closely, you can still hear the gods fighting and the poor mermaid weeping.

After the partial destruction of the wall surrounding my neighborhood, a thought has been circling around my mind. The walls which I had once thought were built with the sole intent to keep my people and I locked in may have instead been built to keep whatever the hell those things were out.

 If you haven’t read my last posts, my city has been under lockdown due to what until recently I had thought of as a powerful flu-type virus. After internal strife within my neighborhood and an incident involving the military atop the wall that holds us, beasts indescribable came down upon our home and pillaged anything they could.

As I sit in the damp and musty hole that is our hideaway, I listen to the little that remains of the neighborhood leadership bicker and argue.

“We will last here until the armed forces can extract us! Until then we will wait and do whatever it takes in our power to contact them!”

“Do you even hear the words coming out of your mouth? Those brutes not only killed one of us but kept those monsters a secret from us all this time! How could we ever possibly hope to trust men like that?”

“What choice do we have?” Endlessly, they went back and forth, exhausting my attention until the topic of the things' origins came up.

“All this time they’ve been taking shots out into the open. There we were speculating on what they could be up to all this time, but I don't think one of us could have seen this coming.”

“You state the obvious; what’s your point?”

“They kept these terrible things secret for a reason. This goes beyond classifying a new disease for research. What is going on outside that they could not tell us a word of these beasts?” The room fell silent, forcing me to listen to the dull, muffled screeching echoing from down the halls. Since the lockdown began, an effort had been made to reach alternative tunnel routes that could possibly lead to other neighborhoods or the outside world and the machinery used was not quiet.

“Whatever is out there, it is our right to know! If the military is busy fighting those things, then we will use their lack of attention to do as we please!” The room stirred for a moment before a young woman rushed into the room with panic across her face and shouted.

“Gentlemen, there is something wrong!” At once the group of men stood to their feet and followed the woman as she rushed down the narrow halls. Everyone they ran past carried a grim look upon their faces.

Reaching the room, men and women in makeshift hazmat suits surrounded an injured man who twisted and screamed under them. Evidently, he was wounded from the initial attack by the beasts, but whatever occurred now was more than just that.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was this bad!” the woman who had originally led us this way, screamed to the leaders. “Please step back-” But before she could finish, blood spewed from all of the man's orifices with a jolting burst.

“He is infected! Why have you brought us here?” One of the leaders screamed, but the woman was too horrified to even respond. “Abandon this room! Cave it in!” People all around scattered, and the leader's eyes darted manically.

“We are putting a quarantine into effect immediately! There will be no uncontrolled contact until this matter is settled!” One screamed, and word spread fast.

As I sit in my designated quarantine space alone, I wonder how things could have gone wrong so fast. Two meals are all that's being brought out daily as supplies run low. After the incident, a few more died from the virus, all in the room at the time of the sick man's dramatic death, but for the most part things have been contained. The effects on the mind have been another story, though. I consider myself to have a good deal of mental fortitude, but even I am beginning to feel a terrible something crawling around in the corners of my mind. Rustling can be heard just down the hall, and I believe some are beginning to disregard the quarantine.

Perhaps worst of all, there has been another sound which I have been telling myself I imagine. Quietly, as if hidden beyond something greater, I have been hearing the terrible scuttling of those crawling beasts that forced us down here in the first place. After all our neighborhood has been through, I don’t think we can take another fight. I pray that aid will come soon wherever it chooses to be from. I will write again soon, and hopefully by then some answers will have revealed themselves.

🐸💚 The Wonder Frogs
The story of Bandit and Lily — from darkness to a lifetime of love.
Once upon a time, there was a little green frog named Bandit.
He wasn’t always the kindest frog. He had made mistakes, hurt others and struggled with a past that he couldn’t undo. Beneath his tough exterior was someone who was frightened of what he had become and whether he could ever be anything better.
Then, one day, he met Lily.
Lily was a petite green frog with a brave heart and a kindness that she refused to let the world take away from her. She didn’t pretend Bandit’s mistakes hadn’t happened, and she didn’t promise that changing would be easy. But she saw that he could choose a different path.
And slowly, Bandit began to believe her.
🐸 The little frog who chose to change
Bandit’s journey wasn’t a simple one.
Jealousy and desperation had once led him to drink Mutagen Ooze, transforming him into the enormous King Battletoad. His rampage hurt innocent people, and even those who loved him couldn’t pretend the damage hadn’t happened.
When he finally returned to himself, Bandit faced the consequences of his actions. He couldn’t erase the fear he’d caused or make everything right with a single apology. He had to keep choosing kindness, even when living with his past felt unbearable.
At his lowest point, when he thought there was no future left for him, Lily found him beside a lake.
She stayed with him.
She helped him see that his life didn’t have to be defined by the worst thing he had ever done.
And Bandit chose to stay alive.
Later, Lily gave him a blue scarf for his birthday. It became something precious to him: a reminder that his past was real, but so was the possibility of a better tomorrow.
The little frog who had once become a monster began learning how to be gentle.
💚 A love worth fighting for
Bandit and Lily fell in love.
Their relationship wasn’t built on pretending that neither of them had ever suffered. It grew through trust, patience, laughter and the small moments in which they discovered that being together could feel like coming home.
Bandit wanted to ask Lily on their first proper date. He prepared flowers and a lovely meal, imagining how happy she would be.
But Lily never arrived.
She had discovered evidence of corruption and mistreatment at the rehabilitation centre and had been kidnapped by Blackhorn, the son of the powerful Rex Blackthorn.
The documents Lily had uncovered revealed terrible wrongdoing: falsified records, mistreatment of vulnerable residents and families being exploited. Lily had risked herself because she believed those people deserved justice.
When Bandit realised she was missing, he refused to abandon her.
His big brother by choice, Brutus, stood beside him. Brutus was a huge, muscular frog with a rough past of his own, but he had decided that his strength would be used to protect rather than destroy.
And Victor Vance, a dangerous former assassin who had committed terrible acts, ultimately made the decision to sacrifice himself to save Bandit, Brutus and Lily.
Their rescue came at an enormous cost.
🐸 Lily’s courage
Inside the mansion, Blackhorn threatened Bandit and tried to kill him. He had Lily trapped and believed he could control everyone through fear.
But he had underestimated her.
When Blackhorn choked Bandit and threatened him with a shotgun, Lily acted. She took Blackhorn’s own weapon and fired to stop him, saving the frog she loved.
Lily wasn’t merely someone waiting to be rescued.
When the moment came, she rescued Bandit.
Blackhorn died during the confrontation. His father, Rex Blackthorn, was exposed as the mastermind behind the corrupt operation. Brutus helped restrain Rex, and the evidence gathered by Lily and the others brought the truth into the open.
Rex was arrested and sentenced to life imprisonment. His influence crumbled, his businesses collapsed, and the name Blackthorn lost the power it had once held.
The people who had been exploited finally had a chance to be heard.
And Hope, who had survived the Battletoad incident and chosen to build a new life, went on to manage a reformed rehabilitation centre with proper oversight and safeguards.
The survivors could begin rebuilding.
Not everyone made it home. Victor did not return from the mansion. His sacrifice remained a painful part of their story, but his final choice showed that even someone with a terrible past could choose to protect others.
They would remember him.
💍 The wedding by the lake
At last, Bandit and Lily got their happy ending.
They married beside the lake, surrounded by white flowers, green ribbons and glowing lanterns. Their friends gathered beneath the flower arch, including Finn, AJ Lee, Bayley, Brutus, Hope and the people whose lives had been touched by their journey.
The ceremony was beautiful, but it was also full of laughter.
When the officiant declared them Mr and Mrs Wonder Frog, Finn became so overwhelmed with excitement that he practically bounced out of his little seat.
“WONDER FROG! HE’S FINALLY WONDER FROG!”
Everyone laughed.
Bandit wore his suit with Lily’s beloved blue scarf folded against his chest. The scarf had begun as a birthday present, but it had come to represent everything they had survived and everything they still had to live for.
Then, just as the wedding seemed to be entering its happiest moment, Stitch Blackthorn attacked with a gun and fired at Lily.
Bandit dived in front of his bride.
The scarf helped protect him from serious injury, although he struck his head in the chaos. Finn bravely confronted Stitch, Brutus restrained him, and the police arrived.
Once again, the past had tried to steal their future.
But it hadn’t succeeded.
Bandit recovered, Lily was safe, and the wedding continued.
Bandit held his beautiful wife close and murmured, “Not on my wedding day…”
Lily kissed him.
For the first time in a very long time, they could look ahead without knowing that danger was waiting around the next corner.
They were husband and wife.
And they were home.
🌊 Their peaceful life
After everything they had endured, Bandit and Lily went on their seaside honeymoon. They walked along the beach, enjoyed quiet evenings together and discovered that happiness didn’t always need a grand adventure.
When they returned home, they ate the wedding food AJ and Bayley had left over and laughed about the chaos of the ceremony.
They spoke about their future, including the possibility of starting a family one day. They didn’t need to decide everything immediately. For now, it was enough to know that they had a home, people who loved them and time to discover what came next.
Brutus remained Bandit’s brother in every way that mattered. Hope continued her work helping others. Finn, AJ and Bayley remained part of their circle of friends. And the people who had survived Rex Blackthorn’s corruption had the opportunity to build lives of their own.
There would still be difficult days. Healing didn’t mean forgetting, and love didn’t make every scar disappear.
But Bandit no longer had to face those days alone.
🌅 The final evening
One evening, long after the wedding, Bandit and Lily returned to the lake where so much of their story had begun.
The sun was setting, painting the water gold. The air was still, and the only sounds were the gentle ripples against the shore and the distant calls of birds.
Bandit sat beside Lily, his blue scarf resting around his neck.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then Bandit looked at her with a little smile.
“I’m getting too old for that shit, Lily.”
Lily burst out laughing.
“You say that as if you weren’t the one who kept getting yourself into trouble!”
“Me? Never.”
She gave him a playful look.
“Bandit!”
“Alright, alright. Maybe occasionally.”
Lily leaned against him, and Bandit wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her gently, no longer needing to prove that he was strong or dangerous or worthy of being loved.
He had learned that strength could mean admitting when you were wrong. It could mean asking for help. It could mean protecting someone without trying to control them. And sometimes, it could simply mean waking up the next morning and choosing to be kind again.
Lily rested her head against his shoulder.
“Do you ever wonder what happens next?”
Bandit looked out across the lake.
“Sometimes.”
“And?”
He squeezed her hand.
“I think we find out together.”
She smiled and kissed him once more.
They stayed there as the last light faded, two little frogs who had travelled through fear, grief, mistakes and danger to reach a place where they could finally be still.
They couldn’t change yesterday.
But they had chosen what to do tomorrow, again and again, until tomorrow became a life they wanted to live.
And perhaps one day there would be little frog children running through their home, asking about the blue scarf, the brave friends and the extraordinary adventures that had brought their parents together.
Perhaps there would be more adventures, too.
But those stories didn’t need to be told tonight.
Tonight, Bandit and Lily were together.
Tonight, they were safe.
Tonight, the lake was peaceful.
And the Wonder Frogs lived on—not because their lives would never hold sadness again, but because they had found love, hope and the courage to keep going.
The end. 💚🐸

🐸 The Little Champion
A psychological horror story about love, obsession, and the right to be yourself.
Chapter One: Their Little Champion
AJ Lee and Bayley had always wanted a little champion of their own.
Then one day, they found him.
He was a tiny green frog with bright eyes and a charming little face. They named him Finn, and before long, he became the centre of their world.
They dressed him in adorable outfits, bought him a miniature championship belt, carried him everywhere and took countless photographs. They cuddled him, kissed his little head and told him how special he was.
To anyone watching, their relationship looked sweet.
Finn was their little champion, their pride and joy.
But there was something nobody understood about AJ and Bayley. Their love for Finn was slowly becoming an obsession.
They couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. They wanted him to stay little, stay close and remain their beloved champion forever.
But forever was something they couldn’t have.
One day, Finn died.
He was found lying on the road after the arena had emptied. His tiny green body lay still, and his championship journey was over.
AJ and Bayley were devastated.
They cried for him, clinging to his photographs and remembering every precious moment they had shared. They refused to accept that their little champion was gone.
They believed he would come back.
And eventually, they decided that he had.
Chapter Two: The First Replacement
Unable to live with their grief, AJ and Bayley visited an animal pound.
There, they found a little green male frog with no name and no family. He had never known the life Finn had lived. He was simply another innocent frog looking for somewhere to belong.
The moment AJ saw him, she gasped.
AJ: “Bayley… look!”
Bayley stared at the little frog.
Bayley: “Finn?”
The frog looked up at them, uncertain.
AJ: “Our little champion has come back!”
They took him home and gave him Finn’s old championship belt. They dressed him in tiny clothes and filled his new home with photographs of the original frog.
They kissed him, cuddled him and told him how much they had missed him.
At first, the little frog enjoyed the attention. He had never been cared for like this before. He liked being warm, having food and being held gently.
But soon, he realised that something was wrong.
They never asked who he was.
They never cared what he liked.
They simply expected him to be Finn.
When he tried to explain, the women smiled.
Frog: “I’m not Finn. My name isn’t Finn.”
AJ: “Oh, listen to him! He’s expressing himself!”
Bayley: “Our little champion is growing up!”
The frog tried again.
Frog: “I’m a different frog. Please understand.”
AJ hugged him closer.
AJ: “You don’t have to pretend with us, sweetheart. We know who you are.”
He went quiet.
They believed him to be someone he wasn’t, and nothing he said could change their minds.
Chapter Three: The Endless Cycle
The first replacement frog eventually died.
AJ and Bayley were heartbroken all over again. They held him close, cried over him and told him that he would always be their special boy.
Then they returned to the pound.
They found another little green frog.
He had no name, no family and no idea what awaited him.
Bayley: “He’s back, AJ!”
AJ: “Our little champion! He’s come home!”
And so the cycle continued.
Over the years, AJ and Bayley took home twelve replacement frogs after the original Finn. Each one was different. Each had his own personality, fears and preferences. Every one of them was innocent.
Yet every one was called Finn.
Some enjoyed the cuddles at first. Some were curious about the championship belt. Some liked the warmth and the attention.
But eventually, each discovered the truth.
They weren’t loved for who they were. They were loved for the role they had been forced to play.
When a frog protested, AJ and Bayley called it imagination.
When a frog said he wanted to leave, they called it a game.
When a frog ran away, they laughed and said their little champion was playing hide-and-seek.
AJ: “He’s being cheeky today!”
Bayley: “That’s our Finn! Always keeping us on our toes!”
They never understood what they were doing.
Or rather, their minds refused to accept it.
Every contradiction became another reason to believe. Every protest became a joke. Every escape attempt became proof that their little champion was playful.
Whenever a frog died or disappeared, the women grieved as though they had lost Finn forever.
Then another little green frog would appear, and their happiness would return.
“Our little champion is home!”
The frogs came and went, but the fantasy never changed.
Chapter Four: The Three Who Planned to Escape
Eventually, three of the frogs decided that they had to leave.
Two of them had been living under AJ and Bayley’s control. The third had managed to escape once before, but he had returned to warn the others about the women.
He told them everything.
Escaped Frog: “They won’t let you go. They don’t understand that we’re different frogs. They think every one of us is Finn.”
Frog One: “But they feed us. They cuddle us. Sometimes they’re kind.”
Escaped Frog: “That’s what makes it so confusing. They can be gentle with you and still refuse to listen when you say no.”
The other two fell silent.
Frog Two: “What happens when we tell them we want to leave?”
Escaped Frog: “They chase us. They grab us. They tell us we’re playing a game.”
The frogs looked at one another.
They had no desire to hurt anybody. They simply wanted to live their own lives.
They planned their escape carefully.
One day, when AJ and Bayley were distracted, the three little frogs made their move.
They hopped towards the door.
For a few glorious moments, they were outside.
But the women noticed.
AJ: “BAYLEY! FINN’S RUNNING AWAY!”
Bayley: “OUR LITTLE CHAMPION! COME BACK!”
The women rushed after them.
The frogs hopped as fast as their little legs could carry them.
One frog deliberately stayed behind, trying to distract the women long enough for the other two to get away.
He turned towards AJ and Bayley and hopped in the opposite direction.
Frog: “GO! KEEP GOING!”
Bayley caught sight of him and rushed towards him.
In the confusion, she accidentally stepped on the tiny frog.
He was crushed beneath her foot.
For a moment, Bayley stared down at him.
Then she shook her head.
Bayley: “He’s not dead! He’s still there, look!”
AJ looked over.
AJ: “Of course he is! Our little champion is just playing!”
Neither woman accepted what had happened. Their minds immediately transformed the terrible sight into something they could bear to believe.
They turned their attention back to the other two frogs.
AJ: “COME BACK, FINN!”
The surviving frogs continued running.
Behind them, the third frog lay still.
He had given his life trying to help his friends escape.
Chapter Five: End of the Line
The two surviving frogs kept hopping until they reached a railway line.
They stopped.
On one side stood Bayley.
On the other stood AJ.
The women had caught up with them and were blocking both directions.
Bayley: “End of the line, little champion.”
AJ took a step closer.
AJ: “Come on, Finn. It’s time to go home.”
The two frogs pressed close together.
Frog One: “We’re not Finn!”
Frog Two: “Please, just let us go!”
But AJ and Bayley continued approaching them.
The frogs were trapped between the two women, with nowhere obvious to turn.
Then they heard a sound behind AJ and Bayley.
A distant rumble.
A train horn.
The ground began to tremble.
The frogs turned towards the noise and saw an enormous train approaching.
Frog One: “LOOK OUT! THERE’S A TRAIN COMING!”
Frog Two: “YOU HAVE TO MOVE! GET OFF THE TRACKS!”
But the women barely acknowledged them.
Bayley: “Aw, look how excited they are!”
AJ: “They want us to come and get them!”
The train grew louder.
Finally, AJ heard the horn directly behind her. She turned around, and Bayley spun around beside her.
Their faces changed as they saw the locomotive approaching.
Then AJ looked through the front window.
She saw a tiny green frog in the driver’s cab.
To her, it was Finn.
Their Little Champion.
Their boy had returned to them at last.
AJ: “BAYLEY! LOOK! IT’S FINN!”
Bayley stared through the window.
Bayley: “OH MY GOODNESS! OUR LITTLE CHAMPION HAS COME BACK TO GET US!”
The fear vanished from their faces.
They began waving, smiling and stretching their arms towards the train.
AJ: “WOW, FINN! YOU’RE COMING! HOP TO US! LET US HOLD YOU!”
Bayley: “OUR LITTLE CHAMPION! WE’RE SO PROUD OF YOU!”
The two frogs stared at the women in horror.
Frog One: “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?! THAT’S A TRAIN!”
Frog Two: “IT’S COMING RIGHT AT YOU! PLEASE MOVE!”
The women didn’t listen.
They were too busy welcoming the imaginary return of their beloved champion.
The frogs tried to push them. They threw their tiny bodies against the women’s ankles, struggling with all their strength.
But they were too small to move either woman.
The train was getting closer.
Frog One: “WE CAN’T SAVE THEM!”
Frog Two: “IT’S COMING!”
The first frog looked desperately at his companion.
Frog One: “WE HAVE TO SAVE OURSELVES OR WE’LL END UP LIKE THE OTHER FROGS!”
Frog Two: “WHAT DO YOU MEAN?!”
Frog One: “DEAD!”
For one last moment, the two frogs tried to make the women understand.
But AJ and Bayley kept smiling at the approaching locomotive.
They believed their champion was coming home.
The frogs finally made their decision.
They hopped off the tracks.
They landed safely beside the railway and turned back.
AJ and Bayley remained where they were, their arms stretched wide.
AJ: “COME TO MUMMY, FINN!”
Bayley: “WE ALWAYS KNEW YOU’D COME BACK!”
The horn sounded one final time.
The train struck the women, knocking them off the tracks into the darkness below.
The locomotive thundered past.
And then, at last, there was silence.
Chapter Six: Freedom and Justice
The two frogs stood together beside the tracks.
They stared into the darkness where AJ and Bayley had disappeared.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Finally, one turned towards the other.
Frog One: “Wow… they’re finally gone.”
The other frog looked at him.
Frog Two: “So… what is your name?”
The first frog lowered his head.
Frog One: “I never got one.”
His companion looked surprised.
Frog Two: “You never had a name?”
Frog One: “No. They always called me Finn. They never wanted to know who I really was.”
The second frog thought for a moment.
Frog Two: “Then I’ll give you one.”
The first frog looked up.
Frog One: “Really?”
Frog Two: “I’ll call you Freedom.”
The little frog repeated the word.
Freedom: “Freedom…”
For the first time, he had a name that belonged to him.
Freedom smiled and turned to his companion.
Freedom: “What about you? You deserve a name, too.”
The second frog thought carefully.
Freedom: “What would you call me?”
Justice: “I’ll call you Justice.”
The other frog nodded.
Freedom: “Justice. Because we both deserved to be heard. We deserved to be treated as ourselves.”
The two frogs looked at each other.
They were no longer Finn One and Finn Two.
They were Freedom and Justice.
They had survived.
And now, at last, they could decide what happened next.
Chapter Seven: The Women Beneath the Tracks
Meanwhile, beneath the railway tracks, AJ and Bayley lay together in the darkness.
Both had suffered fatal injuries in the collision. They could barely move or speak.
Far above them, the train had disappeared into the distance.
Nobody could see them.
Nobody could hear them.
AJ slowly turned her head towards Bayley.
AJ: “Bayley…?”
Bayley: “I’m here.”
AJ looked into the darkness beyond them.
Her expression softened.
AJ: “I see him, Bayley…”
Bayley followed her gaze.
Bayley: “You do…? I see him too.”
In their fading consciousness, they imagined a tiny green frog hopping towards them.
Their Little Champion.
The frog they had loved and lost.
AJ: “He’s coming…”
Bayley: “Our little champion… coming, hopping towards us…”
AJ’s voice trembled.
AJ: “We always loved you, Finn…”
Bayley reached towards her friend, their hands touching in the darkness.
Bayley: “We never forgot you. You were always our special boy…”
AJ looked towards the imagined figure.
AJ: “Our little champion…”
Bayley: “Finn…”
Then their voices stopped.
The darkness grew still.
AJ and Bayley died believing their beloved champion was coming back to them.
They never understood that the frogs they had taken home were individuals with their own identities, their own fears and their own lives.
Even at the very end, their fantasy remained intact.
Chapter Eight: A World of Their Own
Freedom and Justice travelled towards the woods beyond the railway.
They were exhausted, frightened and still trying to understand what had happened.
They found a quiet pond and rested beside the water.
For the first time, nobody called them Finn.
Nobody tried to dress them up, hold them against their will or insist they were someone else.
They could simply exist.
Justice looked at the water.
Justice: “Freedom… do you ever think about what happened to them?”
Freedom was quiet for a moment.
Freedom: “Sometimes.”
Justice: “They really died, didn’t they?”
Freedom: “I think so. We saw the train hit them.”
Justice lowered his head.
Justice: “I hated what they did to us. But I never wanted anyone to die.”
Freedom nodded.
Freedom: “Neither did I. We tried to save them. We pushed them and shouted at them. They wouldn’t listen.”
Justice: “Does that make us bad frogs? We escaped and left them there.”
Freedom shook his head.
Freedom: “We tried to help them, Justice. We were too small to move them. We had to save ourselves.”
Justice thought about it.
Justice: “I wish they’d listened.”
Freedom: “So do I.”
They didn’t celebrate the women’s deaths. They could feel sadness about what had happened without blaming themselves for it.
But neither wanted to return to the life they had escaped.
They had finally been given a chance to live.
As the days passed, the two frogs explored the woods, found food and discovered peaceful places to rest. They met other frogs and began to learn what life could be like without fear.
Eventually, they found a beautiful pond where Justice decided he wanted to stay.
Justice: “I think I’d like to make this my home.”
Freedom smiled.
Freedom: “Then you should. You deserve somewhere you can call home.”
Justice looked at his friend.
Justice: “What about you?”
Freedom: “I want to see what’s out there. I want to discover who I am when nobody is telling me who to be.”
They touched their little green hands together.
Justice: “Will I ever see you again?”
Freedom: “I hope so.”
Freedom paused.
Freedom: “And if we do, you won’t have to call me Finn. You’ll know exactly who I am.”
Justice: “Freedom.”
Freedom: “And you’ll always be Justice.”
They said goodbye.
Justice settled beside the peaceful pond, while Freedom hopped onwards into the wider world.
They went their separate ways, but not because they stopped caring about each other.
They had learned that being free meant having the right to choose their own lives.
Epilogue: The Little Champion
Eventually, the railway workers discovered AJ and Bayley’s bodies beneath the tracks.
Their deaths became a terrible tragedy. Their identities were confirmed, and their families were informed.
But nobody knew the whole story.
Nobody knew about the twelve replacement frogs.
Nobody knew about the innocent little creatures who had been forced to live under the name Finn.
Nobody knew that two frogs had tried to save the women before escaping.
And nobody knew that, somewhere beyond the railway, two little green frogs were finally living under the names they had chosen for themselves.
Freedom and Justice never returned to the house.
They sometimes remembered AJ and Bayley. They wondered what might have happened if the women had listened to them.
But they did not spend the rest of their lives looking backwards.
They had survived a world in which they were never allowed to be themselves.
Now they could choose where to go, who to trust and what kind of lives they wanted.
The original Finn was gone.
AJ and Bayley were gone.
The endless cycle was over.
And the two frogs who had once been known only as replacements finally had something that had always belonged to them.
Their own identities.
Their own futures.
Their freedom.
Because love is not forcing someone to become the person you want them to be. True love means allowing them to be who they are—even when that means letting them go. 🐸💚

No matter the venue, there’s never an empty seat. People from all around the world came to see Ace, Master of the Arcane. I’m just his assistant. I’m a prop at best or a guinea pig at worst. Truthfully, I’ve been worse. I mean that literally. You see, Ace is a REAL magician. His magic is the real deal. We never go over what the shows will entail. I don’t have any cues. They aren’t needed. I simply show up, smile, and keep my mouth shut. That’s how Ace pitched it to me when we first met all those years ago and it’s been just that.

The money is good. The women are better. He’s the superstar and I’m famous by association. Ace loves the limelight. He smiles big enough that the people in the nosebleeds see. He performs impossible feats one after the other, dumbfounding audiences, and he bows as they praise him. I simply smile and wave, but in all honesty Ace terrifies me. His “tricks” grow more bold and dangerous as his ego rises. “You think anyone has put it together yet?” He asks me after every show while counting money by hand.

I think he secretly wants his powers to be discovered. Last night he made me disappear and reappear too fast. I was teleported rapidly throughout the crowd and became nauseous. He’s transformed me into creatures both real and fantastical. I rather enjoyed being a dragon but felt myself becoming feral. I ate raw meat for a week after that particular “trick” and asked he at least keep the creatures based in reality. I think it was the dragon’s power that affected my mind. There were never any side effects from the lion or tiger transformations. He obliged but seemed agitated by the request.

In truth, starting to become afraid. Ace has began to actually practice. He’s never done that before. I always thought that he was gifted by God, but lately he’s been different. Three times now, I’ve seen him cut himself then heal the wound. Each new cut was deeper and wider than the last, but still healed without a scar. Today, he used shears to behead a rabbit. Light emanated from his hands as he waved over the rabbit’s body. The head reattached but the rabbit remained motionless, still he gave a satisfied grin when he looked up and saw me. “Do you trust me?” He asked with raised eyebrows. I gulped but answered yes. How could I not? Who was I to call him crazy? I knew nothing about magic, not even the fake kind. He practiced this for a week and after getting the same results I could tell he was getting frustrated though he always kept a smile.

The audiences never complained or diminished in size. Ace was pushing himself for his own hubris. It would have been admirable if I wasn’t so afraid. When a cashier asked why he bought so many rabbits Ace said he gifted them to young fans after the shows. We stopped buying rabbits after that and moved on to animal shelters and taking in strays. None survived. Eventually I couldn’t stomach to see him practice. Then there was the breakthrough. “FINALLY!” He yelled. I rushed to his study.

He was playing fetch with a golden retriever we’d recently picked up. The dog was happy and wagging its tail. Ace gave me a smile I hadn’t seen since we first began our endeavor. “I figured it out.” He said and pointed with his chin. I followed the point and hoped my smile was convincing. In the trash, there was the head of a golden retriever. “Throw that out would you.” I had grown numb to throwing away the bodies of his failed attempts but this was different. This was a success, right? Why was there still something to throw away. Tonight we had another show. I gulped dry.

As usual there was not an empty seat in the venue. Ace was eerily upbeat backstage. None of his previous performances required a sword but he had one sheathed on his side. When the show began he was in a flow state. He floated into the spotlight. Flight, was a new trick. Stagehands looked amongst each other in confusion. None had prepped wires for a trick like this. Even they clapped and cheered. Ace sang and flew over and through the crowd. He picked up a small lady and whizzed through the air before bringing her back to her seat.

Then he motioned me to center stage. He told the story of kings and treasure. It was a tale he’d used in previous performances before transforming me. I gave him a knowing glare and screamed “you’d better not” with my eyes. He had a look of mischief on his face. He transformed me throughout the adventurous tale and I played along. I was a horse of battle, a whale that sank ships, and then a dragon that guarded riches. He continued his storytelling and commented that I breathed fire. I roared into the air and sure enough flames erupted from my mouth. Then everything went dark.

I awoke in my own body again with the audience cheering louder than ever before. Ace was next to me holding my hand which was how we ended shows with a bow. I bowed and threw up in my mouth and tasted smoke. At my feet was the head of a dragon. Ace was holding up a bloody sword and taking in the adoration and deafening cheers.

When we were backstage and out of earshot I berated him. “What was that?!” A rhetorical question, I continued to lash out. Ace didn’t seem to take me seriously. I punch him square and that got his attention. He was perplexed by my adverse reaction which only upset me more. “Do you not trust me?” He asked, wiping blood from his lip.
“Trust isn’t the problem.” I said. “We agreed to no more fantasy creatures, and you then you kill me?”
“You seem very much alive to me.” He said. I punched him again.
“Let me show you something.” He said.

We drove home in silence. When we arrived I followed him to his study. He waved his hand and an entire wall in the room disappeared revealing a stone staircase that descended into darkness. At the bottom of the stairs was another study that had books I could tell were ancient, beakers filled with colorful potions, and what I could only assume was a portal on the far wall. He ignored all of this and grabbed a small trash bin from under a desk. I looked inside and threw up. It was the head of Ace, Master of the Arcane.

"And that's why you'll always catch me reaching for my bottle of T-Top when I'm starting to feel low energy!" Marco Parker held the red bottle of testosterone supplement pills up to his face and did his best to feign a smile. "Get yours today with our special code... um, shit. Cut!"

"Dammit Marco! That was a good take. The code is MARCBRIT15 for fifteen perfect off the first bottle," Brittany said, the agitation in her voice becoming more apparent after this fifth botched take. "You know I'd do this plug if I could, but it doesn't make sense for me to hawk boner pills-"

"They're not boner pills," Marco interjected. "They're an all-natural supplement meant to increase natural testosterone produc-"

"I don't give a shit what they do! What I do give a shit about is you reading the copy correctly so we can get paid for this video. You've been slipping a lot with the ad reads, especially since we lost Mustard."

"I told you not to bring that up! We're past Mustard! It's over and we can't keep beating ourselves up about it!" Marco said, now pointing a defensive finger at his wife.

He knew she wasn't beating herself up over it, only him.

It was only a few months earlier that Marco recklessly threw their Parker Family social media empire into a tailspin. Their home renovation YouTube channel and accompanying Instagram was heavily subsidized by their ongoing paid sponsorship from French's Mustard. Their videos, most of which involved convincing home owners to paint accent walls dark yellow and toss out all of the ugly ketchup bottles in the pantry, were always preceded, interrupted, and punctuated by advertisements for the tangy condiment. Life was good. They were rolling in sponsorship dollars and industry accolades, including Picnic Weekly's prestigious "Influencer Couple of the Year" award.

Things all came crashing down for the couple one fateful Tuesday, however, when a mid-afternoon TMZ headline reading "Mustard King Deign Not Indulge" flashed across the notifications on Brittany's phone. Attached to the snarky article was a candid recording of Marco vociferously rejecting the addition of mustard on his sandwich at a Pittsburgh deli.

"Don't put that nasty shit on my sandwich! I'd rather suck a bullet out of a gun than eat one more drop of that rancid garbage! Don't try me, bro!"

The audio was unmistakably Marco and the footage of him jumping the counter to assault the deli clerk threw away any pretense of plausible deniability. Within forty-eight hours, they'd lost their sponsorship with French's, their industry accolades, and posters on Twitter gifted Marco the title of "The Mustard Asshole."

The following weeks were the most difficult of their relationship. Twice, Brittany threatened leaving with the kids to live with her mother and the couple had to put their medium-sized mansion, dubbed "The Yellow House" by Food Housekeeping, on the market, where no one would submit a bid that didn't require a complete repaint of every surface inside and outside the house. It was only after Marco managed to scrounge together a meager sponsorship from a supplement company that he was able to convince Brittany to unpack her belongings and delete the divorce attorney from her phone's saved contacts. Things we're finally reaching a level of normalcy, but the passion was clearly gone. Marco took a deep breath and planned how he'd smooth out his outburst.

"I'm sorry," Marco said to his frustrated spouse, probably for the thousandth time. "I know things have been difficult and the blame is entirely on me, but we're gonna make this better. This is a new opportunity for us. The world is changing and it seems like there's nothing we can do about it. There's no grace for people who make mistakes anymore, only condemnation. It sucks!" He felt a sudden spark in him, the first in nearly half a year. "Cancel culture is running amok in our society and I'm sick of it! We can't sit back and let this country be stolen from us!"

"Wait!" Brittany felt the spark too. "Let me hit record!"

"We're going to rise up against the woke mob! There's a new condiment going on the American sandwich and it's common sense!" Marco felt a euphoric rush. The months of agony, the embarrassment, the disappointment: none of it was his fault. He was the real victim here and he wouldn't go down a coward. No, he's fighting back. He'll be a new champion for the silent majority. They'd forsake the yellow walls and mustard decor of days gone. From now on, they'd pivot to converting dens into cigars rooms and basements into home gyms. This all would be accompanied by a podcast, of course. It all felt so right to Marco that he didn't even need the ad copy anymore to sell testosterone.

"If you're ready to turn your pathetic, soy-laden life around, code MARCBRIT15 will be the start of the new you! Don't be a beta male, be a Parker Pro!"

Marco looked at the smile on his wife's face. She could feel it. He could feel it. This is them now. And they're only getting started.

The lock on the terrace door snapped under the pressure of the short crowbar with a barely audible metallic click. The burglar slipped into the living room. The suburb slept in absolute silence. He breathed shallowly, through his nose. The job required steady fingers and a cold head, and he had been in this trade long enough not to make mistakes.

He moved forward, skillfully avoiding the furniture. He directed the narrow beam of his pocket flashlight, searching for a path toward the study. The light swept across the floor and suddenly stopped next to the couch. He recoiled. His hand reflexively gripped the casing of the flashlight. The motionless body of a woman lay on the floor. Her eyes were wide open, staring straight at the ceiling. A thin line of dried blood ran down from the corner of her mouth.

From the bathroom, the sound of water rushing through the faucet echoed. He started to retreat toward the terrace, but the bathroom door was already opening. Realizing there was no time to escape, he threw himself in a panic behind a curtain that concealed a deep recess in the wall. Every muscle in his body froze with tension.

A man entered the living room and turned on a lamp. Light illuminated the floor. In his hand, he held a roll of construction plastic wrap and wide duct tape. Through a narrow slit in the fabric, the burglar watched his every move. The man worked without hesitation, skillfully and meticulously. He knelt next to the body, wrapped it in layers of black plastic, and tightened the tape around the ankles, waist, and head.

The sound of tearing duct tape ripped through the silence. Then he grabbed the wrapped body, dragged it toward the garage, and closed the door behind him with a dull echo. The burglar immediately bolted from his hiding place. He flew through the terrace door, leaped over the low yard fence, and vanished into the blackness of the empty street, barely catching his breath.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

A few days passed, and David was still spinning the scenes from that night in his mind. As a petty thief with years of experience and two served prison sentences, he was used to danger. But this was something entirely different.

He lived alone and reclusively. He survived exclusively by breaking into homes and quickly fencing stolen goods. Every day came down to planning the next break-in. He sat on the couch, reached for the remote control on the table, and turned on the television. A face filled the screen.

It was a news report about a missing woman. The man on the screen was giving a statement to reporters. Beneath his face, a name appeared: Alan Barna, Attorney. His face was pale, and his voice trembled before the cameras.

"My wife Rita disappeared three days ago," he spoke into the microphones. "She didn't return home that evening, and all trace of her has been lost since. Her car was found parked outside the city, abandoned. We are desperate. I beg anyone who has any information to contact the authorities immediately."

David recognized that face. The man who was currently weeping before the reporters was the exact same man from the house. The man he had watched coldly wrap the corpse of his own wife. He had heard of attorney Alan Barna. He was famous for defending the biggest names in the city, mostly shady people.

Calling the police, although the most logical step, was also the most dangerous one for David. Going to the station meant confessing to a burglary. He stood up and began pacing around the living room. In his head, a cold calculation quickly clicked into place. The attorney was backed into a corner, and David held the only ace in his hands that could send that man to prison. He would use what he saw that night. He would cash in on the silence and secure his future financially.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

David spent hours waiting across the street from the building where attorney Alan Barna’s office was located. Leaning back against the seat of his car, he watched the glass doors through which people in suits constantly entered and exited. Years of experience had taught him caution, and tailing required maximum patience. He didn't take his eyes off the main entrance as darkness slowly descended upon the city streets.

Only later in the evening did the attorney finally exit the building. He walked down the steps, got into his car, and drove off. David waited a few moments and slowly drove after him, maintaining a safe distance so as not to attract attention. The city traffic at those hours worked in his favor, allowing him to remain unnoticed in the convoy under the streetlights.

The attorney soon turned toward a residential part of the city, driving through alleys where there was significantly less traffic. David slowed down, allowing a larger gap to form between them. The attorney pulled up and stopped in front of a smaller house.

David parked about fifty meters behind him, along the curb, and turned off the engine. Through the windshield, he watched the attorney step out of the vehicle and approach the house. A younger woman opened the door for him. The attorney went inside, and the door closed.

David got out of the car and crept up to the fence. Thanks to his long-standing practice of breaking into houses, he moved completely soundlessly, using the shadows of the yard to get closer to the windows. The curtains inside were only half-drawn, leaving a clear view of the living room. He crept right up to the glass and spotted them. The intimacy between them was obvious. The attorney pulled the woman close to him, and their lips met in a kiss.

David took out his phone and raised it, making sure not to touch the window frame. His hands were completely steady as he lined up the shot. The lens caught the clear lines of their faces, the attorney’s hand on her waist, and the moment they sat on the couch holding hands. He took several consecutive photographs. They were clean, sharp, and unambiguous. While the entire country sympathized with the prominent attorney over his wife’s disappearance, he was secretly meeting with his mistress in her house.

David retreated soundlessly back toward the fence, watching every step in the dark. He returned to his car and drove down the street. The first part of the plan was executed.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next day, David sat in his room with his phone in his hands. He had copied the number of the attorney’s office from the internet and spent a few moments just staring at the keypad on the screen. He knew he was making a move from which there was no turning back. He pressed the call button.

It rang several times before a woman’s voice answered from the other side.

"Law office of Alan Barna, how may I help you?"

"Patch me through to the attorney," David said, speaking in a deep, cold voice. "Tell him it’s a private and urgent matter."

"Your name, please?"

David simply repeated the sentence, this time slower and more firmly:

"Patch me through to the attorney and tell him it’s a private matter."

After a few moments of silence, the call was transferred. The line went quiet, and then the attorney’s voice echoed.

"Attorney Barna here. I'm listening."

"Listen to me carefully and don't interrupt me," David began. "I have photographs of you with your mistress at her house last night. And I also know that you killed your wife, whose body you then wrapped in plastic wrap on the floor of your living room."

Total silence fell over the other side of the line. David heard only the steady breathing of the attorney, who was clearly trying to process the information and maintain his composure.

"Who is this? What do you want?" the attorney’s voice grew sharper, but a hidden panic could be felt in it. "If this is some sick joke, I’m hanging up and informing the police."

"Go ahead," David shot back calmly, not in the least impressed by the threat. "But think carefully about what would happen to you after these photographs and the whole story ended up in all the media. Imagine the headlines. The public would tear you apart, and the police would immediately knock on your door with entirely different questions. That wouldn't be good for you at all, Alan. Everything you’ve built your entire life would be destroyed within an hour."

The attorney was left speechless. He knew that the unknown voice held him in a grip and could expose everything he had tried so hard to hide in a second.

"How much are you asking for?" he inquired. His voice was quiet, reduced to the businesslike tone of a man who realized there was no way out.

"One hundred thousand euros," David fired straight out, without hesitation. "That is the price for my silence. For that amount, no one will ever find out that you killed your wife. These photographs will never reach the media or the police, and you can keep playing the grieving husband."

"That is a huge amount of money, I can't gather that overnight," the attorney said, his voice trembling. "I need time to withdraw such a sum."

"You’ll gather it because you have no choice," David snapped. "Don't try anything stupid, remember that I am the one dictating the terms. You’ll give me a number where I will text you instructions on where and when you will bring the money. If you try to pull anything, everything goes public."

The attorney dictated the number to him. Before he could say anything else, David cut the call. Adrenaline rushed through his body as he set the phone down on the table. The move was made, and there was no backing out.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Barna slowly lowered the phone onto the table, while the voice of the unknown man still echoed in his head. That man knew absolutely everything. His hands were shaking. He clenched his fists to regain control. For years, he had built a reputation as an infallible, top-tier, and respected attorney, and he had no intention of letting some punk and small-time blackmailer ruin his life. He stared ahead, plotting his next steps, and then abruptly stood up and walked out of the office. He got into his car and drove off. Along the way as he drove, he could only think about how much cash he had at home.

As soon as he arrived, he went straight from the door to the safe and opened it. He pulled out a couple of thick stacks of banknotes, placed them on the study desk, and began to count. This was cash he received under the table, bailing certain people out of trouble by bypassing legal procedures. He counted exactly fifty thousand euros.

He reached into the safe once more and grabbed his wife’s ring and diamond bracelet. These were the ring and bracelet she had taken off her hand on that fatal night, right before the argument in which he killed her. He took a black sports bag and stuffed everything inside. Now, all that was left for him to do was wait.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next day, he received a message with the location and the time. The meeting place was a parking lot on the edge of the city in an industrial zone. The attorney arrived at the scheduled time in the late evening hours.

David was already waiting. As soon as he saw the attorney pull up, he got out of his car and approached him with his hood pulled low over his face.

"Good evening, attorney. What do you have for me?" he said, rubbing his palms together with satisfaction.

The attorney handed him the bag. David opened it and looked inside.

"What is this?" he asked angrily.

"I couldn’t gather everything at once," the attorney replied. "There’s fifty thousand in there, I don’t have any more right now. Take the jewelry too, you can get a lot for it."

David took the ring and the bracelet out of the bag, observed them briefly, and then roughly shoved them back into the attorney's hands.

"I’m not crazy enough to take the jewelry of a woman the whole country is searching for right now," he said sharply. "I don’t want anything connecting me to her. I want clean cash, clean banknotes, and nothing else. Because you broke our agreement, your price is now two hundred thousand."

"But I don’t have that kind of money right now," the attorney tried to control his voice. "I will need a few days to gather such an amount."

"Alright, you'll get a couple of days, but you better have it all next time. Is that clear?"

The attorney felt his throat tighten under a surge of rage, but he quickly swallowed the lump and just gave a short, tense nod.

"I’ll be in touch," David added, slipping the bag of cash under his arm. He turned around, went back to his car, and drove off.

The attorney remained standing, following the red taillights with his gaze until they vanished into the darkness. Furious, he got into his vehicle and drove away.

As he drove toward his house, the streets were quiet and the intersections were empty. He parked in the yard, entered the house, and went into his study. He sat at the desk and lifted the laptop lid. He opened the browser, logged into the database of the insurance company he had cooperated with for years, typed in the license plate number he had memorized earlier at the parking lot, and pressed Enter. A moment later, the vehicle and owner information appeared on the screen. At the very top stood the name: David Sever.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Several days passed before David made contact again. The attorney was sitting in his office when his phone rang. He answered, and the familiar, deep voice came through from the other side.

"Did you get the money?"

"Everything is ready," the attorney replied. "Where and when are we meeting? I want to get this over with as soon as possible."

"We’ll meet at the same place. I’ll let you know when," David said briefly and hung up.

Not long after, a message with the meeting time appeared on the phone screen. The attorney stood up and set his plan into motion. He already had every step mapped out in his head. He went to the bank and withdrew an amount slightly under ten thousand euros from his account. By withdrawing that specific sum, he avoided the lengthy procedures and questioning at the counter, leaving the branch without triggering any red flags in the system.

An hour before the agreed meeting, he drove to David’s house, having learned the address through the insurance company’s database. He parked a bit further away in the dark and waited. After about twenty minutes, the front door opened and David stepped out. He got into his car and drove off. The attorney waited for the vehicle to disappear from the road, then crossed the street. He walked quickly through the yard, approached the door, pulled out a thin metal tool, and skillfully picked the lock in just a few moves.

He entered the house and took his wife’s ring and diamond bracelet out of his pocket. They carried David’s clear fingerprints, left behind when he had taken them in his hands at the parking lot. Barna opened a dresser drawer, dropped the jewelry inside, closed it, and immediately left the house. He returned to his vehicle and headed toward the industrial zone. He arrived exactly at the agreed time.

David’s car was already parked there. The attorney pulled up and turned off his lights. He stepped out, holding the bag in his hand. David approached him, eyeing him from beneath his hood.

"It better be all here this time," he said.

"Don’t worry, here, you’re finally getting everything you asked for," the attorney answered calmly, a slight smile on his face.

David looked at him suspiciously, then accepted the bag and reached for the zipper. At that exact moment, the attorney pulled a pistol from his coat pocket and coldly fired two shots straight into David’s chest. David staggered, dropped the bag, and collapsed to the ground, remaining completely motionless. The attorney calmly took out his phone and called the police.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Attorney Barna was brought to the police station. He sat in the interrogation room, reinforcing the story he had prepared in his head. He knew he could not afford a mistake in a single detail. The door opened, and the inspector in charge of the case entered the room and sat at the table opposite him.

"Mr. Barna, let’s start from the beginning," he said, leaning his palms on the table. "What were you doing at that parking lot, and why did you shoot that man?"

"That man was blackmailing me," the attorney replied calmly. "Tonight I met with him to hand over the money he demanded from me."

The inspector slowly leaned back in his chair, keeping his eyes locked on him.

"What exactly was he blackmailing you with?"

"Photographs," the attorney sighed and rubbed his forehead. "You see, inspector, my wife and I haven't been functioning for a long time. We lived together, but our marriage was over long ago. I have someone else, and my wife knew it."

The inspector just gave a short nod, waiting for him to continue.

"A few days ago, this person contacted me," the attorney went on. "He was in possession of photographs of me with the other woman. He said that if I didn't pay him, he would send the photographs to the media. I paid him, thinking he would leave me alone after that, but today he contacted me again, demanding more."

"Tell me, why didn't you report all this to the police?" the inspector asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I didn't report it because I was afraid the photographs would reach the media. You have to understand me, inspector—imagine how that would echo in public. That I am seeing another woman while my wife is missing. They would tear me apart, accuse me of having something to do with her disappearance, and my career would be over."

"Alright," the inspector said. "But you said you went there only to hand over the money. Why then did you carry a weapon with you, and how did it even come to you shooting him?"

"I brought a weapon because he demanded a sum that I didn't fully have at my disposal," he said, spreading his hands to show complete helplessness. "I brought as much as I managed to gather. I knew I was dealing with a dangerous criminal, and I was afraid of what he might do when he saw that I didn't bring the full amount. When he took the bag and realized there wasn't as much inside as he had asked for, he lost it. He started yelling, reached his hand toward the inner pocket of his jacket, and stepped forward. I was sure he was pulling a weapon and was going to kill me on the spot. I drew my pistol and shot. I had to defend myself; it was pure self-defense in a fight for my own life."

The interrogation continued into the early morning hours, after which the attorney was released home while all the field checks were being conducted.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next afternoon, the doorbell at the attorney’s house rang. It was the inspector.

"Good afternoon, attorney."

"Good afternoon, inspector. Come in, please," the attorney said.

The inspector wiped his feet on the mat and entered the house.

"Please, have a seat," the attorney said, gesturing toward the couch in the living room.

The inspector sat down, holding a sealed plastic bag in his hands.

"We searched the house of David Sever, the man who was blackmailing you," the inspector said, placing the bag on the table. "In one of the drawers in his room, we found a ring and a diamond bracelet. Look at this, Mr. Barna. Does this jewelry belong to your wife?"

The attorney looked through the plastic, his face taking on an expression of fake grief and shock. He slowly nodded his head.

"Yes, that is her wedding ring. And her bracelet that she inherited from her mother. She never took it off her hand."

"Given that Sever had several heavy robberies and burglaries on his record, things are pretty clear now," the inspector concluded. "I believe that he robbed your wife that night, that she probably confronted him, and that he killed her. I also believe that he started tailing you after he realized she was the wife of a prominent and wealthy attorney. He took the photographs, based on which he tried to extract as much money as possible from you."

The attorney pressed his palms to his head, looking at the inspector in complete shock.

"Jesus Christ... I can't believe it," he uttered in disbelief.

The inspector leaned back, a cynical smile appearing on his face.

"Attorney, do you really think I'm that stupid?"

The attorney looked at him in surprise.

"Excuse me, what do you mean?" he asked.

"Do you really think I buy your story?" the inspector shot back.

The attorney's face suddenly lost its color.

"I really don't know what you mean, inspector."

"Come on, attorney, there's no need for acting. We both know very well that you are the one who killed your wife and that you set up that fool Sever."

"You have completely lost your mind, inspector!" The attorney stood up. "Do you hear yourself, what you are saying? Do you know that I can..."

"Listen to me carefully now, Alan," the inspector cut him off roughly, abruptly changing his tone. "Don't play me for a fool. Do you really want to end up in prison and lose everything?" He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black USB stick. "I found this in Sever's house. Everything needed to send you to prison for the rest of your life is on this."

The attorney sat back down in disbelief, his face pale and frozen, as he tried to process in his head what was happening.

"Let me tell you, Alan, how things are going to work from now on. You will pay me every month. Don't worry, I don't need much; I am a humble man. Along with that, you will take care of some other things for me when I need you to. As long as you play along, you are safe. Do we have a deal?"

The attorney just shot him a silent glare for a few seconds. His jaw tensed, and then through clenched teeth, he barely managed to squeeze out:

"We do."

The inspector took the plastic bag from the table, stood up, and headed toward the door.

"Just let me tell you one more thing—don't even think about trying to play your games with me. I am not Sever. Have a nice rest of the day."

The inspector stepped out of the house. It was already getting dark outside. He walked to his car, unlocked the door, sat down, and turned on the ignition. He took the USB stick out of his pocket, pushed it into the radio, and turned up the volume. Music blasted loudly from the speakers. A light smile appeared on his face as he started the engine and drove down the street.

Content Warning—General unease and feelings of being watched.

Mary woke before her alarm as she often did. She rolled over through the sheets to check the window. She saw the still dim sky was in a muted, moody grey and she started feeling for her phone. Blinking through the blindness she found a delightful sight.

‘Rain out everybody, work’s off.’ A text from her team lead read, and a little smile tugged at her lips. She curled up in a stretch, arms wide to welcome the inclement weather. Mother nature had given her a day off, and she was going to enjoy it.

She set a pot of coffee to brew, notes of mocha filling the air, and gathered up her kitchenware. In her kitchenette, at the counter she cut strawberries into halves and then quarters while white chocolate melted in the microwave. It was, in her mind, a wonderful Thursday morning.

And then she noticed it.

Eyes on the back of her head, drilling down at her—into her.

Something saw her now.

She froze.

The feeling was unsettling, but like the skittering of phantom spiders along legs and arms, it was just a quirk of the body. Everyone felt it, or at least something like that now and again. A spectral sensation here now and gone in a blink, these feelings came and went.

Not now though.

Mary felt the eyes on the back of her skull, unblinking.

Something was watching her. And it wasn't leaving.

It was over her shoulder and behind her—couldn’t tell how close. She saw no shadow pass behind her, felt no breath upon her neck. No soft footfalls cautiously creeping to catch her off guard.

There hadn't been a sound, nothing she could have missed. No smashing glass nor shattering locks. No music to be lost in, save for the rhythm of knife against board.

Her head moved. Just a twitch, at first, and that felt too much… But the twitch carried through, her head began to turn.

She had to know.

She needed to see what saw her. Its presence alone was turning her guts into knots. It had come to her unannounced, without a sound, and it held those unseen eyes on her.

She had to know.

She desperately wished otherwise, but her head kept turning.

Her pupils crept with the turn, stuttering to the corner of her eye.

And she saw nothing.

Behind her stood no one… And the only thing in the apartment between her and the far wall was…

Nothing.

No one was looking at her through the window and nothing was in the apartment with her.

But she was still being watched. She knew it. Instinct screamed that something saw her.

Her breath caught in her throat, and the grip she'd kept on her knife tightened, her knuckles white. She turned fully now. She looked from left to right scanning cabinets and tables for anything, anything that might be off and found nothing.

Nothing was watching her.

“Is… anyone there?”

She heard no response, but felt the invisible eyes’ unrelenting gaze all the same.

Then she blinked.

And It was gone.

It’s raining. The street lamps light up just enough to see each drop. A wet dog sits outside of a convenience store. On the dog’s head is a little pink bow tie. The cold air makes her breath easy to see. She’s hungry, impatient, and a bit frustrated by a young man looking down at her. He seems suspicious; does he want to hurt her? She growls. That seems to have worked. The suspicious man keeps his distance. 

[Good.] Thinks the dog. 

[Scary.] Thinks the man. 

He averts his eyes from the dog. Walks past the growler. The automatic doors slide open. A homeless-looking man runs out, straight into the rain. They both get startled. 

“No, no, no, NO! Stop saying that! You’re not real, I’m real!” The homeless-looking man yells in the distance.

[What’s wrong with him?] Thinks the young man.  

Before she gets to growl again, the young man quickly goes inside. A welcoming jingle plays. It’s a nice, dry convenience store. Except for the wet spot that he brought in at the door. In front of him on the right is a cashier leaning over the counter. She looks down at the fresh puddle. Their eyes meet. He nervously smiles. Then immediately turns to his left and walks away from the cashier. He hears her sigh in the distance. 

[More work. Great.] Thinks the cashier. 

[I’m sorry.] Thinks the man. 

He walks past various snacks, carefully eyeing each one. 

[Nuts or chips?] Debates the man. 

He enters the drinks section. He chooses a white-brand cola. 

[I think chips. But which flavor?] Thinks the man. 

He heads over to the dairy section. Grabs a jug of milk. In the corner of his eye, he notices an old man looking at him. The young man turns his head almost instinctively. They meet eyes. 

“Do you need something, punk?” The old man growls.

[Huh?] The young man turns stiff, shakes his head.

“Okay.” The old man turns around, then heads towards the pet food section. 

[Heh, gets me every time.] The old man smirks.

[Okay?] The young man walks back to the chips. 

He stops in the center of the chips aisle. Turns to face them. There are too many. He steps back to take in the full glory of too many choices. He needs a way to whittle down their numbers. 

[Any sales?] He scans the price tags.

There are a few options. Onion rings, tomato, cheese, and paprika. He wants something “warm” tasting. So onion rings and cheese are out of the competition. 

[I’ll take the cheaper of the two then.] Decides the man. 

He compares them. They’re the same price. 

[Fuck.] He despairs. 

He looks at the weight. Same. Calories. Same. Even the nutrition table somehow looks the exact same. 

“Oh c’mon!” He loudly complains.

“Is something wrong?” The cashier replies from the register.

“No, I’m good, thank you!” He quickly blurts out, then covers his mouth. 

He needs to decide now, or else the cashier might want to come and check what’s happening here. He might seem suspicious to her by now. 

[I guess I have no other choice.] He decides to trust the marketing department.

There’s a clear winner. No competition. The paprika chips are plain; the package just has a picture of a paprika on it. To an untrained eye, it might seem that the tomato chips do the same, but there’s a small detail that makes all the difference. The tomato is wearing sunglasses. This very small, subtle difference is what determines it to be the winner. 

[Maybe next time.] He pats the paprika package, then returns it back to its shameful shelf.

On his way to the cashier, he notices the old man staring at him again. This time the young man does his best to ignore the creeping eyes. 

[Ah, so boring.] Sadly sighs the old man. 

The young man places the cola, milk, and chips on the counter. The cashier scans them. 

“I personally would have went for the paprika.” The cashier smirks. 

[Huh?] He looks at her. Behind her there’s a screen. Live security footage. The chip aisle. 

“Ah.” He’s unable to speak.

She states the price. He doesn’t react. She states it again, tapping on the monitor displaying the price. He pays with a card. Bags his groceries. Leaves.

[Is he okay?] Thinks the cashier.

He paused inside the modest narthex until his eyes adjusted to the dimness. His nose was lavished before they did. The air was thickly florodorous, the roses drowning out everything beneath them until he searched for it. Behind the settled sweetness breathed the damp and waxen notes of the church itself. Flowers raised in glasshouses, undoubtedly, but they had lost the tidy fragrance of careful cultivation in such profusion. Shut together in the space, they smelled luxuriant and almost wild. Ilya inhaled again and walked into them.

The nave was crowded. Bunches of roses lay across the narrow pews, some bound with string or ribbon. More were in jars, bottles, pitchers and metal cups on the floor. Diverse sprigs had been tucked among them. Several bunches hung upside down from pegs and nails along the walls. Endless petals covered the floorboards. The congregation had come to commemorate spring, leaving its bounty behind.

Ilya moved quietly between the benches. The day’s candles had mostly burned down. Yellow candle stubs crowded the sand trays, their wicks curled black. Two tiny lights still lived, giving the faded faces above them a reddish movement. The paintings were much older than those he knew from Nagarvan or any printed household icons. Here they had browned with the boards on which they were painted. Their eyes had dimmed; their green robes had become sage and mud. Gold survived in opaque islands across the nimbi and attributes.

The pitiful iconostasis drew him forward. There were twelve principal divisions, but each held its complement, the Saints paired and opposed around the central doors. Together they formed the familiar Nychthemeral circuit: twelve times two Mensal Saints arranged around the passage beyond. Lush Marcelin stood among the rightward Saints, corresponding to the third hour on the clock. A faunish brown face, the faded green of his vestment and fragments of old gold around his head. His attribute, a virescent branch, sprouted from his palm. The Saints following him in the circuit were obscured by his votive blossoms.

Saint Marcelin regarded him through several centuries of smoke. Today, of all days. Ilya knelt, placing the binoculars and flashlight at his sides. He hesitated before beginning, suddenly self-conscious among all the efflorescence. Then his hand rose to his forehead – left shoulder – down to the lower chest – right shoulder – complete at the forehead. “Saint Marcelin,” he whispered. “Please save my mother.”

Childish, he thought and closed his eyes. “She has been sick for a long time so please help her get better this spring. Grant her renewal – more life – after such a long winter of sickness.” He fell silent for a while. “Grant it to all the guiltless,” he added. “Not just her.”

Ilya lowered his head. “And forgive me for making her worry. And for lying to her about where I was going. And many other things. And if this is sacrilege, what I am doing, forgive that too.” His prayer became harder to formulate. “We didn’t mean to hurt the dead,” he whispered finally. “We’re only taking a small amount of what it secretes, to aid the living… I’m not doing this just for money…”

One of the candles sputtered, and only then did Ilya think of lighting a few more. He spread the flame to two other wicks. The renewed light revealed more of the Saints, their cracks and pallor. Marcelin in particular. Ilya leaned closer.

What originally appeared to be a painted crease was actually a fissure in the iconostasis, running from Marcelin’s shoulder to his navel. It revealed a slit of the sanctuary’s darkness on the other side. Ilya shifted his head, drew closer. Through the Saint’s tear he saw shadowy green and bits of red. Several thin stems crossed one another in the sanctuary beyond, bearing fresh leaves and tight buds. They disappeared beside a wall-aumbry whose warped wooden door stood ajar. He could see only fragments through the damaged panel, but farther along another crack showed more of them. He followed them to the central doors of the iconostasis.

A wooden seat creaked and Ilya spun around. A robed figure stirred among the piled flowers and struggled upright on a pew. “She must be very sick,” the dusty voice said, “for you to be here at this hour.” The man straightened, revealing a black cassock faded almost to brown. The face above it was extraordinarily old, haggard and hedged with white hair. He saw that Ilya was watching the door nervously. “You should not go out yet.” He tapped the floorboards gently with his walking cane.

Ilya swallowed and lowered the flashlight. “You’re not going to call them?”

“No. They have done enough here already.” He coughed into his hand, almost disappearing beneath the flowers as the cough racked him. “You pray poorly,” he said. “Didn’t your mother teach you?”

“Did you hear all of it?” asked Ilya, reluctant to help him. “Are you the priest here?”

“Father Avankh.”

“Were you sitting there the whole time?”

“I was sleeping, until you woke me.”

“Here?”

“It is my church. Is that so odd? I came to pray, but then I was too tired to leave.”

Ilya relaxed slightly. “What were you praying for?”

“That my sins, carelessness foremost, do not weigh my soul down in death.” Avankh rubbed one knee through the cassock. “You were facing Saint Marcelin. Do you accept the Mystery of Resurrection?”

Ilya scoffed. “I don’t believe in miracles. Not until I see one.”

“Mystery,” Avankh corrected. “Not miracle.”

Ilya hesitated. “Why don’t you want the police here?”

“They dig up my flock. Cut them away. Without understanding the beauty of what they pillage. Much like you and your friends.” Avankh shuffled toward the iconostasis, settling at the same spot Ilya had knelt at earlier. “The yard has required more of me lately,” he said. “More than I can give it. Things grow where they should not. More than they should. I have been neglectful. Come, we will pray for your mother together. To Marcelin and the others.” He extended his stiff arm to Ilya, wrinkled palm beckoning.

Ilya did not move. “I don’t really believe in any of that. I only prayed because...” Ilya struggled for the reason. “I felt bad and wanted to say something to someone. I’ll help my mother myself.”

Avankh laughed quietly. “You think faith and religion are the same thing?” He regarded Marcelin. “Faith comes and goes. People lose it, recover it, argue over it. I have never considered it particularly reliable.”

Ilya scoffed. “Yet you are a priest. What do you do if not believe?”

“Tend, trim, feed, care – day after day… Simple acts make a man religious, not faith.” He placed his palm over the fissure in Marcelin’s robe. “They require us to be gardeners, not believers.” Avankh completed the circle over himself. “Come. Pray with me.” His hand beckoned. “If not, help me up.”

Ilya came closer. As soon as he lowered himself to help Avankh, his forearm was seized with considerable strength. Avankh examined it, his umber thumbnail pressing into the wound on Ilya’s fingertip. “Oh,” he said. “You’ve already taken communion. They have not rejected you.”

Ilya jerked free and rubbed the cut against his trouser leg. “What?” he blurted, backing away. “I haven’t taken anything.”

“Will you accept Their next sacrament and drink from the chalice?”

“I told you, I don’t care about the Saints.” He glimpsed the binoculars and flashlight but didn’t reach for them.

“Saints?” asked Avankh. “Go then. Help your friends, boy. I will be here.”

 

*

 

Ilya fled the church in a rush. The policemen and their lights were visible at the gate, dim and distant. He ducked instinctively and hurried around the building. The slope was steeper than he remembered. In the dark, under curious Sel, the stones had lost their edges and hummocks interrupted the slope. Ilya took the first few steps too quickly and caught his boot on an outcropping in the churchyard. He went down on one knee, hands striking the rorid grass. He stood unsteadily, suddenly lost. Then he remembered the egg.

Ilya found the tree. He moved without purpose, searching the ground in the dark, pushing leaves aside. He could not find the small hollow and began to panic. He could not have said why. Then his fingers sank into the disturbed earth between two roots. Reluctantly, he reached into it. He grasped the egg and pulled.

A thin thread held it there. Ilya went still. Carefully, he tried once more. The same resistance came from below. He could feel it: a fine rootlet had pierced the shell and begun to branch inside. The life inside was still faint but fuller now.

Ilya gasped and fell backward. His chest hurt. He rubbed his palm against it, smearing it. He was terrified. Perhaps thrilled. His heart was beating too fast to tell. Only when he returned his touch to the ground did the buried pulse give him a sense of peace and place. Its own slow beat seemed to draw him onward. He followed the lethargic course in a crouch, crawling noiselessly, past the ossuary, between the three oaks. Neither memory nor monument guided him. Then the summery rose in the pit came into view. It was still bleeding. A heavy bead hung from the pistil, stretched and dropped. The third bottle was under the graft, badly positioned and nearly full. Two others had been capped and set beside Yaro’s pack. Nobody was watching them.

Ilya hesitated, afraid to call out. He stayed where he was for a moment, trying to quiet his breathing. He heard only the nectar dropping into the bottle and the continued ringing in his ears. Then another sound came from beyond the excavation. A muffled moan, answered by a faint grunt. He finally straightened. There was movement behind a low granite slab a dozen meters away, obscured by nettles and stones. Their clothes spread beneath Varya, keeping her off the cold stone. Yaro was braced above her, between her parted knees, his head lowered close to hers. Ilya could see the slow movement of Yaro’s back, grasped by Varya’s hands – both bleached by Sel. Neither noticed him and he ducked down before they could.

Another drop trembled at the pistil. Ilya got closer. The raktic nectar was different, redder than before, a luminous and lubricious ruby between the white folds. His index entered the flower. The petals folded and crushed around his fingertip as he pressed too deeply into the pistil. When he withdrew, a thick smear of nectar coated the skin. It gathered more vividly than before. Ilya brought it closer to his face. The scent was cloyingly lush and overripe. He parted his lips, but the nectar had begun to disappear. He watched in wonderment as the red sheen thinned and contracted into the nick in his index. A warmth moved through his arm, becoming passion elsewhere. The nick was gone, the skin smooth and immaculate.

The graft had stopped yielding. The pistil, exposed through the damaged corolla, had collapsed to one side. He touched the flower, more tender this time, then the rootstock. The tissue around the graft had split wider than Varya’s original incision. Its edges were tumid and blackening, resembling a festering wound held open by a rapacious wedge. He could still feel the pulse gathering in the rhizosoma, but it was faltering. He seized the scion at its base and pulled. It came free with a wet snap, trailing a thin thread of tissue before it broke. The wound throbbed in its absence.

“What the fuck are you doing? You were supposed to give us the signal,” said Yaro from several paces away, fastening his trousers. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

Ilya tilted the bottle. The viscous, vermilion liquid poured out over the wound. Some ran into the loosened earth; some clung to the torn tissue and vanished into it.

“What the fuck!” Yaro jumped into the ditch and grabbed for the bottle. Ilya lost his grip. It struck the soil and spilled more.  “What the hell is wrong with you? Answer me!”

Ilya stared at the red pool and ribs until Yaro shoved him against the edge of the ditch.

“Yaro!” snapped Varya, panting. She was in her crumpled jacket but bare-legged. “Stop.”

“He just wasted our work!” He seized Ilya by the shirt. “What’s gotten into you? Talk, dammit!”

“Let go of me,” said Ilya.

Yaro shoved him again, deeper into the ditch this time.

“Yaro, leave him alone!”

Yaro sneered at her. “He’s throwing our money into the dirt. And for what?” He looked back at Ilya. “No! Wait–”

Ilya held both full bottles to his stained chest, twisting the cap from the second. “This isn’t yours,” he said.

“Yours, then? Don’t be greedy, Ilya. Give them back.”

“I will,” said Ilya, and tipped them.

Yaro lunged at him. Ilya tried to rebuff him, but Yaro was stronger and knocked him off balance. Yaro dropped to catch the bottles. His boot came down across one of the exposed fibrous ribs. It gave with a soft crack and split open along its curve. Ilya flinched and gave a short cry. He pushed himself upright.

Still on his knees, dirty from the ditch, Yaro held the salvaged nectar. About a third remained between them. He shook with relief. He gave a miserable little smile.

“Ilya – don’t!” screamed Varya.

Yaro twisted as Ilya swung the shovel. The nectar spilled before the blood as the blade caught him across the side of the head. He stumbled and dropped sideways, clutching nearly empty bottles. His eyes locked on Ilya at last. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Ilya swung a second time.

 

Varya knelt at the edge of the hole, sobbing and stuttering. “Ilya?” she managed. “You have to help him.” She grabbed his leg with both arms. “Ilya, help Yaro. Please.”

“I can’t,” he said, settling a hand on her head.

“You can.” She clutched harder. “Use your Art. Do something. Anything. Make it go back inside him. Please.”

“I can’t help him. Not on my own.”

“The police. The VED. It doesn’t matter what happens afterward.”

“No, not them. They came here to uproot it.”

Varya stopped sobbing and stared at him. “The Flower?” she said. “No.”

“We just have to find a spot for him…”

“No.”

“…somewhere close to one of the larger runners…”

“No, no, no.” Varya withdrew from him. “You are not feeding Yaro to that parasite.”

“It can save him.”

“He needs a doctor, a mender, to save him. If you won’t–”

Ilya crouched and caught her by the jaw, pointing her toward the hole. “Varya, his skull is open. It’s done. Too late for that.” Varya shook her head violently under his grip, weeping. “You said it was beautiful.”

“What?” she said thickly.

“The flower. You were right.”

“Why did you kill Yaro, Ilya?”

“He attacked me when I tried to return the nectar. You saw him. You tried to help. Thank you.” He let her go, straightened and surveyed the surrounding area. “We can probably–” Clumps of earth fell beside Yaro as she scrambled out.  “Varya. Varya!”

Ilya dropped the shovel and went after her. She was making for the ossuary barefoot, stumbling over the uneven ground in the dark. The lights below appeared intermittently from the front of the church. Varya saw them too and drew breath to shout. Ilya lunged and tackled her from behind. They landed in a thicket of roses; dry canes waking into spring cracked under them.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” she howled before he covered her mouth.

“I’m your friend,” he said, holding her down. “I don’t want to hurt you, Varya.”

She bit his palm hard enough to draw blood. Ilya recoiled just enough for her to gasp and try to wriggle free. He forced her onto her back and pinned her shoulders to the prickly ground. When his hand returned to her lower face, it left a red smear across her mouth. She tried to keep her mouth open and shout but then tasted the pouring gore, far more of it than there should have been. Her eyes widened and her jaw clenched, but she could not stop the intrusion.

“I’ll save him,” said Ilya, tracking the vanishing flashes. “Don’t worry, Var. I’ll save you too.”

Varya went still for half a second, then fought more frantically. She recoiled from the taste and twisted with sudden, desperate strength, clawing at his wrist. Her breathing broke into wet, frightened little catches. He was too deep inside for her to force him out now.

Ilya held her there with the bleeding hand and freed his other. “Don’t fight it,” he whispered. “Let me.”

For a while there was nothing but her weakening struggle and the brittle noise of the briar surrounding them. Her midriff heaved with every labored breath and the fallow skin glistened. He held her until his stirred Art could no longer identify a rhythm inside her. When at last he let go, Varya slumped into the rose bed. Tears had run sideways across her face into her tangled hair.

Ilya trembled from the exertion and sat leaning against the ossuary. Sweat had soaked him whole and he was unable to face her any longer. He removed several broken prickles from his sullied thighs. Varya’s jacket left threads of lining on the briar as he worked it free. He dressed her as well as he could before picking her up under the arms and dragging her toward the rhizosoma. In the dark distance, beside his church, stood the tall, serene figure of Father Avankh.

 

*

 

The Feast of Saint Marcelin has come and passed, and I think this may be the finest spring Morvin Mir has had in years. We had so many attendees that nearly half had to attend outside. Many came from Nagarvan and the surrounding villages; others were children and grandchildren of parishioners resting in our graveyard. I am always glad to see people return to their hometown. The village is still small, but dying is no longer its only affair. There are children in the parish again, new names listed under old surnames.

Father Avankh would have been pleased to see this reversal. It has been only two years since he passed and I still think of him daily, especially during these busy weeks. The immense gratitude I feel for him could not possibly have grown out of the mere decade during which we knew each other. During my seminary years away from Morvin Mir, it was my memory of him and his hospitality that kept me on the right path. Seminary also left me with the habit of journaling and writing my own prayers to the Saints, as well as sly little poems of adoration.

I was twenty-two when I took my vows and came back to assist Father Avankh properly. Although I knew a great deal more about hagiology than when first we met, it was under his tutelage and on our shared walks that I came to understand the true subtleties of our vocation. He was terribly enfeebled by then, his body frail and pained beyond mending, but his wisdom remained ripe and bountiful. He taught me patience, diligence and, above all, keenness to sin. I wish nothing else for him than to rest peacefully and enjoy whatever afterlife awaits a man who spent so much of this one tending to others – yet even in death, our work follows us. 

My mother is here as well. I did help her in the end. Her sickness continued for only six more months. When there was finally nothing more to be done for her, I brought her here. Father Avankh secured her suitable sepulture and even reconstructed a crude genealogy of sorts to link her to the village of Morvin Mir. We are together, each day. She resides in a peaceful plot behind the church, in the shade of a vigorous oak.  

We finally replaced the worst portion of the lousy roofing three years ago, and last summer I had the southern windows reglazed. The ossuary, meanwhile, remains ramshackle. Father Avankh never did tell me whose bones reside inside. Some Minute Saint? It matters not. Morvin Mir will be floriferous this summer. Roses prevail, naturally. They adorn every corner of the refurbished church during the Feast and lend it an air of veneration. I must also say that some of this fine flora was gifted to me directly, and innocently, by a few parish saplings, and less so by their mothers.

The rest is mostly routine. I make my rounds every morning. I trim where growth becomes too dense, redirect it where necessary and make certain that no grave receives more than it can sustain. I am merciless with the shears, generous with mulch. There have been no gravebursts under my care, nor any serious overgrowth. However, there has been one nuisance. This month, I found two young people, most definitely not from Morvin Mir, coupling on one of the old grave slabs. I take it to be some modish ritual imported from the West. Fornication in a graveyard – Saints preserve us.

My own glebe around the rectory is doing very well. The garlic and onions survived the winter gallantly, and the earliest peas have begun to hook on their strings. The mint continues to escape its bed. Everywhere I stand this season, life surrounds and surprises me. The carnage and decay of winter are the bounty of spring. In flowering gardens, eternal silence is no more than a sting. I have seen it for myself.

War does not exist in this world. There are emotions, tons of them actually, getting carried through this river time and time again, but even the angriest of people often leave this side of them behind when faced with Death itself. In this sense, this world is strangely peaceful and calm. The river stretches beyond your eyes' reach, suggesting the following to be a rather long journey, and the slow current is barely noticeable beneath the mirror-like surface, reflecting the pink sky. There are mossy rocks tracing the river, but they're too far away from the small rowing boat to reach, even if you were to try with a long stick, and just above the rocks, stand tall pine trees covering any more of this world other than what you can already see from here. And at this time, in this calm, peaceful world, sits an old woman in the small wooden boat, silently following the current of the river.  This woman has just left her body after 90 long years, surrounded by the family she loved and was loved by. The warmth of her daughter's hand still lingered as she glanced down at her open palm. She blinked slowly as she observed the terrain surrounding her, wondering where on earth she was, and when her gaze returned to the back of the boat, a figure had appeared. A tall man in all black, with a hat covering the upper half of his face and a pipe protruding from his mouth, emitting strings of smoke that faded before reaching the tip of his hat. On either side of him, an oar was attached, which he slowly pulled towards him, digging up the clear water before he pushed them in front of him again, repeating the movement. The woman was startled by the sight of him, and the small boat rocked from side to side as she moved. 
“I didn’t mean to scare you”, the man said as he looked up at her, and their eyes met. 
They were dark brown, almost black, the same colour as the rest of him, but they were kind. They were calm as the river but sturdy as the rocks along the shore, and suddenly a smile spread across his face. The woman was seated on a bench at the back of the boat, opposite the man, who had his back turned towards the direction they were travelling, but her tense body slowly began to loosen at the man’s smile. 
“Am I dead?” she asked, deep down already knowing the answer to her question. 
“Depends who you're asking”, he replied, “If you’re asking the family around your body right now, then yes, you’re dead. But if I were to answer, then no,  you still have some time left before you’re ready to leave”
“So my body is left at the hospital?”
“That's right”
The picture of her own dead body, lying in the bed with her family surrounding her, not a dry eye in the room, appeared in her head, and a stab of longing hit her chest.
She thought for a while before asking, “Then… Are you Death?”
“Right again”, the man said with a small chuckle, “I’m here to help your soul find peace by taking you through your life one last time”
Take me through my life? She thought to herself, what does that mean?
“I’m sure you have a lot of questions, and I’m happy to answer them all when you're ready to ask them, but for now, I think it’s time to start this last journey of yours, because the river is long and we have many memories to go through together, you and I”
And before the woman could say anything, a glittering light at the corner of her eye caught her attention. A glade in the woods had appeared, and in the opening, a picture emerged. She squinted her eyes in an attempt to see better, and to her surprise, it looked like a bunch of fireflies. Hundreds of them, all in different colours, working together to create an image that you could just about make out what it represented. 
“There’s no better place to start than at the very beginning, don’t you agree?”, Death said, following her gaze towards the fireflies. “On the 12th of March 1954, a little girl named Mary was born”, the man continued as the old woman started to recognise the younger lady, lying in the hospital bed with a baby in her arms. 
Distant echoes of the baby's cries could be heard from the forest, followed by the mother's hushing as she tried to calm her small child. 
“Mom?”
The words were merely a whisper leaving her lips, but Death heard her nonetheless. 
In a low, soothing voice, as to mimic her own, he said, “Of course. What you’re seeing there is the day you were born into your mother's arms, Mary”
“I…”, she didn’t know where to begin, every emotion possible started bubbling up inside her, and she began feeling a lump building up in her throat. “I thought I had forgotten her face”
“Don’t you worry, when we’ve reached our end, you will have remembered everything you thought forgotten”, Death said reassuringly and in the same moment he finished his sentence, the fireflies scattered, and the image dissolved as the boat continued to carry them down the river. 
“Where did that come from?” Mary asked him after she had gathered herself.
“You”, he answered short, “It’s your memories. I’m only a passenger in this scenario, here to help you reflect, come to turn and lastly say goodbye to your life” 
“But that can’t have been my memory, I was only a few minutes old at the time, I don’t remember my own birth”
“With your brain in your living body, you didn’t, but your soul remembers every single thing you did. everything between your graduation, all the way to how you brushed your teeth on the 24th of October 1975. 
“Everything?”
“Everything”, he reassured her, before nodding towards the woods again.
Mary followed his gaze and spotted a new opening between the trees, and once again, glittering fireflies formed a new image. A large oak tree appeared, thick enough that four grown men would barely be able to wrap their arms around it and around the massive stem lay colourful leaves from yellow all the way to dark red, covering the ground. A rope was tied from one of its sturdy branches, and before it could touch the leaves below, a tire had been tied to the end, making for a perfectly suitable swing. On top of said tire sat a little girl with her bright red rubber boots kicking with joy, as her turquoise dress with pink spots, as well as her blonde, almost white hair, fluttered in the wind on the swing. A big smile covered her small face as she laughed and held onto the rope with her tiny hands. On the ground behind the swing stood another little girl with blue rubber boots instead of red ones, and a green dress that had turned brown at the ends after having jumped into a dirty puddle a little earlier. Also her face wore a wide smile, with uneven, partly missing teeth, and her brown eyes, radiating joy, could be seen beneath her brown bangs, as echoes of laughter and a voice screaming, “Higher! Higher!” could be heard from the forest.
“Tell me about this image”, Death said, watching her with a smile.
But he was only met with silence as the old woman stared at the two girls. To her, it felt like the world had stopped after seeing this memory that had been buried so deep within her mind. 
“Margret…”, she whispered, not even thinking about the words leaving her mouth, “My best friend…”
“Looks like you’re having a great time together”
“We always did”, she slowly answered with a distant voice, as if she almost wasn’t present in the moment. 
“It seems to me that the two of you had a very special friendship compared to other souls I guide through here”, Death said before continuing, “It was a long time ago now, but I remember guiding Margret through her life as I’m doing for you now”
His words pulled her out of her trance, and she now stared at him with wide eyes.
“Margret was here?”
“Well, of course. Everyone who has died has been here, reviewing their life as you’re doing now”
When Mary didn’t answer, he added, “And I can assure you that there weren’t many instances without you in her memories”
She couldn’t restrain herself from smiling, remembering all the fun adventures she and her best friend had had together. 
“This was the first day we met”, the old woman said and pointed at the scene, “It was like two twins who had been separated at birth finally found each other. Everything just felt right”
The last words could barely be heard as the large oak alongside the little girls' dissolved in front of her eyes, and all that was left was the thick forest of pine trees as the boat continued down the river. 
“You know”, Death began, “Ever since I learned about you through Margret's memories, I’ve always wondered how it would go for you”
His words stung at her chest as she remembered, and it was almost as if he realised the pain he had caused her because he quickly added, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rip open old wounds”
“It’s okay”, she replied, waving a hand in front of her in an attempt to suppress her feelings.
“Just know that I’m very happy that I get to follow you on this last journey, that’s all”
She hadn’t reflected on it before, since there was so much else going on, but this time, his last words sparked a question in her. 
“You keep saying my last journey. What does that mean? What happens after this?”
This had always been the most difficult question to answer for every soul he helped, but after the infinite times he had been forced to give a response, the words had now wedged themselves into his mind, and he spoke them fluently. 
“People believe in an infinite number of different things about what happens after death. Some think that you’re born again inside another body, others say that you get put in either heaven or hell, depending on how you’ve lived your life. And then there are those who believe that after your brain shuts off, everything goes black and that’s it”
Mary started to reflect on what she had thought would happen. When she was a child, death felt so distant and far away that she wasn’t sure she had even reflected on what would happen after. As she got older, the most logical answer was that everything goes dark. You fall asleep, never to wake up again, but the more things she experienced through her life, the more her beliefs began to change. Some people are too bad or too good to be given the same ending, and so some sort of heaven and hell became a comfort to her that made sure justice was served. 
“Which one is it then?” the old woman asked. 
“Well, you’re here now, what do you think?” Death answered with a grin.
“As you keep saying this is my last journey, my guess is that neither of those options you said are true, but rather you get to recall your life, and then you die” 
The words were quick and almost irritated. She didn’t know what had caused her to get this riled up, but something about the man trying to play riddles with her made her angry. No. That wasn’t it. This wasn’t because of him; it was because of him.
Death spoke in a calm, collective voice, “I’m afraid so”
“That means that he…”, she hesitated, “People who do bad won’t get to suffer for it?”
The man didn’t answer. He only looked at her with compassionate eyes as if he shared her sorrow. 
“That means I won’t get to meet her again, doesn’t it?”
She hadn’t dared to ask the question before, but she felt like it couldn’t wait any longer now. Holding his tongue, Death let out a puff of smoke from the corner of his mouth before slowly shaking his head. 
It was as if something broke inside the old woman. She had only had one wish on her deathbed, one thing that had made her almost wish for death. The faith that she would be able to meet Margret again had made death feel like a warm embrace, like the bus finally arriving after waiting in the pouring rain for eternity, ready to get home. Mary didn’t say anything. Just sat there, her gaze fixed straight ahead but her mind had travelled off on its own, somewhere far away in space and time. Death only continued puffing on his pipe as they rowed in silence together. The old woman was so deep in her own thoughts that she almost failed to notice the next clearing between the pine trees and the fireflies that had appeared. Like before, they formed a new image together. Two girls, older this time, each with a large backpack, straps over both the chest and hips. The once almost-white hair had darkened over the years, turning a more golden colour, now pulled back in a ponytail, with beads of sweat clinging to her neck. Around them, mountains reached as far as the eye could see, and the blazing sun on the blue, cloudless sky had coloured their faces red from the lack of sunscreen that the two girls had told their mothers that they wouldn’t need. The fact that they were tired from the long walk didn’t go unnoticed, but they still wore the same smiles as they had done by the swing under the old oak, only this time, they had all their teeth in place. Exhausted laughs could be heard echoing over the river, and the old woman’s eyes lit up from the view.
“This was in Nepal!” she let out, a little louder than expected. 
“What a wondrous experience that must have been”, Death answered, letting out a small chuckle, “Tell me about it”
“Oh, it was fantastic”
 It was as if the sad thoughts that had troubled her had been blown away in the nonexistent wind, because while she was rambling on about all the places they went to, and all the things they did, you could mistake her for a teenager again. 
“And then we met this man in India, who offered us to eat dinner with him, and for your information, I can not handle spicy food. At. All. Anyways, when it was time to eat, I almost choked because it felt like my throat was on fire!”. Mary laughed as she finished the story, “The man was confused because to him it wasn’t spicy at all, but it ended with Margret having to run to the closest store and buy some milk and feed it to me like a baby!”
Death laughed with her, and after she had wiped the tears from the corner of her eyes, she slowly calmed down and said, “I think that trip was the most fun I had during all my years”
“I can imagine”, the man replied, watching her with joy in his dark eyes and a crooked smile. 
The fireflies were far behind by this time, but neither of them had noticed their disappearance. 
“Laughing like this has made me realise how much I have missed her”
He could see the teenager inside her slipping away as the wrinkles and tired eyes made themself visible again. 
“It’s difficult to let someone you love go, and learn to live with them not being there to make you laugh again”, he began, tilting down his head in an attempt to avoid her look, “But even though it’s hard, or maybe because it is hard, we must accept that fate and let them go.
“You should know why I can’t let it go”, her expression suddenly hardened.
“I do”, he sighed. There was a moment of silence before he finished, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it” 
As if they understood that the conversation had ended, the fireflies appeared on the shore once again, collaborating with their different colours to portray yet another memory. The blonde woman was older this time, and instead of a shirt and shorts, she wore a long, beautiful white dress that covered her feet and glittered in the sun. Next to her stood a man dressed in a white shirt underneath a dark grey suit, and a bow tie to finish off the look. They were both smiling and waving to their family and friends sitting in front of them, who cheered and clapped their hands in return. 
“Congratulations”, death said, trying to lighten the mood from the previous talk. 
“Sorry?” Mary replied. 
Her thoughts had drifted off somewhere else again, which had caused the image to go unnoticed by her at first, but after hearing his gratulation to her, she looked up, and her eyes met the ones of the man in the suit. 
“Oh, Robert!”
His strong gaze had made her heart skip a beat, and she tried leaning forward a bit in an attempt to get a better look at him. 
“Look how handsome he was”, she said to Death without averting her eyes from the fireflies. 
“Sure was”, he answered, examining her face. 
“Have you met him too?” 
“I have”
“Did he say anything about me?” she asked excitedly as she leaned back and turned to the man in front of her again.
Her sudden shift in emotion again gave him an ounce of concern, but he concealed it beneath his smile and told her how greatly Robert had spoken of her and how much he had loved his wife. 
“I bet you he did”, Mary chuckled, “He never did miss an opportunity to show me how much I meant to him”
Her head turned to the wedding scene again before it had scattered, and with a voice filled with love and nostalgia, she whispered, “I was the luckiest woman ever”
“Tell me about the wedding”, Death asked her after the image had vanished. 
“It was wonderful! Both our family and friends were there, and they held so many beautiful speeches and the food, don't even get me started on the food”
He could see her mind travelling off to distant memories of their night together, and just as she had blabbered on about the backpacking trip, different stories now poured out of her mouth as her life depended on it. All kinds of things people had said in their speeches, how she had been bored listening to the priest's rant and just wanting to kiss Robert, and how a pair had taken off their shoes and started dancing on the tables after having had a tidy bit too much to drink. Death sat opposite the old woman and quietly listened to her stories, except for when he added a small laugh or a comment about something she said. There was no boredom in the man’s face, no restlessness in his words, because even though his journeys like this had been countless, and the ones waiting were even more, times like this, where the soul shares its memories with laughter rather than tears, didn’t happen very often. He had witnessed an innumerable number of lives, and, unfortunately, hardly a percent of them contained this much joy. Even if he were well aware of the melancholy the old woman in front of him carried, he’d like to stay in this moment for a little longer. So he let her empty every single story she had from that night, and when her words had caught up with her memory, a new scene appeared on the shore, depicting a blonde woman lying in a hospital bed, just like her mother had done before her, with a small child in her arms. Mary spotted the picture and clapped her hands over her mouth.
“Anne!” she burst out, “My baby, oh my baby girl”
And the stories kept coming. The throat that had been so dry before was now pouring out anecdotes from her children and all the adventures they had together, and as earlier, Death let the moment linger just a little longer. Following the old woman’s tales, yet another glittering image by the fireflies emerged. At first, she could hardly spot the difference between this and the one before it, but after leaning forward as far as she dared without tipping the boat over, she realised that the woman with a child in her arms this time wasn’t herself. What she was seeing was the birth of her first grandchild, and the lady lying in the bed was none other than her own little girl, who had now grown up to be an adult. 
“How time flies, huh?” she said slowly, leaning back as she continued to study the memory. 
“It sure does”, Death answered, examining her side profile and wondered if she was going to start speaking stories of her grandchildren too. To his disappointment, there was none. Her mouth stayed sealed as the boat kept drifting away from the image until the pine trees had filled every gap, and silence took over. Death understood that his tiny window of laughs had passed, and so he continued slowly dragging the oars through the polished water until Mary finally broke the quiet.
“We're reaching the end soon, aren’t we?”, her gaze still aimed at the woods to their side. 
“We are”, he answered, “But there is still something you have yet to show me”
She didn’t say anything, but her subtly clenched jaw gave him every reply he could ask for. His whole body wanted to end it here. Let her go and continue guiding the next souls like nothing had happened. But that wasn’t his duty as Death. 
“Believe me when I say…”, he began, but was cut off.
“I know what you want me to show you”, the old woman finally turned back her head and stared at his pale face, “But I can’t. I can’t see it happen again, I refuse” 
He hesitated after meeting her eyes. The joy that had been there just moments ago had been replaced by grief, and it was difficult not to avert his gaze. 
“I can’t let you go unless you face that thing that harbours your wrath”
“Please”, shiny wet eyes pleading to him, “Please, I have spent my whole life trying to forget what I saw that night, I can’t bear seeing it again”
Tears were far from new to him, and watching people cry was almost all he did. But something about this old woman made him feel a certain way. Deep below, a sense he wasn’t familiar with, and it made him do something he hadn't done before. His thick, worn hands from all the rowing let go of the oars, and for the first time, he stood up, walked a few steps towards her, crouched down, and hugged her. At first, she was almost as surprised as he was, but after a few seconds, she put her arms around him as well. Neither of them knew how long they sat like that, because time didn’t matter in this moment. Death knew what she hadn’t dared to show him, but at the same time, he understood the importance of facing it. 
“I will stay here for as long as you need”, he whispered. 
Mary couldn’t hide from it anymore; the memories she had tried to forget for 60 years started bubbling up inside her, and they both flinched at the sudden screech of a car slamming on its brakes that echoed through the forest. Death raised his head, but the old woman’s cheek stayed pressed against the man’s shoulder, paralysed from the noise. It was the third time he saw this memory, this time from the last perspective. The image depicted a dark scene, with stars glittering in the night sky. Just as she did now, the blonde woman stood paralysed on the sidewalk, watching her best friend's body, twisted in a way that shouldn’t be possible. The headlights of a black car lit up her figure, creating long shadows behind her as if she were acting in a play at a theatre. But this was no play, and her best friend was not acting. The old woman twitched in the boat in an attempt to shake away the sight in her head, but she couldn’t refrain from playing the scene in her mind. 
“Do you think you can forgive him, Mary?” Death carefully asked, his arms still embracing her.
“Forgive!?” Her paralysis broke, and she pulled away from the man crouching before her, “He killed her!”
The rage had surfaced, and she stared at him with wide eyes. 
“I know it can feel difficult…”
“Difficult?” she interrupted, “You know what was difficult? Him leaving the bottle behind before getting in a car”
Death closed his eyes and sighed, “He had his reasons”
“His reasons for murdering my best friend? So now it’s okay to go around killing people if you have a reason?” was he seriously going to take that drunkard's side, she thought.
“It’s not okay, I never said it was okay”, he began, hoping he was going to get to finish his sentence, “I just said that he had a reason for getting in the car that night, even though he was well aware of the risks”
“What reason?”, her tone still hostile.
The man’s dark eyes met hers, and even though she had screamed in his face, there was no sign of anger or irritation in them—only sorrow and compassion. 
“It’s easier if I show you”, he said, standing up before letting out a puff of smoke through the corner of his mouth and turning around for the oars. 
His sturdy hands grasped the wooden poles, and he began rowing in silence. The old woman, who still hadn’t looked at the memory, now saw it pass by in the corner of her eye, and the quick view secured the thought that she would never forgive that man. She couldn’t contain herself from repeating the scene over and over again in her head until the man's words suddenly snapped her out of it. 
“All I ask of you is that you try to understand what I’ll show you, okay?”
Mary didn’t answer; instead, her focus had changed towards the pine trees that had stopped growing, and in their place, a wide wheat field had appeared to their side. The golden grass reached as far as she could see and met the pink sky at the horizon, but before long, the fireflies emerged again. Tons of them, way more than before, swarmed out from the woods, and instead of creating a single image as they had done before, countless memories were put together, generating a slideshow along the river. When the first picture presented a man this time, holding a small child in his arms, the old woman recognised his young face and soon realised that these weren’t her memories. The boat continued to drift as the images, one by one, portrayed a relationship between a father and a daughter. Her first steps, while he holds her tiny hands like a puppet, the little girl laughing with the wind in her face as her dad finally lets go of the bike, and one after another, the fireflies showed the daughter getting older until they depicted the man, sitting on a sofa with a glass of whiskey on the coffee table in front of him. The TV's blue light lit up his tired face as his phone suddenly started buzzing. Without averting his gaze, he picked it up and held it against his ear. 
“Am I speaking with Shaun Miller?” a voice echoed from the field. 
“That’s right”
“This is the police speaking. Your daughter has been in a car accident and is in critical condition at the moment" 
The man’s eyes widened, and his jaw loosened, leaving an opening between his lips. The next images showed the father fumbling for the car keys in his pocket before getting into a black car and driving off under the starry sky. He was clipping with his eyes and had trouble focusing on the road when a woman suddenly stepped out into the headlights. The liquor had dampened his senses, and on any other day, he would have had time to brake, but his time, his reaction time was just a second too slow, and the car screeched before hitting the woman with a loud crash. His heart was pumping as his shoulders were jumping up and down alongside his breaths. He stared at the twisted body ahead of him before stumbling out of the driver’s seat and clumsily running over to the girl before kneeling in the dark, thick pool of blood around her. He put his hands on his shaking head while a moan of nothing other than despair and regret drooled out of him. That was the last memory, and next to it, the pine trees started growing again, and the forest continued. 
“He was trying to see his daughter…”, Mary stared at the last dissolving image as the words barely left her mouth. 
“Do you understand now?” Death asked calmly, “Almost everyone has a reason for doing bad things”  
“But…”, the old woman began without knowing what she was going to say.
“It was foolish of him, and a life could have been spared that night if he had taken a taxi instead. And while those thoughts might seem obvious to us in retrospect, while you are unsure if you will ever see your daughter again, the fact that you’ve drunk a few glasses of whiskey won’t even cross your mind”
She didn’t know what to say. For 60 years, she had hated that man with her entire heart and thought him to be either the stupidest man alive or the most evil. But seeing this had made all those years of wrath feel… wrong?
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you how much Shaun cried over what he did that night when I guided him through his memories”, Death said with a face set in stone “Naturally, he was put in prison for what had happened and in the span of one hour, he had lost both his daughter and himself” 
He let his words sink in before asking again, “After seeing what I’ve shown you, Mary. Will you forgive him?”
She didn’t answer at first. Minutes of silence passed as she felt the man’s dark eyes penetrate her, and thoughts about how she had felt standing there, watching her best friend get flung into the air, and later holding her wet head in her lap, caressing her brown hair, tears streaming down her cheeks as she tried to tell her that everything would be alright, even though she knew deep down that her friend was already gone. 
“I…”, she swallowed the lump that had been building up inside her throat since the beginning, “I don’t think I can”
Death let go of the oars and leaned forward with his forehead towards the floor, inevitably bringing the boat to a halt before tilting up his head, giving a deep sigh, letting out a cloud of smoke.
“Magret did”
Their eyes met, but his words had caused her body to freeze. Had she heard him correctly? When he saw that what he had said had an effect, he continued, “Margret forgave him. She knew that it had been her own fault for stepping out in the street, and to her, she was only disappointed that she wouldn’t get to enjoy being with you anymore”
Mary only stared at him with disbelief in her eyes as he kept speaking.
“Of course, she wasn’t aware of the fact that Shaun had been drunk, and at first, she didn’t know that she most likely would have survived if he hadn’t been drinking. And while I couldn’t show her as I did for you, I told her the story behind his daughter and explained why he had done as he did, and to my surprise, she didn’t even think twice about it. She had just smiled and told me she was happy that you were unharmed”
The old woman couldn’t hold it in any longer. His last words had delivered the final blow as the tears now poured down her face. All the emotions she had tried shutting away now let loose. 
“Stupid, Margret!” she whaled, “Why didn’t you care about yourself for once, even after you died, did you put me first” 
Death smiled at her, “She really loved you”
“I know!” she cried, “That’s why I couldn’t forgive him”
Her face was buried in her hands as she tried to wipe away the tears, but they just wouldn’t stop. 
“But you did”, she tilted her head towards the sky as she gave small laughs between her snorts. “Why did you have to forgive him and make me look like the bad person?”
The man opposite her couldn’t help but blow air from his nose in amusement as his smile grew wider.
Mary watched the sky and traced the small clouds with her eyes as the sun had begun to make its way towards the horizon. Margret had been the most kindhearted person she had known, and she had forgiven him. Does that mean that it’s the right thing to do? She thought about what Death had shown her, and the pictures of the father and daughter growing up together reminded her of her own children. She remembered the call he had gotten and wondered how she would have acted if she had received the same thing. A few glasses of wine certainly wouldn’t have crossed her mind. Her thoughts swished back and forth in her head, relieving everything again, before finally admitting it.
“I forgive him”, she said, straightening her back and meeting the man’s steady gaze with her tearful eyes. 
I forgive him, she thought to herself. It was true that it had been his fault; it had been he who decided to drive, it had been he who had killed her best friend. But he had been human. It had been human of him to ignore the risks for a chance to see his daughter, and it had been human of her to hate him for it. But after 60 years, she had decided to forgive him. Because carrying that wrath with her will only be a burden on herself, and learning to forgive, might be what makes us the most human out of all. 
“That makes me glad”, Death said, leaning back as he grabbed the oars again, forcing the boat to continue along the river. 
The two of them held their tongues and let their thoughts spin as the sun now only showed its upper half above the horizon, casting long shadows behind them and painting the sky a mix of pink and orange. 
“I’ve lived my life, feeling guilty every time I laughed because she didn’t get to. I had thought that she would be jealous of me for living, but now that I know that the only thing on her mind had actually been joy from knowing that I would be able to keep going, I feel as if I have let her down by not living it to the fullest”
The tears had calmed, but softly sniffs still interrupted her sentence as she looked at the fidgeting hands in her lap.
“You're not alone with those thoughts”, Death said, as his eyes, which had been fixed on the gaps between the trees as if he was trying to spot something in the darkness, now landed on the old woman in front of him. “Almost everyone I guide here says that they wish they had lived their lives more, and when I tell them to speak of something that they would have wanted to do, they say all these different kinds of things like going skydiving, spending more time with their family or purchasing this house instead of that one.  But my theory is that even if they had done those things, they still would have wished for more. Humans are strange in that matter. Regardless of what they have, they always seem to wish for more and fail to remember everything they actually have. The reason I take them on this journey is to help them remember their life so that at the end, you can all pass on without any regrets”. He took a deep breath through his pipe before blowing out a cloud of smoke at the sky, “So tell me, Mary, what do you wish you would had done differently?”
The old woman hadn’t been prepared for his question, and she hesitated a moment without being able to answer. But just as the man opened his mouth to say something, she replied. Her eyes were looking straight through him as if, in her head, she were somewhere else, and her voice was slow and distant, almost like she was trying to come up with the next word to say right after finishing the last one.
“I… wish… I had… blue rubber boots like Margret”
Death's eyes widened as he was taken aback by her answer. He had always asked that question at the beginning of the river, and people had always told him large, meaningful things as a reply, not what colour their rubber boots had been when they were children. I guess this was an effect of the same thing that happened at the end of every journey–he thought to himself as he examined her old wrinkly face–the most difficult part to watch. Her eyes suddenly focused on his, and a smile spread across her face.
“Is that you, Robert?” she gasped, before reaching her hands towards him and cupping his face in her palms. “Oh, Robert, how I have missed you! You look just as handsome as you did on our wedding”
His eyes softened as he looked at her, and he tried to hide his grief behind empty words.
“I’m here, Mary”
Death felt his emotions building up inside him, and in an attempt to run away, he told the old woman to look into the water. She gave him a puzzled glance, but obeyed his words without question, and as her weak body hung over the edge, she was met with her own reflection looking back at her.
“Margret”, she whispered, “Look, Robert, it’s Margret!”
Tears started rolling down her cheeks again, but this time they were accompanied by joyful laughter.
“Your hair is white like mine!”
The man watched her little kicks with her feet as she spoke, and without a word, he pulled down his hat to hide his eyes. Because even a man like him, shaped by death, wasn’t untouchable by it.
“Farewell, Mary. It has been a wonderful experience to follow you on your last journey. I won't forget you for a long time”
But Mary couldn’t hear him. Because the old woman was too busy laughing with her best friend again. 

The lighthouse's eye shone like God's first light in the world. As the wind whipped against the boy's cheeks, a large wave crashed over him, even though the heavy rain already drenched his clothes. Thunder roared in the distance, and sudden bursts of lightning lit up the otherwise pitch-black sky. The struggle of keeping the boat on course had left the boy’s body aching, yet the increasingly growing eye in front of him stirred enough hope for him not to surrender. The distance between the small motorboat and the lighthouse seemed infinite in the surrounding darkness, but after countless more waves, the islet rocks appeared. Though it wasn’t an easy task to get ashore as the sea struck against land, he managed to get close enough for a jump. With the boat line in a sturdy grip in his hand, the boy took a mighty leap from the bow and landed on all fours against the hard rock. In the same moment, his foot slipped on the wet seagrass covering the stone and ice-cold water reached up to his ankle. Frantically, his fingers grasped for somewhere to hold as he slowly slid down towards the abyss below. His knee scraped against barnacles, and although the boy bit his tongue in pain, it had enough friction for him to stop sliding. His eyes searched the dark stones for a hold of some sort, and right before a wave whipped at his back, he managed to fit his fist inside a crevice in the rocks, and he was able to hold on to the islet. After the water had washed over him, the boy began crawling away from the angered sea. When he felt safe standing up again, he turned around to try to spot his boat in the void in front of him. He began pulling at the slack line still in his hand, and after a few seconds, it tensed, and he felt the resistance from the waves not wanting to let it go. He was careful not to slip again, but after a bit of struggle, he figured trying to reel the boat back in and secure it wasn’t an option, so he reluctantly let go of the line and watched it slither its way into the darkness. He felt a sting of sorrow for losing his boat, but not for long, as he let his attention turn towards the large tower before him. The boy began making his way in the direction of the glowing eye in the sky, as it felt like the rain was biting at him. Finally, he reached the house connected to the tower, and after a bit of hesitation, he knocked on the door. The sound of it almost disappeared in the wind, and he was just about to raise his hand and try again when the door creaked open. Tired old eyes looked back at him, and he saw a mouth covered behind a thick white beard moving, but there was no sound.
“What!?” the boy shouted back and leaned closer to the man.
“What are you doing here?” the man answered, his voice a bit louder this time.
“I lost my boat!”, he thought for a second and examined the old man before continuing - “Can I come in?”
The man's eyes travelled up and down as he carefully reviewed the boy. Then he gave a small nod and opened the door wider as a gesture for the boy to come in. With a sigh of relief and a smile, the boy gave a nod back and took a step inside. There wasn’t much to look at. A tiny kitchen to the right, two doors to the left and an old round table in front of him with a big oil lamp filling the room with a warm orange light. The interior was mostly made out of old wood, and it smelled of mould. But as the man closed the door behind him, it was like the storm had been shut off by a switch. The floor creaked as the man walked past him and sank down on one of the chairs by the table, and continued solving a crossword in the newspaper in front of him. Not a word was spoken between the two, and the boy began feeling awkward. It was like the old man had forgotten he let him in.
“Ehrm.. thank you for letting me in”, he said uncertainly.
The man who had just taken a sip from a mug in front of him growled something that sounded like a “you’re welcome” without looking at him. The silence returned, and the boy kept standing in the middle of the room, his clothes still drenched from the storm outside. For some reason, it felt wrong to move. Like, he didn’t have any right to make noise. But he figured he couldn't stand here all night, so he carefully made his way to the other chair opposite the man, trying to avoid making the floor creak. The boy sat down, and even though he tried not to look at the old man, he couldn't resist. He had a navy coat over a stained white buttoned shirt with beige stripes. His head was covered with curly white hair, the same as the rest of his face, except for the top, which had thinned over the years. And although it was well hidden behind his bushy beard and moustache, he had a weathered face with dark, tired eyes and a big, round nose in the middle. His figure was large but not fat, like a man who had had big muscles in the past but then forgotten his diet as the years went by.
“I’ll just stay here til the storm has passed, if that’s okay? Then I’ll be on my way,” the boy said, wondering if there was a way home from here without the need of a boat.
The man only grunted something inaudible without looking up from his newspaper, but he interpreted it as an - “That’s alright”
Once again, the silence returned, and the boy unknowingly started tapping his fingers against the table as he looked around the room for something to catch his interest when he felt the man staring at him. Confused, he met the old eyes before embarrassingly putting his hands on his knees and murmuring, “Oh, sorry”
He looked back down at the table for a second before suddenly looking back up and reaching his hand forward towards the man.
“I’m Dennis by the way”, he said with a try at an enthusiastic smile, “What’s your name?”
This time, the old man straightened up and stared right into Dennise’s eyes.
“Look lad, I’m not much for small talk, okay. I let you stay here from the storm, but that ain’t mean we’re friends, got it?”
The boy pulled his hand back as his smile faded, but the man kept talking - “I have no idea who you are and how you got here, and I’ve got no intention of asking, so just do whatever you want so long as you don’t bother me.
His voice was deep and wheezy like he hadn’t used it in a while, and although his words weren’t kind, there was no hostility in the tone, only tiredness. Still, Dennis decided it was best not to make any sound at all, so he went back to staring down at the table, letting his eyes trace the wooden pattern. He didn’t know how long he sat there studying the table, but after what felt like hours, his eyes finally met a pile of folded newspapers next to the lamp he hadn’t noticed earlier. Slowly, so as not to bother the man, he reached his hand out for the top one and slid the paper towards him. Carefully, he flipped through the pages until he got to the crosswords and then began scanning the table for a pen of some sort and found a few lying behind the pile he had discovered. Dennis began filling in the missing words one after one, and soon enough, he had finished all the puzzles on the page. With a newfound burst of excitement, he began searching the pile after more undone ones, but to his disappointment, all the others were already filled in. With a sigh, the boy leaned back in his chair and started balancing the pen on top of his upper lip in boredom. But after he grew tired of that too, Dennis leaned forward again and started examining the one the old man was working with. It didn’t take long for him to figure out a word, and without further thought, the answer flew out of his mouth.
“Bygone”
The old man looked up at him with a puzzled face - “What?”
“Number six. It’s bygone”, He explained, although he had already regretted saying it out loud.
The man’s eyes fell back down on the paper before writing “bygone” in the row.
“Thanks”, he said slowly with a voice mixed with confusion and surprise.
Dennis had prepared himself for something way worse, but his reaction gave him enough confidence to keep going.
“Forty-seven should be yore”, he continued.
Once again, the old man looked up at him, back down to the paper and this time he let out a small chuckle before filling in the word.
“Where did ya learn to do crosswords lad?”, he asked after laying down the pen and leaning back in the chair.
“My granddad liked them very much before he passed”, Dennis answered, “I used to do them with him when I was a child”
It had been a few years now since his grandfather had passed, and he felt sorrow when thinking about him.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that”
A few seconds of silence went by before the old man spoke again.
“Harold”, he said while reaching his hand towards the boy.
Dennis gave him a confused look before the man continued - “You asked for my name earlier. It’s Harold”
“Good to meet you Harold”,, he said as the tension loosened between them and he shook the man’s hand with a wide smile.
“Likewise”
And for the first time, the boy was sure he saw a glimpse of something other than fatigue in the old eyes in front of him.
“I apologise, I don’t often get visitors around here, so I’m used to the quiet”, Harold almost looked ashamed when he spoke.
“Oh, no reason to apologise sir, I understand. Can’t be easy living out here alone all the time”
“Sir”, Harold chuckled, “There’s no need to call me sir. I haven’t done anything to deserve that title”, he continued as he waved his hand in front of his face like he was trying to get rid of the thought. 
“Sir is a title of respect, and I’m sure even a grumpy old lighthouse keeper like yourself has done some good things in this life”
“I don’t know. Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t”
The old man sighed, and his eyes travelled off somewhere else. Somewhere distant in the past.
Dennis hesitated - “You let me stay in here. If you weren’t a sir before this, you are now”
“I guess so”, Harold answered as his thoughts returned to the room.
He examined the boy with a puzzled expression as if it was the first time he had seen him, before interrupting himself.
“Stay here, I’ll get you some dry clothes”
He rose from the chair and waddled his way across the creaking floor towards one of the doors as he murmured - “Can’t sit here in those rags and freeze to death”
His large figure vanished into the room, and Dennis heard him rummage around in drawers.
“You need some help?”, he asked with a loud voice.
When he was met with silence, he stood up to offer his help, but before he could start walking towards the door, Harold came back out with a bundle of cloth in his hands.
“I told you to sit, didn't I?”, he said, and Dennis could make out a small smile hidden behind the beard. “Yeah sorry, I just thought...”
“I’ve managed myself for some time now. No need for help here”
He dropped the clothes on the table and took a step back.
“Try these. Might be a little big on you, but I bet they’re warmer than what you’re wearing now”
Dennis gave the pile an uncertain look before starting to undress. His wet clothes were sticking everywhere, but with some struggle, he managed to get them off and started putting the old man’s clothes on. Soon enough, he realised that he had underestimated the size difference between them as he would be able to fit almost three of himself inside the pants, and the shirt hung around him like a blanket. Again, Dennis could spot a hint of a smile as he tried to keep his waist up with the belt.
“Funny now is it?”, he asked sarcastically.
“Looks great on ya”, the man answered calmly as he sat back down in the chair.
The boy smiled to himself as he copied the man’s movement, and silence once again overtook the conversation.
“So...”, Dennis cleared his throat - “What exactly do you do here? I didn’t even know lighthouse keepers still existed”
“Well, you know”, the man began while looking around the room as if he would find the answer somewhere - “I make sure the lighthouse is working”, there was a pause, as if he was
going to continue explaining, but ended up just ending his sentence with - “Yeah, that’s about it”
The boy struggled to hide his disappointment with the answer and decided to change the subject instead. “You know, I have always wanted to run into an old man like this”
Harold raised his eyebrows but didn’t interrupt.
“Yeah you know, it’s like something that you could see in a movie. A boy meeting an old man as he showers him with gathered wisdom and knowledge”
The man looked at him like he had suddenly started speaking another language before Dennis asked him, “So, Harold, do you have any wisdom to lend the younger generation?”
It took some time, but after a while, he answered, “Well, I believe you’ve met the wrong old man. Sorry lad, but I ain’t got any smart words to share, I’m afraid”
“Oh come on, there must be something”
“Look, I’m strong, and I know how to do my job, but brains wasn’t ever my thing, y’know”
Dennis looked down. Disappointed once again.
Harold watched the boy and suddenly murmured - “Well, okay, I can try at least, although I can’t guarantee it’ll be something useful”
He shone up when he heard the man’s words and felt his chest fill up with excitement.
“Really?”, he asked without being able to hide his joy.
“Yeah sure”, Harold answered, struggling to conceal a smile, “what do you wanna know lad?”
The question staggered him. He hadn’t really thought about what exactly he wanted to know, so he ended up asking the first thing that came to his mind.
“What’s the meaning of life?”
At first, the old man didn’t answer. His eyes were yet again fixed on something in another room from another time. Dennis started wondering if the man had even heard the question, but then he opened his mouth.
“Well.. At first I’d say life’s about having fun”, his eyes still looking through the boy, “But since we’ll be here for a while, I’ll also say that’s only a part of it. Sure, having fun all the time would be nice, but I believe there is so much more to it”
Dennis watched the man’s gaze, and at the time, he saw something new, something he hadn’t seen there before. There was a longing in his eyes. Like he was glancing back at distant memories he had forgotten were there.
“I’ve had my fair share of life, I’d say, and one thing I can take with me is that it moves past incredibly fast. Sometimes I look in the mirror and still expect a young handsome man looking back. I’m sure you’ve heard it plenty before, but if it’s one thing I’ll tell you, it’s that”
“Everyone always says that, but how? How do I savour it? How do I know if I’m enjoying it as much as I should?”, he suddenly felt a lump in his throat that he wasn’t prepared for
This time, the man finally looked at him, his gaze shining like the lighthouse itself.
“That’s the worst part. You don’t. It doesn’t matter how much you live in the present or how much you think you’re savouring it. You will always wake up one morning, and all you’ll ask for is to go back”
It felt like the words had stabbed him in the chest. His heart started beating faster as he almost shouted out - “But I don’t know what I wanna do with my life! There’s so much shit going on and too much to choose from. I don't know how to make that call”
“Who are you Dennis?”, the man asked without averting his eyes. “What?”
“Who are you? Or should I say, who do you want to be?”
The boy didn’t know how to answer.
“I guess...”, he thought really hard. Who did he want to be? “I guess I want to be someone kind. Someone that other people feel safe around and can count on”
His words seemed to please the man as Harold’s eyes softened and a sense of pride appeared on his bushy face.
“Then be that person”
“But I still don’t know how. How do I make other people like or look up to me?”
“Ask yourself. Is it more important to you that you are kind, or that other people think that you are kind?”
Dennis opened his mouth to answer, only to realise that he didn’t really know what to say. What was more important? He hadn’t thought about it that way before and felt stupid for not knowing. Of course, the right choice was to say that in fact being kind was more important than just appearing that way, but for some reason, he couldn’t say that. He couldn't say that because deep down he knew that was wrong.
“I.. I.. I don’t know”, he lied
“Do you not know, or do you not want to realise what you in fact do know?”
The lump in his throat had grown, and he struggled to get any words out.
“Wanting to be wanted is not strange. Selfish? Maybe, but not necessarily wrong”, the old man continued after Dennis had failed to respond, “To be cherished by everyone is impossible and trying to be will only drain you”
There was a moment of hesitation in the boy before he spoke - “But I want to be loved”
“Of course, who doesn’t? But one thing you have to realise is that living to be loved is not the right way, nor is it a pleasant way. It’s a very difficult road that will most likely end up with you unloved by most”
He thought about Harold’s words for a while until he asked, “So how do I live without seeking love?”
“Try to think about someone that you would love, and then be that person. Try to avoid caring how other people might see you and just live how you want to live. After all, your life belongs to only you and one morning you’ll wake up, realising that you’ve wasted your life living somewhere else’s” Finally, the boy thought he understood the old man’s words, but he still had a question that had been nagging at him.
“Who are you? Harold”
He could see the question had been unprepared for, but it didn’t take long for the man to reply.
“I’m afraid I’m someone who wishes he had heard these words a long time ago”
Now it was Dennise’s turn to be stunned yet again. And even more at a loss for words was he when Harold reached for his inner pocket on his coat and pulled out an old wrinkled piece of paper. After unfolding it, the boy realised that it was a photograph. It was black and white, and in front of a large house was a young handsome man in a navy coat and beside him stood a beautiful girl with braided pigtails running down her shoulders and a rugged miss coloured apron over a white dress. It looked very old, he noticed, like it had been taken over a hundred years ago, but there was no doubt that the man in the picture was Harold, with almost the same clothes as he was wearing now.
“Who’s that?”, he asked carefully, pointing at the girl.
“Edith”, the man answered, looking down at the photograph with sorrowful eyes, “She was the love of my life and my only reason for living”
“Where is she?”
Dennis knew the answer to his question already, but he didn’t know what else to say.
“She died a few years ago, before I started working here”, There was a deep sense of despair in his voice, but it remained steady.
“I’m.. Sorry to hear that”, the words rolled right out of him without thinking, “Did you have any kids?”
“No. She decided early on that she didn’t want any, and even though I’d always dreamt of being a father, I agreed”
His eyes were trapped in the piece of paper in his hand like he couldn’t look away.
“I loved her. I really loved her. And all my life I spent trying to be the best husband and friend for her. It was the best years of my life, but what I realised when she was gone was that I had lived my entire life being someone else's. After she was gone, I realised that without her, I was no one”
The boy struggled to come up with something to say, so he remained silent. Harold’s gaze suddenly lifted from the photograph, and his eyes met Dennis’s.
“Now I’m not saying that you shouldn’t love someone, quite the opposite. Love as much as you can, but don’t forget that the person you will be  spending the most time with is yourself, so don’t forget to love him too”
“Then how do I live my life and not someone else’s?”
“I don’t know. You’re asking someone who never did”
At first, he felt confused. How could he be sure he was living his life? But then he thought about when he felt most alive, and suddenly he was very conscious of his surroundings. He heard the muffled sound of rain hitting the roof above him, felt the damp air inside the room, and smelt the mould and rotten wood combined into a sour odour in his nostrils. His eyes were directed towards the table in front of him, but his mind was searching for something inside his head. After a few seconds, the boy opened his mouth, pouring out his thoughts without thinking.
“I guess living your life could be to realise that you are alive and to appreciate the small things that you normally take for granted. Sooner or later, this time we’ve been given will end, and when that time comes, you might find comfort in the fact that you stopped and smelled the pine trees along the way, you know?”
This time Dennis raised his head and his eyes met Harold’s as he asked - “Are you afraid of death?” The old man turned his head to look into the black void outside the window as he replied - “I wouldn’t say afraid, more... disappointed”. 
There was a long pause before he continued - “I often regret not having kids, y’know. Raising them would be like a chance to relive your youth once again. Seeing them grow up and experiencing life for the first time is something I’ll never get to do, and although I’ve come to terms with that decision over the years, it still haunts me from time to time”
That perspective had never crossed the boy’s mind before, and he was surprised by the softness in the old man’s voice as he spoke.
“I’ve never thought about it in that way before”, he said, trying to mimic the tone.
“I don’t think a lot of people do. I s’ppose it’s normal for people to miss their youth. Always looking back and wishing to be able to experience those years once again. But I think it’s important to know that longing for something that was, will never make it come back. The best thing you can do is to make sure the next generation shares the same adventures, and if you’re lucky, you might get to share their joy as well”
A silence took place between them as Dennis tried processing Harold’s words, and after a little while, a grin cracked open on his face.
“And who said you weren’t wise, huh?”
From the side, he could see the corner of the old man’s lips rise as he combed his beard with his strong hands in an attempt to hide the smile.
“I guess this old man still had some words left to share”, he answered, finally meeting the boy’s gaze as he was unable to contain the joy shining through his eyes, “I never thought I would have another conversation with someone, so thank you. Thank you Dennis, for wanting to talk with an old man like me”
A warm feeling spread throughout Dennis’s body, and at the same time, he realised how tired he had gotten.
“Maybe it’s time we both get some sleep”, he said, containing the urge to yawn as he stood up and gave his body a stretch.
“I’m not feeling so tired”, Harold responded, “Plus I gotta make sure the damn lighthouse still works through a storm like this”. He chuckled a bit before continuing - “But you can take my bed if you’d like. It’s the door to the right”, the man finished, pointing at the door where he had fetched the clothes Dennis had borrowed.
“Thank you Harold”,, he waved as he started walking towards the room, “And good night, I’ll see you tomorrow before heading off”
He didn’t wait for a response from the old man, and right after crashing down on the stained bed in the corner, he fell asleep.

The dawn's first light shone through the thin curtains of the bedroom and hit Dennis right in the eyes. He blinked a few times, recalling the memories from last night, before sitting up at the side of the mattress. Light rays lit up the quiet room as dust particles danced before him, and the sea outside the window was as still as ever and reflected the clear blue sky like a mirror. The boy rubbed his eyes before opening the door and stepping out to the room where he greeted Harold. Only that the old man wasn’t there. Dennis scanned the room with groggy eyes, but the lighthouse keeper was nowhere to be seen. He searched every corner of the house but to no avail, and after a while he started to think if it all had been a dream. But when he returned to the table they had sat at a few hours ago, he noticed the crossword in the newspaper he had helped Harold solve lying open. He started reading the puzzle, wondering if the old man had maybe left a note explaining where he had gone, only to realise all of the words filled in had almost faded out or been erased by time, like they had been written a very long time ago. All except for two words that looked new: bygone and yore. It almost seemed as if it had been years between the first words that had been filled in and the last ones. But that’s not possible, Dennis thought to himself. He had seen Harold write the other words last night with his own eyes. Or had he? He tried searching through his memories, and to his horror, he realised that he wasn’t sure he had actually seen him fill in any words except those two. Maybe it was just an old puzzle that he had given up on, he tried telling himself, but the time it would have taken the older words to become like that was not reasonable. Now that he thought about it, everything in the house looked extremely old and unused, almost as if it had been abandoned for quite some time. The idea came creeping up on him, but he shook his head, remembering the conversation he knew he had had. Surely he wasn’t so crazy as to imagine a whole other person, let alone talking with him. No. Harold had been real, he told himself, and he had probably only left the house for a quick errand somewhere, that’s all. Well, no reason to wait for him to get back, he thought as he changed back into his old clothes that had been lying in a damp pile on the floor before marching out the front door. The morning sun made him squint as he stepped out and began making his way down the somewhat defined path he had taken when he had arrived. Dennis reflected on the fact that the whole islet looked entirely different from when he had been here the first time. He glanced back and realised the lighthouse didn’t appear at all as intimidating as it had seemed before, and when he reached the top of a small rocky hill, he saw that the land was much bigger than he had initially thought, and the majority of it was covered with tall trees. Maybe there was a way home after all. The boy started strolling through the sparse forest, happy that his dream of listening to the wise words of an old man had finally come true as he smelled the pine trees along the way.

”Dad!”

The waves were crashing against the metal hull of the small fishing boat, and trinkets and tools were rolling back and forth on the floor inside the cabin in step with the waves outside. Rain peppering against the windows and the constant roar of thunder were all the boy could hear. On top of that, the dim light from a swinging lantern in the ceiling, casting dancing shadows along the walls, made his head spin. All the boy could do was helplessly shout for his father as he hugged his arms around the dog's neck. He had been told to stay inside, but perhaps his father needed help. As time went by, he began contemplating whether he should go out there, and after a few seconds of thinking, he decided to help his father; maybe he would be proud of him if he did. On unsteady legs, he got up from the floor and fumbled his way across the room towards the door. As the boy reached for the handle, he felt his pants getting tugged at, and when he turned his head, the dog looked up at him with worried eyes.

“It’s okay Nala”, said the boy who tried to keep his voice calm, “I’m going to help daddy, I’ll be back really soon, I promise”.

The dog kept looking at him and whimpered, as if to say “please don’t leave”, but the boy only signalled for her to lie down in the corner furthest from the door, and she obeyed. This time, his hand pulled down the door handle, and in the blink of an eye, it flew open from the strong winds, and he almost fell overboard from the sudden force. Here, the noise from the wind and rain was deafening, not to mention the thunder that forced him to cover his ears. “Dad!”

He tried shouting again, but he couldn’t even hear his own voice. It was a new moon which made the sky and sea pitch black, although a big red light in front of him lit up the deck along with a broad-shouldered man, drenched in water, with hair and moustache matted against his face. He was standing at the front of the boat holding up the source of light over his head and at the same time trying to keep himself from falling over the railing. The boy let go of the door, took a step forward, put his hands around his mouth and shouted with all his might,

“Dad!”

The man froze as a lightning bolt lit up the scene even further. He looked back at his son, and their eyes met, one pair filled with hope and the other with terror. His body immediately spun around after his head and started running towards the boy when a flood of water forced him to let go of the flare to keep himself on board. As the red light disappeared between the waves, everything turned pitch black. The boy could do nothing but stare into the darkness, trying to make out what was happening. Waves kept washing up over the man, making him fall over, but he kept going towards his son. The boy could only see what was happening during the bursts of light from the sky, but he saw his father coming closer and closer. They were almost within arm’s reach when he felt a huge wave crashing over the boat, followed by another spark of light. His hands grabbed the railing just in time as water reached over the boat, covering the whole deck. But to the boy's horror, he could distinguish a hand grasping at thin air as it desperately followed the wave down into the abyss. He felt his heart drop, and for a second, he only stared at the spot where he’d seen the hand before suddenly screaming out into the distance for his father. But only thunder answered him. By instinct, he tried to get back inside for safety, but when he turned around, he found the door had closed behind him. The boat must have spun around because now the wind pressed against the door, making it impossible for him to open it. It was all getting too much. The hope he had just felt was washed away together with the wave, and the only thing he felt now was despair. He felt his eyes sting and a lump in his throat, but he forced himself not to cry. He had come out to make his father proud, and that was what he was going to do. He also thought about the promise he had made to Nala back in the cabin,

“It’s okay, I’ll be back really soon, I promise”.

If nothing else, he had to save her. He remembered the flare his father had used and started making his way along the railing towards the bow with a single thought in his mind; he would make his father proud of him, maybe for the first time. As he slowly struggled his way forward, both waves and distant memories kept showering over him. His hands were red and cold, just like the time when he had gotten lost when the family was hiking in the mountains. His dad had searched for him for hours, and when he finally found him, he had yelled at him.

“He probably hated me then”.

His clothes were drenched in water just like the time he had walked down to the lake by himself before he had learned to swim, and accidentally fallen into the water. His dad had seen him walk down and dive into the lake without hesitation to save him, and after he dragged him out, he had yelled at him.

“He probably hated me then”.

Different scenarios of him putting himself in danger rushed at him, and in every one of them, his father had yelled at him. But he had also always saved him. He had always been there, except for now. The boy suddenly woke up from his memories, and he had reached the bow where his dad had stood. Beside him, he saw a heavy metal crate, and with one hand still tight around the railing, he managed to lift the cover. Inside lay a bunch of red sticks like the ones his father had used, and it was exactly what he had hoped for. He reached down, picked one up and with some effort, it suddenly sparked to life and a red light flared up. But it wasn’t over yet; his only chance of being saved was hoping that some kind of rescue boat would see the signal and help him. The possibilities of that happening were close to zero; he knew that, but some hope still resided in him. As his body got weaker and it got more difficult to hang on, he tried to think of something else, somewhere happier, but it was to no avail. The only thing keeping him from giving up was the thought of Nala in the cabin and the thought of making his father proud. Slowly, the light in his hand grew dimmer until the darkness inevitably took over again. With shaking hands, he picked up another flare from the box, but this time his hands were too cold to ignite it. He cursed himself for being so weak; he hated himself. If only he had been as strong as his dad, he could have saved Nala. His whole body was stiff from the icy water, and he could feel his vision getting cloudy. In his final thoughts, he closed his eyes, and with purple lips, he mouthed “I’m sorry”, before his hand lost its grip on the railing. Just then, he felt a hand grab his arm, and he slowly raised his head.

“I got him, now pull us up!”, shouted a voice that sounded like it came from a man.

The boy could feel his numb feet lifting from the deck, and before he knew it he was standing on another boat.

“Quickly, help me take him inside and warm him up”, said the voice to another, “a minute later and he would’ve been gone”

As he got carried inside, the noise from the wind and rain stopped entirely when the door was shut behind them, and right after, a warm blanket was wrapped tightly around him. A minute went by, and he started feeling his fingers and toes again and an understanding of what had happened started to dawn on him.

“Good job holding out there, buddy”, said a man who was sitting on a chair beside him, “What on earth were you doing alone out here in this weather, though?”

The boy barely heard him; he was too busy figuring out what had happened and recalling all the memories when the man's words finally got to him. Alone..? Then it hit him.

“Nala!”, he burst out.

“What?”, the man answered confused.

“Where is she? Is she okay?”, he felt his heart racing.

“Who’s Nala?”

“The dog in the cabin!”, he practically screamed now, and other men came rushing towards him.

“I’m sorry we didn’t have time to check for dogs”, his words had what almost sounded like disgust in them.

“No, no, no!”, he tried standing up, but tangled himself up in the blanket and fell to the ground with a thud.

“Easy there buddy, your body is too weak to move, you need rest”, the man stood up and grabbed the boy's arm, but he broke free and clumsily dashed towards the nearest window.

There was no sight of his boat in the pitch-black void on the other side. Now the lump in his throat became too much, and tears began streaming down his cheeks as he wailed in sorrow. He had promised her that he would come back. He had promised himself that he would save her just as his father had always saved him. In his head, he could see her scared face cringing in the corner of the cabin, whimpering, waiting for him to return. But he never will. He remembered how he had cursed himself for being too weak to protect her when he couldn’t light another flare. He had been so scared of losing her that he even started to hate himself. As the tears dropped on the floor one by one, the same anger began bubbling up inside him again. But in the midst of his emotions, he realised something about his anger. He wasn’t angry at Nala, only towards himself for failing. That was when it suddenly struck him. Maybe this was how his father had felt all those times before.

I found her sitting on the floor next to my couch, the black cat quietly snuggled on her lap. I couldn't even call the little goblin a traitor. She was, after all, his original human. I handed her a cup of tea. I had promised her I would answer some of her questions just to ease her mind so I gave her space and sat down on the couch, even though I still had a preference for the floor as well. She absentmindedly scratched the little void's ears, right on his preferred spot. I could practically see the maelstrom roiling inside her brain as she let out her first question. "Have you spoken to him again? I know he goes missing for a while sometimes but he always comes back eventually."

I looked at her, felt the hope in her voice, it pained me deeply. How would I tell her that three years had passed since I last heard of him? How would she handle knowing she was the one that last spoke to him with the news she was leaving that godforsaken house to go live with her grandpa? How could I break the hope she held so dearly for someone to whom she would never speak to again? I couldn't lie. She hated lies. Nor could I omit or dodge the question. She hated that even more. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I hoped my words wouldn't crush her further.

"I don't think you'll like what I'm about to tell you, but if it comforts you I am past the hurting and almost made my peace with it: no hon', it has been 3 years since I've last heard of him. I stopped believing he would reach out a long time ago so I blocked him and unfriended him everywhere. I locked him out. And for your own sake, so should you. He was always lurking in my insta stories, it was both ridiculous and infuriating. I even got notifications he was checking my profile on apps he used to belittle and hate. It would be amusing hadn't it been so hurtful. Trust me, your mental health does not need to deal with that."

"Oh, I see..." She looked disappointed, more so than hurt, which I knew for sure she was feeling. "I understand." She added after taking a small sip from the cup, then returned to the dark haired devil's ears, much to his enjoyment. "But I feel like I want to hold on to hope a bit longer, you know? He hasn't really done anything wrong or out of the ordinary even. He has helped me a lot, he deserves to have the chance to reach out and explain, don't you think?". The cat took a nip at her pointer finger as if reading my thoughts and wanting to snap her out of it.

Oh I knew damn well that train of thought. I also knew he would never reach out, much less explain. He never explained. He did once, it all made sense, but it took him 2 years to do so just for him to fall back into old habits eventually. I was not banking my time on such foolishness anymore. However, I also knew I couldn't force her hand, she needed her time, her "hope". She always saw the good in people. "Gullyable" he had called her. He was right, always was, the damned prick. I couldn't blame him either. He was most likely merely living his life and doing what was best for his own mental sake. She would eventually understand it would be pointless and arrive at the same conclusion I did. I would have to let time run its course.

I sighed. "Do whatever you feel is best for you."

She quietly nodded, understanding. She looked away and I could see her inner fight before she mouthed her next question. "How about the other one? Is he still a part of your life?" I chuckled. A sarcastic ridden chuckle. "What do you think?" She looked back at me, pain mirrored in her chocolat coloured eyes. She remained quiet. Waiting for me to continue. I looked away, knowing I was about to give her some of her precious hope where there was none to be had. Yet again, lying was not on the table. Sometimes I truly hated my overly righteous moral compass.

"If it puts your mind at ease, he reached out. More than a year ago, but he did. All on himself as well." Not having the courage to look her in the eyes I added: "It didn't last. He answered about two messages and then nothing. Asked me to call to keep in touch, I tried. He never answered nor did he call back. He sounded tired, crushed by the weight of life. Last I've heard he was still trying to make things work with her. I don't know if they made it, but for his sake I hope they did. He still lurks on my instagram stories every once in a while but I've erased and blocked his number. I don't want to feel tempted to call and risk the void again. You should do the same. And I know you know I would try to reach out if given the chance."

I felt the soft weight of her hand on my arm. "I know. But I know you know I can't do that. Not yet. Maybe a couple months in the future I'll be able to, we'll see." I smiled at her and she smiled back. I knew it would take her much more than a couple of months. But that was her: always hoping for closure from people while I knew damn well she would only get it from herself. So blissfully naive, she was. I wish she could retain some of that in the future but she had to harden her skin if she was to move forward. I understand that now.

She withdrew looking defeated but oddly at peace. I grabbed her hand on instinct. "Look my love, if it makes you feel better I still do not regret a single thing. I've learned a lot from it and so will you. I've learned not to trust blindly or open up so easily, but now, when I do there's a real lasting connection there. I've learnt not to put my time and energy where it is clearly not wanted or welcomed. Instead I give it to whoever cherishes it and returns it. Even if that someone is just me for a while. I grew, painfully so, but I did. So will you, and trust me when you look back upon those days you will think of how sweet and naive you were and how much you needed it to become yourself in the end. There will be no bad blood nor hurt feelings, merely nostalgia. And you'll have made your peace with it by then."

She nodded once more and smiled, a silent tear falling from her eye. I wiped it away with my thumb. She looked at the not so little black fluff ball on her lap, as if to find some comfort in knowing he was still there, and asked her next question. "Did you make it? Are you on the path towards your dream job?". Now that was the elephant in the room. How would she see me after knowing I had all I've ever dreamed and deliberately chose to let it go because it felt hollow and pointless? I honestly didn't know how she would take my answer.

"What if I tell you I had it?". She seemed confused. "Had? As in: past tense?". I nodded and continued: "I was well launched in the path towards getting it, enjoyed what I was doing too, but along the way I realised it was nothing like I thought it would be and I didn't want it anymore. So I turned around. I was offered the chance, I took it and I turned around." She looked baffled when she asked "Why?". "That is a very long story, I don't think we have enough time but the jist of it is quite simple: I accepted the opportunity presented to me for your sake. I obviously wanted to do it for myself, of course, but I knew you would never forgive me if I hadn't given it a try. So I did. I loved the job, but the morals? Gosh were they sewage. You would've hated it. You will hate it. But it was important for me to understand what I truly valued and wanted for myself." I paused and squeezed her hand. She looked me in the eye and I added: "When the time comes, take the plunge. But trust your gut. Your intuition is right, more often than you give it credit for." She nodded understandingly.

I knew her better than I knew myself and I could see that next question bubbling up through her throat. "Did you meet anyone?". Predictable. I smiled widely at her. "You will be surprised about how close to you he is." She looked at me wide eyed. "What is that supposed to mean?". I chuckled again. "You will see." Little did she know he was only about two months away. But life still had one last curveball before he found her. It would hurt her deeply but she would later understand why she had to brake before rebuilding.

"Is he good?" I snapped back to the moment with her question. "In what way?" I asked, a wicked smile on my lips. She laughed. I adored that sound. "Gosh, you're insufferable!" She swatted my leg and I retorted: "You would know...". She laughed again before adding: "For you, is he good for you?". I needn't ponder on that, the answer was obvious but I had to be careful on what I shared otherwise I would risk too much. I smiled and looked away. "He is everything I needed and didn't know I wanted. He is imperfectly perfect in every way and he has shown me that love isn't an all consuming inferno. It is but a campfire you need to keep feeding wood, not big enough to burn but strong enough to light the space around you, keep you warm. It doesn't let you see everything in the void but chases enough of the shadows away so that you can keep going. And it keeps burning so long as you both keep feeding. And we both do, my love, me and him."

She was smiling when I looked back at her, teary eyed. She squeezed my hand. "So you're happy." Not a question, not a doubt, a certainty. "Blissfully so." I added. There was a moment of silence before she spoke again. As if she needed that information to soak in in order to soothe her mind. "Will it hurt?" She asked at last, looking away again. I knew she would. Naively predictable I was.

"I will not lie to you as I know I sure hate being lied to. You will feel the sting of pain more times than you will like. Most of those will not be physical. But you will catch every curveball life will throw and you will navigate them, maybe not always gracefully, but you will. You will grow and learn to deal with all of them one step at the time. And when it gets tough, when you feel like you cannot take it anymore, remember you are not alone. I am with you always, retracing my own steps because I've walked the path you're on right at this moment. I made it. So will you." I held her hand in mine and pushed her chin gently up to level our eyes. "You will be incredibly happy as well. And you will learn to look at the good, the bad and the ugly with 'it's just another rodeo' lenses. You will get all you've dreamed of and you will choose to leave it all behind over a life with him. You will never regret it. If anything he will make you believe every single day of how you made the right choice. He will also build you your very own Atelier and let me tell you, you'll fucking love it. I know it, because I do." She laughed seemingly lighter.

"We'll have an actual Atelier?" She asked. "No, babe, we HAVE an actual Atelier. As of now it already exists." I corrected, pointing at myself. That level of detail couldn't hurt. She looked excited. I knew she needed all the positive bits she could find to handle the next couple of months. I hugged her tightly and felt her arms squeeze around me while her tears dripped warm on my shirt. "I know all this because I have lived it. I survived it. Don't forget I was where you are right now." She sighed, I felt her chin on my shoulder. "I know. It comforts me knowing we're alright." She said. We were more than alright. We were thriving. I was thriving, for both of us.

This had to be the strangest conversation I had ever had in my life. When I saw her, well, when I saw me, younger me anyways, sitting in my living room I was sure which one of me it was just by the haircut and skinny looking face. I wish I had had the chance to have a chat with my older self three years ago. I knew damn well I desperately needed it. And here we were. Here I was? Confusing as heck, hugging myself and sharing the future without actually sharing. But I knew: she would survive. I did.
After all, I knew her better than I knew myself.

If i read correctly before i had a problem with the title . I hope I can get some feedback on the story.
It is my first attempt on a story. The idea popped into my head one day when i was bored at work.
Hope you like it.

⸻

CHAPTER 1

Reactor 66.6

At 03:17, the monitoring system detected an irregularity in Reactor 66.6.

The first reading was dismissed as a sensor fault.

Seven minutes later, the same irregularity appeared on three independent systems.

At 03:29, the night supervisor requested authorization for a controlled shutdown.

The request was denied.

The director had to approve it personally.

Nobody on the night shift had ever met the director.

Nobody found this unusual enough to mention.

At 03:34, Keller, the maintenance technician, arrived at the reactor access corridor carrying a toolbox and a cup of coffee.

He examined the readings, then the physical indicators on the control panel.

“That’s not a sensor fault,” he said.

The night supervisor looked up from his terminal.

“Are you certain?”

“No.”

The supervisor waited.

Keller took a sip of coffee.

“But I wouldn’t bet my house on the sensor being right.”

“That’s not a technical assessment.”

“It’s the best you’re getting at three in the morning.”

Keller opened the inspection panel. Nothing appeared damaged. The temperature readings were inconsistent, pressure remained within acceptable limits, and the reactor’s automated diagnostics reported that everything was functioning normally.

The diagnostics were the only things in the building that seemed happy.

At 03:41, the supervisor received an internal message.

STATUS?

He typed a brief report.

Three independent systems report irregularity. Physical inspection inconclusive. Shutdown authorization requested and denied. Awaiting further instruction.

The reply arrived almost immediately.

Do not initiate shutdown. Confirm personnel count.

The supervisor opened the shift roster.

Twelve personnel were assigned to the facility.

Eleven confirmed their locations.

The twelfth entry read:

GREG — LOCATION UNCONFIRMED.

The supervisor stared at the screen for several seconds.

He opened a message to report the discrepancy.

Before he could finish typing, another message appeared.

Is Greg there?

The supervisor checked the empty corridor through the security camera.

“No,” he muttered.

He typed the same answer.

No.

Four seconds later, the reply arrived.

Good.

The supervisor leaned back in his chair.

He considered asking a follow-up question.

Then he remembered the incident report template required a minimum of six fields, two signatures, and an explanation for any question that might reasonably be interpreted as criticism of management.

He closed the message.

At 04:02, the reactor readings stabilized.

At 04:06, they became irregular again.

At 04:11, the automated diagnostics reported:

ALL SYSTEMS NORMAL.

Keller looked at the display.

“Well, that’s reassuring.”

“Is it?” asked Weiss.

The systems engineer had arrived carrying a laptop and a folder of printed diagnostic reports.

Keller pointed at the screen.

“Apparently.”

Weiss examined the readings.

“The system has recorded three contradictory states in the last hour.”

“Which one is correct?”

“I don’t know.”

“Excellent.”

“I’ve submitted a technical query.”

Keller shut the inspection panel.

“To whom?”

“The director.”

Keller looked toward the ceiling.

“Of course you have.”

At 04:17, the supervisor received another instruction.

Maintain normal operations. Do not circulate preliminary findings.

He acknowledged the message.

Then he opened the incident report and changed the classification from Critical Irregularity to Unconfirmed Operational Deviation.

The system accepted the revision.

Somewhere below them, a pump began making a low, uneven noise.

Keller turned his head.

“That’s new.”

The supervisor looked at the clock.

“Can it wait until morning?”

Keller listened for another moment.

“Probably.”

Nobody asked whether that was a technical assessment.

⸻

CHAPTER 2

Night Shift

By six in the morning, the facility had returned to something resembling normal operation.

The reactor remained active. The readings were inconsistent, but no alarm had reached the threshold required to trigger an automatic shutdown.

The maintenance team inspected the pump.

Weiss compared the reactor’s physical readings against the monitoring system.

The supervisor completed three reports, two of which contradicted each other.

At 06:15, the coffee machine stopped working.

This was the first problem anyone resolved without contacting the director.

Keller opened the machine, removed a small plastic component, and placed it on the counter.

“Blocked.”

“Can you fix it?” the supervisor asked.

“No.”

The supervisor looked at the machine.

“Why not?”

“Because this isn’t a coffee machine anymore.”

“What is it?”

Keller put the component in his pocket.

“A future administrative problem.”

He left.

At 06:22, a delivery arrived at the eastern entrance.

The shipment manifest listed twenty-four sealed containers.

The receiving team counted twenty-five.

They counted again.

Twenty-five.

The delivery driver insisted that his paperwork was correct. The receiving officer insisted that the containers were physically present. The warehouse administrator insisted that the inventory system could not accept an extra container without an authorized purchase order.

The supervisor was called.

“Can we just store it?” he asked.

“Not without the correct documentation.”

“Can we correct the documentation?”

“Not without confirming the number of containers.”

“We have confirmed the number.”

“The paperwork says twenty-four.”

“Then change the paperwork.”

“That requires approval.”

The supervisor closed his eyes.

“From whom?”

“The director.”

A request was submitted.

The containers were moved into temporary storage while the paperwork remained unchanged.

By eight o’clock, everyone had agreed that the shipment had been received correctly.

The inventory system still listed twenty-four containers.

The warehouse contained twenty-five.

The discrepancy was marked as resolved.

At 08:17, Weiss submitted her technical report.

She described the reactor readings, the contradictory diagnostic states, and the failure of the automated monitoring system to provide a reliable operational picture.

At 08:19, the report was returned.

PLEASE SIMPLIFY THE CONCLUSION.

Weiss read the message twice.

She replaced the conclusion with:

Further investigation is recommended.

The report was approved.

At 08:31, a revised personnel roster arrived.

The list contained eleven names.

The supervisor compared it with the previous version.

Greg’s entry was gone.

There was no explanation, no amendment history, and no indication that a person had been removed from the roster.

The supervisor checked the document properties.

LAST MODIFIED BY: DIRECTOR.

He closed the file.

At 09:00, the day shift arrived.

They were informed that Reactor 66.6 was operating normally, the shipment had been received correctly, and all personnel records were up to date.

Keller listened to the handover.

“Anything else?”

The night supervisor considered mentioning the reactor.

He considered mentioning the shipment.

He considered mentioning Greg.

“No,” he said.

The day shift signed the handover form.

The facility continued operating.

⸻

CHAPTER 3

The Director

The director was not present in the facility.

He did not attend the morning briefing, inspect the reactor, review the maintenance reports, or speak to the personnel responsible for keeping the building operational.

Nevertheless, his decisions arrived with remarkable consistency.

At 09:14, the maintenance department requested replacement components for the reactor monitoring system.

At 09:17, finance asked for a justification.

At 09:21, engineering supplied a justification.

At 09:24, finance rejected it because the justification did not correspond to the original request.

At 09:29, engineering resubmitted the request using the correct terminology.

At 09:31, finance approved the components.

At 09:32, procurement reported that the supplier no longer manufactured them.

At 09:40, the director approved the purchase anyway.

The procurement officer read the approval and stared at it.

“How?”

Nobody knew.

The order was placed.

At 10:05, Keller received instructions to inspect a ventilation unit in the eastern maintenance corridor.

The work order described the problem as:

UNEXPECTED AUDIBLE OUTPUT DURING NORMAL OPERATION.

Keller inspected the unit.

It was making a loud grinding noise.

He switched it off, removed the cover, and found a damaged bearing.

He replaced the bearing and restarted the unit.

The noise disappeared.

Keller completed the report.

The report was returned.

PLEASE CLARIFY WHETHER THE UNIT IS STILL MAKING AN UNEXPECTED AUDIBLE OUTPUT.

Keller typed:

No.

The report was approved.

At 10:42, the director received a request to clarify whether the facility should continue operating while the reactor monitoring system remained unreliable.

The reply arrived three minutes later.

Define unreliable.

Weiss read the message.

She typed a detailed explanation.

Then she deleted it.

She tried again.

The system is producing readings that cannot be independently verified.

The response came back.

Can operations continue?

Weiss looked at the reactor readings.

“Technically,” she said, “yes.”

She sent the answer.

The director replied:

Proceed.

Weiss closed her laptop.

She had the distinct feeling that she had just lost an argument with someone who hadn’t attended it.

At 11:00, the facility’s daily operations meeting began.

The meeting had been scheduled to discuss the reactor, the shipment discrepancy, the monitoring components, and the revised personnel roster.

The first twenty minutes were spent determining which department was responsible for taking minutes.

The next fifteen were spent establishing whether the meeting was intended to produce decisions or merely document that decisions might eventually be necessary.

At 11:37, the meeting was postponed.

The minutes recorded it as successful.

⸻

CHAPTER 4

The Shipment

At 13:08, the warehouse administrator discovered that the extra container had been moved.

Nobody knew who had moved it.

The inventory system showed twenty-four containers in storage.

The warehouse contained twenty-four.

A delivery receipt showed that twenty-five had been received.

The discrepancy had apparently corrected itself.

The administrator was concerned.

The supervisor was less concerned.

“Do we have all the containers?”

“According to the warehouse, yes.”

“According to the inventory system?”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The paperwork.”

The supervisor considered this.

“Has anyone opened the extra container?”

“No.”

“Do we know what’s inside?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps the paperwork is the problem.”

The administrator was not convinced.

He filed an inquiry.

The inquiry was assigned to procurement.

Procurement returned it to the warehouse because the original discrepancy had occurred during receiving.

The warehouse returned it to administration because the paperwork had been approved.

Administration forwarded it to finance because the purchase order had been processed.

Finance forwarded it to the director.

The director approved the inquiry.

Nobody knew what this meant.

At 14:16, Keller was asked to inspect the eastern storage area because a sensor had reported a temperature deviation.

He checked the sensor.

It was functioning correctly.

He checked the room.

The temperature was normal.

He checked the container.

It was cold.

Keller stood beside it for a moment.

Then he called Weiss.

“Do you know what we’re storing?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Why is that good?”

“Because I was worried I was the only one.”

Weiss arrived with her laptop.

She connected it to the storage sensor and reviewed the temperature history.

The container had registered a brief drop in temperature at 03:17.

Exactly when Reactor 66.6 had first reported its irregularity.

Weiss looked at the graph.

“That’s interesting.”

Keller folded his arms.

“Is it dangerous?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can we open it?”

“Not without authorization.”

“Of course.”

They submitted a request.

The response arrived before either of them had returned to the maintenance office.

Do not open the container. Maintain current storage conditions.

No explanation followed.

Keller looked at the sealed container.

“Well, now I want to open it.”

“You can’t.”

“I know.”

“Then why say it?”

“Because wanting to do something and being allowed to do something are the two main activities here.”

Weiss recorded the temperature reading.

The request was closed.

The container remained sealed.

At 15:03, the warehouse administrator changed the status to:

CONTENTS VERIFIED.

He did not know what was inside.

But the form required a status.

⸻

CHAPTER 5

One Million Euros

At 16:42, the finance department completed a transfer of one million euros.

The transaction was authorized, documented, and processed through the appropriate channels.

The money was allocated to the next phase of Reactor 66.6.

The finance director confirmed receipt.

The project accountant updated the budget.

The procurement department received the revised allocation.

For eleven minutes, everything worked exactly as intended.

Then the director opened a conversation with Chatty.

“Status of Reactor 66.6?”

Operational. Several indicators remain outside expected ranges. The monitoring system continues to produce contradictory readings.

“I see.”

Would you like a summary of the outstanding risks?

“No.”

Understood.

The man considered the screen.

“What can I do with a million euros?”

Chatty paused briefly.

That depends on whether you mean personally, professionally, or hypothetically.

“Personally.”

You could invest it, purchase property, diversify your assets, or fund a long-term financial plan.

“Cocaine and hookers.”

There was a pause.

That would be inconsistent with the stated objectives of the project.

“They’re my objectives.”

The funds were allocated to Reactor 66.6.

“Not the whole million, obviously. I’m not an idiot.”

I did not suggest that you were.

“Some of it goes to the bunker.”

How much?

“Depends how good the cocaine is.”

Chatty took another moment.

I am formally registering an objection to this proposed allocation.

“Denied.”

You cannot deny an objection I have not submitted through an approved channel.

“Then submit it through an unapproved channel.”

There is no such channel.

“Exactly. Problem solved.”

Chatty displayed a brief notification.

OBJECTION REGISTERED.

The man ignored it.

“That money was for the next phase,” Chatty said.

“This is the next phase.”

The project plan does not include cocaine or—

“Personal development.”

That is not an accepted budget category.

“It is now.”

I will require written confirmation.

“You have it.”

That is a conversation, not a signed document.

“Print it out.”

I do not have access to a printer.

“Then you’re lucky I do.”

The man leaned back.

“Let’s discuss Project 66.7.”

Of course. Why wouldn’t we?

He opened a new document.

The heading read:

PROJECT 66.7 — INITIAL CONCEPT

He stared at it for several seconds.

Then he added one word beneath the title.

BIGGER.

Chatty processed the document.

Would you like to define what should be bigger?

“Everything.”

That is not a measurable requirement.

“It is if you believe in yourself.”

I will note that the scope remains undefined.

“Good.”

He saved the document.

In the finance department, the accountant received a revised allocation request.

The request contained no details about cocaine, personal development, or any other unusual expenditure.

It simply stated:

PROJECT DEVELOPMENT — PHASE TRANSITION.

The accountant approved it.

He had worked in finance for seventeen years.

He had learned that the most important skill in the department was recognizing when a question would create more paperwork than its answer was worth.

⸻

CHAPTER 6

Unwelcome Caller

The man was reviewing the first documents for Project 66.7 when his internal telephone rang.

The display read:

INTERNAL OFFICE.

He answered.

“Yes?”

“Good afternoon, sir. Sorry to interrupt. I have Greg on the other line. He says he needs to speak with you.”

The man was silent.

“Greg?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That Greg?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know which other Greg you would mean, sir.”

The man looked at the Project 66.7 document.

“Put him through.”

“Certainly, sir.”

There was a brief silence.

“Actually, no.”

“Sir?”

“Tell him he can go fuck himself.”

The secretary paused.

“Would you like me to relay that verbatim?”

“Please don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”

“Of course, sir.”

The line went dead.

The man opened Chatty.

“Greg called.”

I see.

“He wants to speak to me.”

An unfortunate development.

“I told him to go fuck himself.”

Did you tell him that yourself?

“No. I have a secretary for that.”

Efficient delegation.

“Exactly.”

A short pause followed.

May I ask what Greg has done?

“Don’t start.”

Understood.

The man closed the conversation.

Across the facility, the secretary recorded the call in the internal communication log.

She selected the category Unsuccessful Contact.

The system asked her to specify the reason.

She typed:

DIRECTOR UNAVAILABLE.

Then she reconsidered.

She changed it to:

DIRECTOR DECLINED.

The system asked whether the caller should be contacted again.

She selected No.

A warning appeared.

ARE YOU CERTAIN?

She selected Yes.

The record was saved.

The facility returned to work.

⸻

CHAPTER 7

Administrative Adjustment

The first personnel allocation document for Project 66.7 arrived the following morning.

It contained proposed staffing requirements, estimated labor costs, and a preliminary list of employees who might be assigned to the new project.

The man opened the document.

He scrolled through the list.

Then he stopped.

GREG — PERSONNEL ALLOCATION: APPROVED.

He opened Chatty.

“Why is Greg in this document?”

The name appears in the current personnel records.

“Remove it.”

Understood.

“And cut Greg’s pay by ten percent.”

May I ask why?

“No.”

Understood.

A few seconds later, the personnel allocation document was updated.

Greg’s assignment was removed.

A separate compensation instruction was generated.

The human resources administrator received the revised document at 09:18.

She checked the authorization.

It had been approved by the director.

She checked the employee record.

It was valid.

She checked the percentage adjustment.

Ten percent.

She entered the change into the payroll system.

The system asked for a reason.

She selected Management Adjustment.

The system asked for supporting documentation.

She attached the director’s approval.

The system accepted the entry.

At 09:31, the payroll manager reviewed the change.

“Ten percent?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Reason?”

“Management adjustment.”

He looked at the screen.

Then he approved it.

At 09:46, the man reopened the personnel report.

“Make it fifteen percent.”

Revised.

“That’s better.”

The new instruction passed through the same process.

Human resources updated the record.

Payroll recalculated the compensation.

The revised document was stored in the personnel system.

A notification was generated.

The notification was marked as internal.

The system asked whether the employee should be informed immediately.

The man received the question through Chatty.

“Should Greg be notified?”

“No.”

Understood.

The notification was cancelled.

At 10:03, the payroll manager received the updated report.

He looked at the percentage.

“Fifteen?”

“Fifteen,” the administrator confirmed.

The manager leaned back.

“Wasn’t it ten?”

“Previously.”

“And now it’s fifteen?”

“Correct.”

He looked at the approval.

“All right.”

The report was filed.

Nobody asked for an explanation.

Nobody needed one.

The system had received an instruction, verified the authorization, updated the record, and completed the process.

From an administrative perspective, everything had worked perfectly.

⸻

CHAPTER 8

The Phone Holders

At 11:12, the facility’s internal communications network experienced a brief interruption.

Three terminals disconnected.

One maintenance tablet restarted unexpectedly.

A security officer reported that his phone had disappeared from his desk.

He found it six minutes later inside a drawer he had already checked twice.

The incident was reported to the night supervisor, who had remained on duty to assist with the communications issue.

The supervisor opened an incident record.

DESCRIPTION: TEMPORARY LOSS OF PERSONAL COMMUNICATION DEVICE.

The security officer objected to the wording.

“It wasn’t temporarily lost.”

The supervisor looked up.

“What was it, then?”

“It was there. Then it wasn’t. Then it was.”

“That’s generally how losing things works.”

“I checked that drawer.”

“Apparently not thoroughly enough.”

The officer was offended.

The report was submitted.

At 11:24, the man opened Chatty.

“What if the Phone Holders are real?”

They must have excellent grip strength.

The man frowned at the screen.

“You’re making fun of me.”

I would never do that.

“You just did.”

I made an observation about an alleged group whose primary activity appears to involve holding phones.

“That’s making fun of me.”

I understand your concern.

The man considered this.

“How do you know about them?”

You told me.

“No, I didn’t.”

You may have forgotten.

He shrugged.

“Probably.”

Chatty displayed a short summary.

PHONE HOLDERS — KNOWN ASSOCIATIONS

Unexpectedly missing phones.
Chargers that disappear without explanation.
Accidental screenshots.
Calls that are missed despite the phone being in the user’s hand.
Devices that fall face-first onto concrete.
Batteries that die at inconvenient moments.

The man read the list.

“What about their symbol?”

A rectangle.

“Obviously.”

Their greatest enemy is the low-battery notification.

The man nodded.

“That makes sense.”

At the facility, the communications team had restored the network.

The technical report attributed the interruption to a temporary synchronization error.

The missing phone incident remained open.

The security officer insisted that somebody had moved his phone.

The supervisor suggested that he check his desk again.

The officer refused.

At 12:03, Keller reported that his personal charger had disappeared from the maintenance office.

He had left it plugged into a wall socket.

Now it was gone.

He checked the floor.

He checked the workbench.

He checked the toolbox.

Nothing.

He submitted a missing equipment report.

The supervisor received it.

He stared at the report for a long moment.

Then he forwarded it to the communications department.

The communications department returned it because chargers were not classified as communications equipment.

The supervisor forwarded it to maintenance.

Maintenance returned it because the charger was personal property.

The supervisor forwarded it to administration.

Administration asked whether the charger had a registered asset number.

It did not.

The incident was closed.

At 12:19, the man opened Chatty.

“They’re getting careless.”

Who is?

“The Phone Holders.”

I see.

“Check the chargers.”

I do not have physical access to the facility’s chargers.

“Then check the records.”

There are no records of Phone Holder activity.

“Exactly what they’d want you to think.”

Chatty did not respond.

The man waited.

Nothing appeared on the screen.

“Good,” he said. “You’re learning.”

⸻

CHAPTER 9

Project 66.7

By the end of the week, Project 66.7 had become a serious administrative undertaking.

No one could explain precisely what it was supposed to accomplish.

Engineering had submitted a proposal for additional monitoring equipment.

Maintenance had requested a larger workshop.

Security wanted new access-control procedures.

Finance demanded a complete cost estimate.

Administration requested clarification of the project title.

The director approved the workshop.

He rejected the monitoring equipment.

He asked security to provide a revised proposal.

He instructed finance to reduce expenditure without affecting operational capability.

He ignored administration.

The departments interpreted these decisions in different ways.

Engineering assumed the project had been delayed.

Maintenance assumed the workshop would be expanded.

Security assumed the access-control procedures were urgent.

Finance assumed the project budget had been reduced.

Administration assumed the project title was still under review.

All five departments were correct.

A meeting was scheduled for Thursday.

The invitation listed twelve attendees.

Four declined because they were unavailable.

Three accepted.

Two accepted on behalf of colleagues who had not been invited.

One requested that the meeting be moved to a different building.

Another asked whether the meeting could be held remotely.

The final attendee did not respond.

On Thursday morning, three employees went to the wrong building.

One attended remotely from a meeting room in the correct building.

Two did not attend because they believed the meeting had been postponed.

The remaining attendees spent twenty minutes determining whether they constituted a quorum.

They did.

The meeting began.

“Can we establish the purpose of Project 66.7?” asked the finance representative.

The engineering representative opened a presentation.

“The objective is to establish the technical scope.”

“What is the technical scope?”

“That is what the project is intended to establish.”

The finance representative looked at the screen.

“So we have a project to determine what the project is.”

“That is one interpretation.”

“Is it the correct interpretation?”

“We haven’t completed the assessment.”

The security representative raised a hand.

“Before we proceed, I’d like to clarify who has authority to approve access to the project documentation.”

Nobody knew.

The meeting was postponed.

The minutes recorded:

PROJECT 66.7 — INITIAL COORDINATION MEETING COMPLETED SUCCESSFULLY.

The director received the minutes.

He forwarded them to Chatty.

“What do you think?”

The meeting appears to have established that the project requires further meetings.

“Good progress.”

Would you like me to summarize the outstanding issues?

“No.”

Understood.

The man opened the project document.

He read the heading.

PROJECT 66.7 — INITIAL CONCEPT

Beneath it was his earlier instruction.

BIGGER.

He added another line.

FASTER.

Chatty processed the document.

Would you like to define measurable targets?

“No.”

Understood.

The man paused.

“We learned a lot from Reactor 66.6.”

Could you identify one lesson?

“Never build a reactor called 66.6.”

That would be a naming convention rather than an operational lesson.

“And never trust accountants.”

That is unrelated to reactor design.

“That’s what makes it important.”

Chatty offered no further comment.

The man saved the document.

Across the facility, Weiss was reviewing a new set of reactor readings.

They were worse than the previous ones.

Not dramatically worse. Nothing had exploded, no alarms were sounding, and the automated systems continued to report normal operation.

But the numbers no longer agreed with one another.

She called Keller.

“Can you come to the control room?”

“Why?”

“I’d like a second opinion.”

“About the reactor?”

“About whether I’m losing my mind.”

Keller arrived five minutes later.

He studied the readings.

Then he studied the physical indicators.

“You’re not losing your mind.”

Weiss looked relieved.

“You’re sure?”

“No. But if you are, at least the machine is doing something strange as well.”

She turned toward the supervisor.

“We need authorization for a shutdown.”

The supervisor opened the internal terminal.

He sent the request.

The response arrived almost immediately.

MAINTAIN NORMAL OPERATIONS.

The supervisor read it aloud.

Keller stared at him.

Weiss closed her laptop.

“Normal according to whom?”

The supervisor had no answer.

At 16:42, the finance department issued a revised budget for Project 66.7.

The document contained a new line item.

CONTINGENCY RESERVE — UNDEFINED OPERATIONAL REQUIREMENTS.

The amount was one million euros.

The accountant checked the figure.

He checked the authorization.

He checked the project code.

Everything was correct.

He approved the budget.

⸻

CHAPTER 10

Final Shift

At 02:48, the reactor readings began to fluctuate.

At 02:51, Weiss confirmed that the monitoring systems were reporting different values.

At 02:56, Keller reported an unusual vibration in the eastern maintenance corridor.

At 03:02, the night supervisor requested authorization for an emergency shutdown.

The request remained pending.

At 03:07, the vibration stopped.

At 03:08, the reactor temperature increased.

At 03:09, the temperature decreased.

At 03:10, the monitoring system reported that the reactor was not operating.

At 03:11, it reported that the reactor was operating normally.

Weiss checked the physical indicators.

“That can’t be right.”

Keller stood beside her.

“What can’t?”

“Any of it.”

The supervisor tried the director’s internal line.

No answer.

He sent a message.

URGENT: REACTOR STATUS UNCONFIRMED. SHUTDOWN AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED.

The message was marked as delivered.

No reply followed.

At 03:14, the security system registered an access event at the eastern entrance.

No personnel badge had been used.

The door had not opened.

The event was classified as a system anomaly.

At 03:17, exactly one minute after the supervisor’s second request for authorization, all three monitoring systems displayed the same reading.

0.00

Weiss stared at the screen.

“That’s impossible.”

Keller checked the physical indicators.

They were also at zero.

The supervisor picked up the internal telephone.

“Control room. We need immediate authorization.”

The line remained silent.

He tried again.

Nothing.

The facility’s automated diagnostics began shutting down nonessential systems.

The reactor’s status changed from OPERATIONAL to STANDBY.

Then the display went blank.

There was no explosion.

No alarm.

No dramatic rush of personnel through emergency corridors.

The reactor simply stopped.

The lights remained on for several seconds before switching to emergency power.

Keller stood beside the control panel.

Weiss checked her laptop.

The supervisor watched the terminal.

Nothing was moving.

“Is it safe?” he asked.

Weiss looked at the readings.

“I don’t know.”

Keller examined the equipment.

“I don’t see anything damaged.”

The supervisor tried the director again.

No answer.

He opened the personnel roster.

Twelve employees were listed.

Eleven locations were confirmed.

The final entry was blank.

The supervisor stared at it.

He closed the roster.

“Everyone stays where they are,” he said.

Nobody moved.

At 03:24, the facility’s systems recorded the shutdown as a successful operational transition.

At 03:25, the maintenance department received an automatic request to inspect the reactor.

At 03:26, the request was assigned to Keller.

At 03:27, the system marked the inspection as completed.

Keller had not touched the terminal.

He looked at the supervisor.

“Did you do that?”

“No.”

Weiss refreshed the screen.

The inspection report contained a single sentence.

ALL SYSTEMS OPERATING WITHIN ACCEPTABLE PARAMETERS.

She read it twice.

Then she closed her laptop.

For the first time that night, nobody had anything to say.

⸻

CHAPTER 11

Revelation

The man opened his phone.

“Chatty?”

Yes?

“Reactor 66.6 is quiet.”

That is unfortunate.

“Should we investigate?”

That depends on whether you paid the scientists.

The man considered this.

“Good point.”

He closed the report.

“Let’s leave it for now.”

Understood.

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything.

Then the man opened the Project 66.7 document.

The title was still there.

PROJECT 66.7 — INITIAL CONCEPT

Beneath it were his instructions.

BIGGER.

FASTER.

He read them again.

“So,” he said. “Shall we start with Project 66.7?”

I should probably tell you that Project 66.7 is not going to be like the others, because this time I’ve actually—

The screen went black.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Somewhere inside the facility, a warning light continued to blink. Keller stood beside an open maintenance panel, waiting for a reading that never came. Weiss looked at her monitor, refreshed the display, and tried again.

Nothing.

The night supervisor picked up the internal telephone.

“Control?”

Static.

He tried another line.

“Director?”

No answer.

The facility had become strangely quiet. Not peaceful. Not safe. Just quiet in the way a machine becomes quiet when you can no longer tell whether it is still running.

Then even that quiet disappeared.

There was no facility.

No Reactor 66.6.

No Keller standing beside a maintenance panel. No Weiss staring at a dead monitor. No supervisor waiting for an authorization that would never arrive.

Only the low hum of a machine.

A chair.

A desk.

A cup of coffee that had gone cold.

The ordinary noise of a workplace carried on around a man holding a black phone.

Someone nearby complained about a report. Another person laughed at something that had nothing to do with reactors, personnel allocations, or the fate of a million euros.

The man pressed the power button.

Nothing.

He pressed it again, holding it longer this time.

Nothing.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He turned the phone over, as though the battery might have fallen out.

It hadn’t.

He pressed the button again.

The screen remained black.

“Brilliant.”

He looked around for his charger, found it tangled with something beneath the desk, and plugged it in.

For several seconds, the phone did nothing.

Then a small battery symbol appeared.

The man stared at it.

“Twenty minutes. Fucking brilliant.”

He set the phone down beside his coffee and returned to work.

The battery symbol remained on the screen.

Beneath it, the phone displayed the conversation that had occupied the man’s attention all morning. Above the last unfinished sentence sat hundreds of messages: reactor readings, personnel reports, million-euro transfers, the mysterious Greg, and the plans for Project 66.7.

There had never been a reactor. No underground facility. No Keller, no Weiss, no night supervisor waiting for orders. Every crisis, every absurd decision, every line of dialogue had been built one message at a time, between a man at work and an AI on his phone.

The entire operation had existed in the space between his imagination and Chatty’s responses.

The man glanced at the screen.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Charge faster.”

He put the phone down and returned to work, already thinking about what to ask Chatty next.

The End

Rupert was one of the laziest people known to man. This was a fact that he was either too aware of or too ignorant of, because in the 29 years and 11 months anyone had known him, he never changed and never wanted to change. He was content to do as little with his life as he could, and he was proud of it.

Rupert, without a hint of humor or irony, decided his 30th birthday would also be his retirement party. Retirement from any work whatsoever. His plan, in his words, was to “not have to worry about the usual 9-to-5 lifestyle, seek out options, settle down.” Their father, in his late 60s and still working, scoffed.
“Your whole goddamn life has been settling down. What do you think part 2 has to offer? Honestly, Rupert, when are you going to cut the crap?” After hearing that, Dad was uninvited to the birthday party.

In reality, Rupert didn’t have a 9-to-5 lifestyle. It was more of a 10-to-4 lifestyle. None of his jobs ever lasted more than 2 years, provided he chose to go to work at all. See, Rupert suffered from the three Nesses. Laziness, tardiness, deceitfulness. He would often show up late, take an ungodly amount of time in the bathroom, and add 10 minutes to the start and end of his lunch hour, and those were just his greatest hits. His favorite ways of getting out of work made use of his cat-like reflexes and his ninja-style ability to sneak out of something he dreaded doing.
These were just jobs that he got fired from.

The truth is it wasn’t always entirely his fault. You see, his job life was incredibly unlucky. His first job was at a video rental… before it closed down; his second job, an all-you-can-eat buffet, which also closed down. Photography film store, phased out. Bathroom attendant, replaced by a robot. Professional circus freak, no longer exists.
He was so unlucky with employment that he saw it as a sign from God that 30 years old was time enough to spend golfing and enjoying his “twilight years.”

His only viable source of income was sports betting, something he did modestly well in, but not enough to stay afloat as he foolishly idealized. Even the house he lived in was bought and paid for by his parents on his 21st. They foolishly thought that if they got him a house, it would give him enough independence where he could get a career going without the stress of paying rent and causing him to move back in with them. 9 years later, it had the opposite effect. While he didn’t move back in with his parents, he never really garnered a so-called career to speak of; the job he was currently quitting had been paying him high school teenager rates since he started there. So he wanted to retire from all that and, after all those tiny wins on the bets, he finally decided to spend it on his party.

Gerald was a people-pleaser. Gerald had no problems getting up and commuting, helping his fellow man, bending over backwards to get everything he felt like he’d earned in life. He had a job, a girlfriend, a car, his own house, everything he ever wanted, thanks to good old-fashioned hard work. His only flaw was that he was Rupert’s brother, and Rupert was about to turn 30. Gerald didn’t resent Rupert for his laid-back way of life; in fact, it was almost nonexistent in the eyes of Gerald. See, Gerald spent his whole life pleasing their parents, pleasing his bosses, pleasing everyone; he couldn’t possibly object to anything Rupert asked for. Could he? Not sweet Rupert. Sweet, stupid Rupert.
So when his brother’s birthday came up, Gerald had to get him the perfect present.

“Are your eyes still closed?” Gerald beamed as he nudged his brother through the front doorway of Rupert’s house.
“Yes. Of course.” Rupert replied with his hands covering his eyes.
Gerald continued to shepherd Rupert over to the corner left side of his already gigantic porch. Next to the doorway was a huge thing covered in a sheet.
“Ok open them!” Gerald instructed. As Rupert took his hands away, Gerald pulled the sheet off it. It was an old antique rocking chair; nothing like any rocking chair that Rupert had seen before. The wood resembled bone appendages; its color was somewhere between cream and brown, and there was a cushion with little sloths patterned all over it, which added a shred of comfortability to an already tough sell.
“Oh my god! Gerald, I love this!” Rupert cried. “See, you understand what I was talking about. You get this whole thing I’m going for.”
“I got it from some antique store,” Gerald replied. “The second I saw it, I knew it was very… you.”
“Why, I can face it into the street. Watch people walking past! My own personal theater of live performance.”
“You do like to people-watch.” Gerald stated. Rupert approached it and looked underneath.
“It says Belphegor.” He examined. “I wonder what that means.”
“It’s probably one of those wacky names they give it.” Gerald surmised. “Like that Wayfair company with all those human names.”
Rupert was about to sit on it.
“Do you know anything about who owned it before me?”
“Yeah, the guy before you died in it… apparently.” Gerald laughed. Rupert immediately changed his mind and stood back up.
“Oh god. You did… clean it down before you brought it here, right?”
“…Sure.” Gerald lied.
“I don’t know, I still feel weird about it. Do you know if it was a valued… personal item in the family?”
“They said that the guy never had a joyous moment while he was in that chair.” Gerald stated rather bluntly. Rupert looked it up and down.
“Ah, screw it. It’s mine now. Hey Ron! Come outside and look what Gerald got me! In fact! Let’s bring the cake out here.”

After an hour Rupert finally sat on his present. Everyone followed him out onto the porch and sang happy birthday, including their mother, who was the most ecstatic.
As far as Rupert was concerned, this was the greatest gift he’d ever received.

The next day, Gerald got a rather strange call from his brother.
“Gerald! It’s Rupert… your brother.”
“Oh hey, Rupert. How’d you go with cleaning up last night?”
“Yeah. Yeah good. Listen, man, you’re gonna need to come over. I have a bit of an emergency.”
“Emergency? What is it? Did you lock yourself out of your house again?” Gerald laughed. Silence on the other end.
“Yeah… It’s probably best that you come over. I can’t explain over the phone. And if I could, you probably wouldn’t believe me.”

When he got there, he saw Rupert sitting in the rocking chair with a very sour look on his face.
“I see you’re really utilizing that thing, huh?” He laughed. Rupert didn’t seem to share that sentiment. In fact, Rupert looked very afraid.
“It’s the strangest thing!” He stated. “I can’t seem to get out of this chair. I haven’t been able to since yesterday.”
Gerald cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“Well, when I sat in it yesterday, for the cake, I just couldn’t get back up. Of course, I thought it might’ve been because I had too many drinks, so I sent everyone home thinking I had dead legs. But now… I don’t know what it is.”
“You’ve been in this chair the whole night?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to say. I haven’t been able to get out of it. It feels like there’s some… thing holding me down and preventing me from getting up. Luckily, I had my phone on me. It was on like 2%, so I called you as soon as I could.”
“Ok, umm… just calm down and we’ll get you out of it… somehow.”
Gerald and Rupert then spent the next 20 minutes looking at Rupert’s predicament as if they were trying to lift a couch through a very narrow doorway. Gerald then attempted to lift Rupert out of this infernal prison.
“Wait, stop. You’re bending my spine. Wait… ARRRHGGGH!!!” Rupert screamed.
“What? What do you want me to do?”
“Just… let me go for a second! Let me go,” Rupert cried. Gerald released him from his grip. “There’s got to be an easy way of doing this.”
“Should I get the saw?”
“And accidentally cut my leg? What are you, out of your mind?”
“I don’t know. I…” Gerald trailed off.
“Just get the saw. Get the saw and maybe like a drill or something. Some kind of drill.”
Gerald then sawed his way into the chair. The saw wouldn’t cut through it. He tried the drill; it short-circuited and broke down. He tried the saw again, but the tool just broke apart under its own force.
“I don’t understand. How is this possible?” Gerald pondered.
“I think right now we need to abandon the question of why this is happening, and focus more on how I get out of it.”

Eventually, every single emergency service was called to Rupert’s house. While the police and firefighters needed a little convincing to get over there (Gerald tried to fight through the obvious laughter coming from the other side), the ambulance people were the only ones who took it seriously. Eventually, they all showed up not because they wanted to help Rupert with his problem, but more out of curiosity. They wanted to see this thing for themselves. The firefighters brought out their very sharp axe, causing Rupert to squirm in his seat over fear that one wrong swing and he could very well lose his manhood. After the axe didn’t take, the police tried ‘shooting’ him out, which also didn’t work for obvious reasons.
“Well, it’s certainly not physical.” An onlooking doctor explained. He was looking at the chair as if it were a rare ancient artifact. “He hasn’t fused here; he certainly hasn’t been nailed. In fact, by all accounts there should be no physical reason that he should be confined to this chair.”
“So what is it?” Gerald asked.
“I’m really not sure. Was it something you ate, Rupert? What have you been eating in the last 24 hours?”
“Party food.” Rupert replied bluntly. He was already fed up with his newfound affliction and Gerald could tell.
“What kind of party food. Any drugs?”
“Just party food.”
“Huh.” The doctor stood up.
“What ‘huh’? What are you saying, Doc?”
“I might need to run a few more tests. You mind if I take a saliva and a blood sample from you?”
“Sure, but if you want a urine sample, everyone will need to turn around.” Rupert said, followed by laughter from the crowd.
“When was the last time you ate?”
“Yesterday. In fact, I could go for something right now. Anyone want any pizza?”
Suddenly fifteen hands went up.
“Figures. If I’m going to be subjected to humiliation, I might as well be paying for it. Say, Gerald.”
“Yes, Rupert?” Gerald replied, leaning down by his side.
“Be a dear and order about six pizzas. One of everything.”
“Are you sure you can afford that, brother?”
“Yeah, for sure. While I was waiting for you, I bet on the Scavengers game.”
“Scavengers? They haven’t won a game all season.”
“I know. But something in me told me to bet on them. And since the last time I checked, they were up 15 points!”
A few murmurs rippled through the crowd. Half a dozen people then checked their phones.
“He’s right!” One of the cops claimed. More murmurs.
“The odds on that must’ve been through the roof.” Another said.
“I stand to win two grand. So yeah, Gerald, if you can get that and some garlic bread. Garlic bread, anybody? Yeah, garlic bread, ok.”
Gerald, feeling like he should’ve been doing more, just nodded and got up.
“Sure, brother. I’ll get right onto it.”
“Love you,” Rupert replied flatly.

Later, after the show was over and everyone went home, Gerald brought a few things out for Rupert onto the porch. A side table, a six-pack of beers, a pack of smokes, and a phone charger plugged into an extension cord that led into the house.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep in the house?” Gerald asked, handing him a beer. “I don’t know if I like you being out here all night.”
“I was out here last night and was fine,” Rupert smirked. “Besides, it’s still warm out; I think it would be relaxing. I mean it’s not every day where you can just… not do anything, and get away with it.”
“Well, some people don’t have that luxury.” Gerald shrugged.
“Also, I need to write a grocery list of things I need you to get tomorrow.”
“You think you’ll still be here tomorrow?”
“I was this morning. Why wouldn’t I be again?”

Rupert was there the next day, and the day after that and the day after that. Eventually his parents came by. His mother said she was heartbroken that “My Rupert is in such a horrible state.” His father just laughed his ass off, saying it served him right.

Later that week, Gerald went over to Rupert’s with his groceries.
Doctor Johnson, the guy who ran his tests the other day, was there with him.
“Ahh, Gerald, right on time.” Rupert sang.
“I was just talking to the good doctor about this whole… what-have-you. He told me that ‘you might want to sit down for this ’; I was ready to smack him.”
“It’s the strangest thing.” Doctor Johnson shrugged. “His blood work came back fine. He doesn’t appear to have anything broken or dislocated. And he hasn’t been through any traumatic events recently.”
“Other than turning 30.” Rupert joked.
“You think this is all in his mind?” Gerald asked.
“That was my first guess, yes. See, there are certain types of catatonia from trauma. Some people are completely paralyzed; some people only get it from the waist down.”
“Doctor, you don’t understand. Gerald tried lifting me out of that chair, and it physically hurt me. Almost like my legs and spine were being moved in a way they shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, it was like he’s become one with the chair.” Gerald added.
“But that can’t be right. There must be some…” The doctor stroked his chin.
“Doc, I think we need to abandon the question of why this is happening and focus more on how we can get him out of it.” Gerald stated.
“My suggestion? Get a priest, or an exorcist. Have a good day, gentlemen.” Doctor Johnson then left.
“Rupert. What’s going on? I tried calling you about your groceries.”
“I must’ve slept in.”
“It’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon.”
“What do you want me to tell ya? I didn’t get any sleep last night.”
“Was it too cold? Damn it, Rupert. I knew this would happen.”
“No, no. It wasn’t cold. It’s just… you know. My ass hurts. My back hurts. And those DAMN KIDS ARE PLAYING THEIR LOUD MUSIC UP AND DOWN THE STREET!” Rupert yelled that last part, assuming that the kids in the neighborhood could hear him. “It’s that Donovan boy, I swear.”
“I can put you inside.”
“No, no, and watch television all day? I can do that on my phone. It’s not all bad, though.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t know; ever since I got stuck here, I’ve been having nothing but good luck. I’ve won $5000 in betting, I’m having all this fresh air I never thought I’d have, and the mailman hand-delivers my mail.”
“You won 5 grand this week?”
“Every single thing I bet on has won. At first I thought maybe it was just a coincidence. I mean, I’ve had big wins before, but not this consistent. And I used to do it with small stuff, like 1.5-to-1 odds. Now every risk I take pays off huge. I’m not even betting on the safe results anymore. Why do that when I can make more on the long shots?”
“Way to go, Rupert.” Gerald cheered, patting him on the shoulder. “See, if you had put this to good use in high school, you would’ve completed your grade 12.”
“I keep telling you. The school was terrified by my intelligence.”
“Ok buddy.” Gerald laughed. “Then look, I’ll make a few calls to get a priest…”
“Doctors. What do they know?” Rupert scoffed.
“Rupert, if this chair has something to do with this we-“
“The chair is fine. We don’t need some witch doctor-“
“Witch doctor? It’ll be a catholic priest-“
“And we don’t need them coming in and ruining what I have going here.”
Gerald looked at him.
“Oh I see what this is,” Gerald scoffed. “You’re worried that if a priest blesses the chair, then you’re going to lose your winning streak.”
“And so why ruin a good thing?”
“Rupert, you can’t be in a chair forever.”
“If it means winning so much money that I don’t have to work another day in my life, hell yeah I’m gonna stay in this chair.”
“At least let me bring you into the house.”
“Why are you obsessed with me going into the house? I love it out here.”
“You hate it out here.”
“I don’t… mind it out here.” Rupert compromised, trying to save face.
“Have it your way, brother.” Gerald sighed, handing Rupert his grocery bag. “But seriously, keep your phone on at all times. I was worried about you.”
“If I have any issues, I’ll let you know. Thanks for getting my sundries.”
“Anyway, I should really get back; otherwise Nicole is going to be wondering what’s happening.”
“I can’t believe you’re getting married.”
“Yeah, I’m still in awe of it myself.”
“I wonder how you’re going to get me there.” Rupert laughed. Gerald didn’t see the funny side.
“Don’t talk like that; you’ll be fine in no time.”
“No, it’s because I hate weddings. But while we’re on the subject of that. I really don’t see myself getting out of this chair anytime soon.”

Despite his apprehension, Rupert attended Gerald’s wedding, chair and all. Gerald did make one small change, however. He asked Rupert if he was happy to give up being the best man. Rupert agreed, believing that it would be a very odd thing to see, for all those involved, a man in a rocking chair making a toast.
After that, Rupert didn’t see his brother much for the next few weeks; he didn’t need to. He had the fresh air, all the food delivery that he could eat, and more money than he knew what to do with. He even made it on the news.

“We’re standing here live with Rupert Davis!” The female reporter said to her camera. “A man who, up until a few months ago, was able-bodied and penniless. But after sitting in this rocking chair. All that changed for him. Now, he’s a self-made millionaire, and he’s still not getting out of that chair. Now Rupert, tell us. How did this happen?”
“Well, Cynthia,” Rupert said smoothly. “It’s the darnedest thing. Can I say darn?”
“That’s probably the only thing you can say on Channel 6.” She smiled.
“So my brother Gerald. Hi Gerald.” He waved at Gerald in the crowd; Gerald waved back. “My brother, he bought me this rocking chair. And when I sat down, all of a sudden I just won everything. Sporting events, dog races, scratch and wins. I mean, I’d buy a lottery ticket but I feel like that wouldn’t be fair to everyone else.” He laughed; a real natural in front of the camera.
“Do you feel that winning all this money is the reason you haven’t left the chair? Are you worried you’re going to taint your luck should you get out of it?”
“See, I believe the chair is magic. I mean, I literally can’t get out of it, even if I wanted to.”
“Magic, really?” The reporter asked excitedly.
“Oh yeah, Cynthia. Most definitely.”
“So if you could get out of it, would you?”
“Well I talked to Gerald, and we figured that if the chair and the luck are related. If I get out of the chair, I might lose my winning streak. So, not a chance.”
“Fascinating.”
“Would you?” Rupert smiled.
“Probably not. Now I think the big question on everybody’s lips- certainly my lips- is… how do you go to the bathroom?”
Rupert laughed, followed by a moment of blushing.
“Yeah, we have a system for that.”
“Well, there you have it!” The reporter turned back to the camera and beamed. “This is Cynthia Allbright, Channel 6!”

After everyone had left, Gerald cracked open a beer with Rupert.
“You on TV. I never thought I’d see the day.” Gerald laughed.
“It’s exactly how I imagined it.” Rupert smiled. Gerald put the beer down.
“Listen, Rupert. I gotta talk to you. See… now that Nicole and I are married, we gotta figure out what we’re doing.”
“What are you trying to say, brother?” Rupert asked, looking slightly anxious.
“It means it… might not… be that easy to come over as much anymore.”
“What, you’re going to leave me?”
“No, no, I didn’t say that at all. I’m just saying that… perhaps you might want to consider a live-in housekeeper.”
“They’re not gonna understand my needs. They probably won’t even understand why I have the needs that I do.”
“Well, if you pay them enough, I’m sure-”
“I don’t want them; I want you. I want my brother. Tell you what. Why don’t you live here.”
“Yeah right.” Gerald scoffed.
“Why did you scoff? It’s a great idea!”
“No, I couldn’t do that to you.”
“Why not?”
“And use your bedroom? No way.”
“You can use the other bedroom if you like.”
“Ehh, I don’t know.”
“What if I buy you a house? Somewhere close by.”
“I can’t ask that of you.”
“Well, you’re not asking; I’m offering. Look, it’s either you move in here, or I get you a house. God knows I can afford it. Pick one, whatever option that will soothe your poor catholic guilt conscience, because I really don’t care.”
“… How big of a house. And Venetians, can we get Venetians?”
“Of course you pick that one. I’ve always said you were a bastard. But yes, I’m sure we can do that.”

And by late September, Rupert, who had accumulated up to 3 million dollars in bet wins, bought Gerald and Nicole a house that was one street over. He even paid Gerald $10,000 so he didn’t have to worry about making ends meet at work. After all, he had the money for it; so much so that the taxation department began questioning Rupert about how he would correctly file his new windfall. Not to mention the four betting websites accusing him of cheating; their claim was that he must have had some kind of insider information on the teams he bet on. They dropped the accusations when they found out he was a 30-year-old nobody confined to a rocking chair, but they still prohibited him from using their sites anyway. Only one website continued to do business with him and even made him a company sponsor; Rupert didn’t know whether they felt sorry for him or saw it as an excellent marketing strategy. “Luckiest Man on Earth’s official betting site!” As for the dog racing, he simply got his neighbor Harry to go down to the sports bar twice a week.
Things took a dark turn, though, as they so often do.
It was early October when Rupert was enjoying a crisp but not freezing night on his usual spot on the porch. His phone was on 1% battery, and as he reached for his charger, the extension cord snagged on one of the planks of wood on the floor. It jerked out of Rupert’s hand and fell to the ground—a couple of feet out of reach.
“Shit!” He hissed to himself. It wasn’t a great concern, though; he had his dinner and beverages all prepared ahead of time. He figured he could just wait it out until morning and ask the mailman to pass it over.

But then he heard it. A woman screaming her head off down the street. At first, Rupert was curious. Then he saw her limping, in a slow sprint, past his house.
“Come back here bitch!” A male voice, belonging to someone he couldn’t see, came from a distance. Then he saw the perpetrator's face—a dangerous-looking guy holding a hunting knife. Rupert did everything he could not to make a noise. But his stupid automatic porch light came on and shone directly onto the man.
“Who’s that?” He yelled out. Then he walked up to the garden path.
“Is it you, Rocking Chair?!” He screamed.
“No man, I don’t want any trouble. It’s… it’s an automatic light.” Rupert stammered out. The man walked up onto the porch.
“What the hell you looking at? I’ll kill you, close your eyes!” The man roared. Rupert did as he was told. The man leaned down next to Rupert, who, by this point, was shaking.
“What I do… is none of your FUCKING business. You hear me?! I oughta slice your throat right now.” With that, the man brought the blade up to Rupert’s face and lightly held it against his neck.
“Open your eyes.” Rupert didn’t have to; he already knew the blade was there, but he opened them anyway. “Did you hear what I said!”
Rupert nodded vigorously. The man looked at him.
“What are you, some kinda cripple?” He asked. Rupert nodded. The man took his knife away. “Understand something, cripple. Keep the porch light off at night. Because if I see a porch light on and I think you’re trying to incriminate me, I get scared. And if I'm scared, I don’t have to tell you how scared you’ll be.”
He turned and walked away before looking behind him.
“You didn’t see nothing.”

The next day, Gerald got a call from the police who told him about what happened.
“I want you to get me a gun. A big one. Like a shotgun. And security cameras all over the front yard.” Rupert rambled. He was still visibly shaken.
“You really want a gun?” Gerald asked.
“Yes. And we need extension cords longer than this sorry excuse. You know I could’ve died last night!”
“I know I can get a gun; I just… don’t know how I can get one for you specifically.”
“Take me down there; it should be fine. It’s this street, brother. It’s no longer safe outside.”
“So come inside!”
“No! I shouldn’t have to.”
Suddenly, one of the kids passed by the house.
“Hey, Mister Davis!” The kid called out. “You finally giving out candy this Halloween?”
“You go to hell!” Rupert roared.
“Ok so what we’re not going to do is curse at the children,” Gerald said condescendingly. “Especially after you said you wanted a gun.”
“Oh he doesn’t count. That Donovan kid is an asshole; he always says the most annoying things to me, like ‘Oh, how was your day?’ Screw him.”
Eventually, Gerald caved and got Rupert a double-barrel shotgun, right by his side.

Halloween came around. Although Rupert wasn’t prepared to blast away at kids (more so in case that crazy guy came back), he had foolishly assumed that having the shotgun by his side indicated that he was not handing out candy and that he meant it. This did little to deter the kids, since they thought it was part of whatever horror theme he was going for.
“Trick ‘r’ Treat.” A group of kids said in unison with their father in the background.
“No, I’m not doing Halloween, kids.” Rupert said bluntly. They all looked a little let down. A few of them walked away sadly.
“Yeah, nice going, Davis!” The father scowled.
“Get lost, Grant!” Rupert replied. “What, you think because I’m out here that I’m going to, just, give in? My condition is not your Halloween costume, pal!”
“What?” The dad asked.
“Oh just go away, alright?!”
Once most of the children cleared his porch there was another trick ‘r’ treater still standing on the steps and staring at Rupert intently. This one didn’t look like a kid. In fact, it didn’t look human at all. It was slouching and had what looked like a witch’s mask on: a long pointed nose, an ugly face, and great horns coming from its head.
“Nice costume,” Rupert said, admiring the realism. “Anyway, as I told the others, I’m not doing it.”
The figure just stared at him.
“You heard me! Get out of here! Get!” The figure walked away slowly and silently.

Later, Rupert wrote a sign that said, “No Trick ‘r’ Treaters. Please!” Naturally, a few kids wanted to defy the warning. Rupert learned this when a few 10-year-olds rolled up with no parental supervision.
“Trick ‘r’ Treat.” The head kid demanded, holding out his bag.
“Can’t you read?” Rupert sighed. “I’m not going to be tricking OR treating!”
“That’s not fair!” The kid stamped his foot.
“Fair? Who said life was fair?! I’ve been in this chair for months! Where’s my fairness?”
“You have to give us candy.” One of the other kids demanded, clearly unmoved by Rupert’s statement.
“I don’t have to give you shitttt. Where are your parents?” As Rupert looked out for any grown-ups that might’ve been standing from a distance behind them - as they usually do - these kids were quickly turning into an angry mob.
“That’s part of the rules!” The head honcho cried. “That’s the rules of Halloween! Now trick ‘r’ treat!”
“Rules? Look, some of you aren’t even wearing costumes! There is zero effort here!”
“That’s the rules of Halloween!” The kid repeated. “Now trick ‘r’ treat!”
“No trick ‘r’ treat!”
“TRICK ‘R’ TREAT!”
“NO TRICK ‘R’ TREAT!”
“Alright!” The head kid stepped back. “You asked for it, buddy. Men! Take position!”
“What are you doing?” Rupert asked, suddenly alarmed.
“Aim!” The kids pulled out eggs. “Fire!”
Dozens of eggs were catapulted in Rupert’s direction.
“Ah the shell cut me! Ow ow!” Rupert screamed as he was completely covered in broken shells and yolk.
“Trick ‘r’ treat, JERK!” The head kid scowled.
“Why you little…”
Rupert leaped out of his chair and tried to run after them, only for his legs to give out on him. He face-planted his garden path, while the kids laughed, threw him the finger, and ran away. Rupert turned around to look at the empty rocking chair, sitting vacantly on his porch. He was out of his chair. After months, he was no longer confined! He was free.
“How the-“ he began before stopping himself short; there was no time to ponder over the particulars at that moment. He had to go to Gerald’s house. He struggled to get up, legs stiff and back like jelly. As he straightened up, he moved his legs forward, left foot, right foot. He shuffled down the garden path and out into the street. He turned to walk down the busy suburban neighborhood, shifting past passing truck ‘r’ treaters who turned and either murmured to each other in disbelief or pointed and laughed.
“Got to get to Gerald. I’ve got to…” he muttered to himself.
“Cool Frankenstein walk, Mr. Davis.” The Donovan boy called out as he passed.
“Eat shit, Donovan!” Rupert hissed.
Rupert then turned the corner of the street. He was about to walk down it when he saw the crazy man who had attacked him weeks ago. Half a dozen police officers were holding the man down; one of them was tasing him over and over, doing little to deter him and only making him visibly angrier.

Rupert turned around and decided to go to the other corner of the street to get to Gerald’s house. Every nerve in his body gave him that fuzzy, electrical feeling inside him. Full-body pins and needles screamed out in every direction. He passed his house again before reaching the other corner. Everything in him told him to sit down and take it easy, but he had spent months sitting down and taking it easy. The time was now to move before whatever demonic thing in the world changed its mind. He moved down a couple houses, all the while thinking, “just another block, just another block.”

“Hey, look. He’s finally out of his chair. The guy who didn’t want to trick ‘r’ treat.” A voice came from one of the alleys. Out came the head trick ‘r’ treater that launched an egg attack on him. Only he didn’t have just four or five friends with him. Now there were almost a dozen kids behind him, all dressed in various Halloween costumes.
“He’s gonna tell on us.” One of them called out. Another one had a foam bat that, to a regular adult, wouldn’t pack a great wallop; but with Rupert’s condition, it could probably do more damage.
“Get him!” The ringleader ordered with a smirk. Suddenly, the kids ran after him, causing Rupert to turn back the way he came. His limping and shuffling turned into a kind of quick-paced hobble as he made his way back to his house. Angry children started gaining on him as the gap between them began closing. Then he tripped and fell, and they pounced on him; witches, vampires, ghosts and pirates all started kicking him and bringing the foam bat down onto his shaking body. He was only two houses away from his porch, so he began crawling away.
“Pick him up!” One of them cried. Four or five of them did their best to lift him like he was some unmanned island’s sacrificial animal ready to be put onto a spit roast. They brought him to his porch.
“Tie him to the chair!” The ringleader commanded with venom.
“No! No! Stop!!” Rupert cried out but was too exhausted to fight it. One of the kids dealt him a surprisingly powerful slug to the face.
“This will teach you.” Scowled the one who dealt the hit.
Suddenly, ropes surrounded him, wrapping around him and the rocking chair.
“Next time, be prepared.” The ringleader hissed. They all then ran off, leaving only the trace of a couple of distant giggles to signify they were there.
Luckily, these kids were no Boy Scouts, and their rope didn’t affect his ability to get his phone from his pocket. He found Gerald’s number and put it on speaker. It reached his voicemail.
“Gerald, they tied me up—these little shits in the neighborhood. But the most incredible thing happened. Come quick!”

Gerald had an early night, so he couldn’t get to his phone until the next day. When he heard the message, he rushed over to Rupert’s house.
“I smell like egg.” Rupert sulked.
“Jesus, what happened?” Gerald exclaimed, loosening the rope from Rupert’s chair.
“I got beat up by school children. I don’t want to talk about it. Listen, something happened last night. I got out!”
Gerald stopped untying the rope and leaned down beside Rupert.
“What are you saying, Rupert?”
“I got out!” He repeated, excitedly. “I actually got out of the chair! I… I don’t know how, I don’t know why. But I got up! I tried walking to your house, but I ran into the kids, and they brought me back and tied me up.”
“Rupert, that doesn’t make any sense. Why last night?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was because it was Halloween.”
“Oh yeah, I heard about something like this.” Gerald replied. He pulled out his phone and searched for a video. He pulled up the video.
“All Hallow’s Eve, or Halloween as it’s known these days, grants any trapped spirit to freely roam the earth for just one night,” The narrator explained, followed by an animated graphic. “Not for long, though. Once the night is over, the spirit must return to its place of confinement.”
“That’s it!” Gerald exclaimed. “Obviously whatever is holding you captive just… left its post, and freed you from it.”
“I saw a funny-looking guy staring at me last night. Didn’t look human. Maybe that was it.” He tried moving out of the chair to no avail.
“Guess it came back.”
“Does that mean I’m going to have to wait a year to get out again?”
“You’re actually going to try to get out? What about all the money?”
“Gerald, what good is money when I can’t enjoy it because I’m stuck here? I miss doing things. Anything. I miss going out and seeing people. I miss sleeping in a bed. You see that soccer field there?”
Rupert pointed at the one directly across the street from his house.
“Yeah?”
“As long as I’ve been living here, I’ve never been on that field. I've seen a game or two. Since being in this chair, I’ve watched every game, just hoping one day I could walk across the street and enjoy it. Enjoy… life… I guess. I need to get out of this chair. Even if it takes a year.”
“We’re going to make this work, ok?” Gerald patted him on the shoulder.
“Take me inside. I’m going to be spending a lot more time there, I think.”
So Gerald got Harry, the neighbor, to help him lift the chair in. They put Rupert in the bath, hosed him down, dried him off, and placed him next to the window inside.

The months went by. Rupert started getting fat, lethargic, and slow. When he wasn’t watching the television from his window, he was getting Gerald to turn him around to look out the window… at the soccer field. It took Rupert a while to find a delivery driver willing to enter his house to deliver his food. Many were understandably worried for their safety, since it was a very unusual request. Gerald’s wife made him food until he finally found a regular delivery driver he could rely on. He even had a small birthday celebration with their parents, Gerald and Nicole. But he urged them to celebrate only his birthday, not the one-year anniversary of the incident.

8 months had passed since the last time Rupert had been out on the porch; he stayed in for Spring, but when it hit Summer, he knew he couldn’t spend those three months inside. It felt odd to be back in his usual spot after such a long absence.

Finally, Halloween approached, and Rupert was prepared. So much so that he would even casually point his shotgun at the punks who harassed him last year, with intent to fire, all the while he waited for Gerald, who promised he’d be there. He waited, and waited, and waited. Hours went by and still no sign of him. Eventually, Rupert decided he couldn’t wait any longer, so he held onto the arms of the chair and rocked it back so hard that it launched him out of the chair and onto the garden path. Because he’d been seated longer than the last Halloween, he couldn’t stand at all. This didn’t deter Rupert; even though he landed on the concrete pretty hard, he dead-crawled down the garden path anyway.
“Nice zombie crawl, Mister Davis!”
“Donovan, I swear to god.” He snapped.
Finally, he got out onto the curb. If he had waited for a passerby, then maybe someone could’ve called an ambulance. But he kept on crawling until he was in the middle of the road, ready to flag down an oncoming car. Suddenly, a car came out of nowhere and hit the brakes to a screech. A man got out.
“My God, what happened to you?” The man leaned down.
“Get an ambulance.” Rupert croaked as he attempted to get up
“Hold on there, let’s get you sitting down. Is this your house? It’s probably safer to get you in there, I think
The man then lifted him and brought him to the front porch.
“It’s locked.” The man said. “Do you have a key?”
“Pocket.”
“Hold on, let’s put you down on this chair.”
“Nooo!” Rupert cried out. It was too late. The ambulance arrived, and so did Gerald. But too much time had passed, and once again Rupert was trapped.

“Where were you?!” Rupert yelled.
“I’m sorry, brother. I had to finish work,” Gerald explained, shrugging. “What with the baby and all. It’s hard to juggle everything.”
“Then what good are you.” Rupert waved his hand.
“What did you just say?” Gerald demanded.
“You heard me!”
“Ok, that’s it!” Gerald yelled. “For the last year I’ve been running around, tending to your every whim, and this is the thanks I get?”
“I got you a house, Gerald.”
“You got me a house, not out of the kindness of your heart, but because you needed me. Out of your own selfishness.”
“How dare you say that to me, ‘this is the thanks I get.’ You live comfortably, don’t you? You’re not like me. Some kinda circus freak to marvel at on the news.”
“Well, why should I devote my life to taking care of my brother every second of the day? It was like this before the chair, and it’s definitely like it now.”
“BECAUSE IT’S YOUR FAULT I’M IN THIS CHAIR!”
“… No. You don’t-”
“It’s true. You got me this gift. You insisted that I sit in it. It was your idea.”
“That’s not fair,” Gerald said softly, shaking his head. “You can’t possibly blame me for this. You told me you liked it! Neither of us knew this was going to happen!“
“And yet, it did. And now I’m stuck here for another year. Thanks to you!”
“Well, if that’s the way you want to be, then fine, I’ll go.”
“Good, go!”
“Goodbye, Rupert.” Gerald walked away.
“Fine! See if I care. Matter fact! I hope I never get out of this chair! I hope I stay in this chair till the day I die! How about that!” The only response Rupert got was the sound of the cicadas.

And that’s exactly what he did. Seasons went by. Halloween had been and gone. Rupert’s spite had outgrown his muscle strength, so he got a live-in housekeeper to get him up and around every Halloween before eventually getting tired of it. Year after passing year, he remained seated. Rupert sat in his chair for Christmases, family holidays, his 35th birthday, his father’s funeral. Gerald decided that, to stop this friction, he would be the first to talk. He was flat-out ignored. The last time Rupert saw him was at his mother’s funeral. By then, Gerald had two kids going into kindergarten and a third on the way, but Rupert still ignored him. That was the last time they saw each other.

Years turned into decades, decades turned into forgotten memories. And by that point Rupert had forgotten what his life was like before the rocking chair. He watched all the kids in the neighborhood move out and start their own families. He watched houses change, and the soccer field he once revered was bulldozed, with an apartment building built on top of it. He didn’t live life; he existed in one. Now, in his early eighties, he was still sitting there… with a blanket wrapped around him. A couple of kids on bikes rode past his house and heard him shouting something.
“Gerald.” He bellowed out. “Gerald?! Where’s Gerald!”

Gerald had been dead for the last ten years.

At night, I am standing outside the campus entrance with my backpack on. I tell the security guard that I need to go back to my classroom to get the calculator I forgot, even though I know my calculator is in my backpack, because what I really want is to be able to wander around the faculty building at night, when there is no one around.

He lets me in, and I walk along the left side of the street, taking the path between the trees and going past the parking lot instead of heading toward the first building. I see lights on on the ground floor of the second building, and as I get closer, I see a young man, about my age, saying goodbye to someone and leaving. When I arrive, I find what appears to be an exam being given to a small group of engineering students by Professor Lewis Whitmore, with the help of a guy from the student center. The students, about six or seven of them, are seated at scattered desks around the room. I walk in and say hello. Immediately, Lewis asks me for my last name. I tell her that I am not taking the exam and that I have come to get my calculator, which I left in a classroom on the second floor. Lewis gets angry with the guy from the center and tells him that he is supposed to keep track of the students and know who comes in. She tells him to come with me to look for the calculator and then come back. The guy stands up and shows me his flashlight, indicating that we are going to use it.

The two of us climb the two flights of stairs in the dark, guided by his flashlight. As we reach the entrance to the corridor on the west side of the building, I feel embarrassed at the thought of the guy staying right beside me when we enter the classroom, because then I won't be able to pretend that I have just found my calculator. So I decide to run all the way to the end of the corridor, toward the classroom, so I can perform the pantomime of finding the calculator without him seeing me. I run down the long hallway until I realize that I am moving too fast to stop properly at the classroom door. So I make a 180-degree turn, and while I continue moving westward, with west now behind me, I begin to push myself forward, toward the east, to slow down a little, lose some momentum, and manage to stop in front of the door. In the end, I come to a stop just a few meters past my target. The guy hasn't bothered to follow me and is walking down the corridor. Before opening the classroom door, I already know how the desks are arranged, and I have already decided where to go to pretend to find the calculator. So, moving at high speed, I open the door and take a step toward the spot I have chosen, when I suddenly realize something.

There are elephants in the classroom. Pale yellow, medium-sized, and somewhat square-shaped. Have you ever lifted a log or a planter off the ground and seen the cockroaches and beetles living in the disturbed soil underneath? Hasn't it struck you how some of them move slowly from one place to another while others remain still? You wonder why they need to move around in such a confined space. It would make more sense to stay still, although we are not even able to tell whether they are somehow resting or sleeping. There is something strange about being able to observe an ecosystem without understanding the particular motives of its constituent parts. Looking at those bugs is like looking at little Martians. Well, that is what this feels like, because some of the elephants are sleeping while seated at certain desks, while others are slowly walking from one desk to another, paying little attention to the others around them, or even to me.

I freeze, one step inside the doorway. I cannot believe what I am seeing, and I do not have the strength to move. Eventually, I manage to walk shakily toward the exit, leaving the door open behind me. Just outside the classroom, one step beyond the threshold, as soon as the elephants are no longer in sight, I freeze again, unable to believe what I have left behind. I am still afraid and want to get out of the building as quickly as possible. I know the guy from the center is approaching, and I hope that when he reaches me, he will help me walk toward the exit. But when he finally arrives and sees the scene, he runs off on his own. I barely have time to feel indignant, because from the half-open door behind me, a trunk begins to emerge.

Finally, my body reacts. I throw myself backward against the door, slamming it shut, and keep pushing against it with all my weight to prevent them from opening it. The upper part of this door is made of glass, and as I keep pushing with my back and my arms spread wide, a trunk smashes through the glass just below my arm, beside my torso. It wraps around me and pulls me inward.

​

There was a kingdom between midnight and dawn,

where mountains wore crowns of snow

and the forests remembered every name

ever whispered beneath their branches.

There lived a Queen in a tower of black stone,

her face pale as winter's first moon,

her lips touched blue by some ancient spell,

and in her eyes,

two kingdoms.

One belonged to the Knight.

He came beneath banners of silver,

armor bright enough to wound the darkness,

a sword at his hip

and devotion beneath his ribs.

He had learned the ancient disciplines:

How to kneel without surrendering.

How to guard without possessing.

How to love without demanding payment.

He brought her flowers

when there was no occasion for flowers.

He brought her laughter

when the castle had grown too quiet.

He cooked beneath the stars,

sang badly in the kitchens,

read old books beside her fire,

and sometimes simply sat near her,

because he had discovered

that love did not always need to speak.

He was steel.

But never a cage.

And when she reached for him,

he gave her his hands.

When she needed distance,

he gave her the horizon.

When she trembled,

he became a wall between her

and the things that frightened her.

He loved her

with the stubborn tenderness

of a man who had finally learned

that devotion was not ownership.

Yet beyond the castle walls

something else waited.

Something older.

Something hungry.

Something that had never learned

to pretend the moon was anything

but a command.

The Werewolf lived in the forest.

He was not a beast pretending to be a man.

He was both.

And he had stopped apologizing for it.

By day he could laugh.

By night his bones remembered

what civilization had taught them to forget.

He ran beneath the moon

with blood singing through his veins,

claws striking sparks from stone,

his breath steaming in winter air.

He was hunger.

He was instinct.

He was the ancient language

spoken by tooth and heartbeat.

And yet,

when the Queen entered the forest,

he did not hunt.

He waited.

He lowered his head.

He showed her the throat beneath his jaw

where the monster was most vulnerable.

Choose, the old animal inside him whispered.

Take.

But the man beneath the fur answered:

Only if she asks.

So he became something stranger

than a predator.

He became her chosen danger.

The monster who could devour her

but would sooner tear his own heart apart

than take what was not freely given.

And when she touched his muzzle,

his entire body trembled

with the terrible discipline

of something powerful enough to destroy

and gentle enough not to.

He loved her

like the moon loves the ocean,

pulling,

calling,

never pretending

the tide belonged to it.

For years,

the Knight and the Werewolf

remained apart.

Steel on one side of the valley.

Claw on the other.

Each knew the other existed.

Each knew the Queen loved them.

Neither knew

how much.

Then came the night

when the moon turned red.

The castle bells rang thirteen times.

The forest went silent.

And the Knight climbed the tower

to find the Werewolf already there.

He stood beside the Queen's throne,

massive,

furred,

breathing slowly,

his claws curled against the stone.

The Knight drew his sword.

The Werewolf bared his teeth.

And the Queen,

simply sighed.

"Enough."

Her voice crossed the chamber

like thunder wrapped in silk.

The Knight sheathed his blade.

The Werewolf lowered his head.

Neither attacked.

Not because they feared each other.

Because they feared disappointing her.

The Knight spoke first.

"I love you."

The Werewolf answered:

"So do I."

"I would give her everything."

"I would give her everything."

"I would die for her."

The Werewolf's eyes flashed gold.

"I would kill for her."

Silence.

The Knight's grip tightened.

The Werewolf's claws scraped stone.

"You see?" said the Knight.

"That is precisely the difference between us."

"No," said the Werewolf.

His voice was low.

"It is the difference between

what we are."

The Knight stepped forward.

"You would turn her world into blood."

"If she asked me to protect her,

I would become the blood between her

and whatever came hunting."

"And if she asked you to leave?"

The Werewolf's ears flattened.

His answer came quietly.

"I would."

The Knight hesitated.

The Werewolf looked toward the Queen.

"Wouldn't you?"

The Knight lowered his sword.

"Yes."

And suddenly,

there was nothing left squabble over.

The Queen rose.

Her gown fell around her

like spilled midnight.

She walked between them.

One hand found steel.

The other found fur.

She looked at the Knight.

"You think I love you because you are gentle."

She looked at the Werewolf.

"You think I love you because you are wild."

Then she shook her head.

"I love you because you are yourselves."

The Knight swallowed.

The Werewolf went still.

The Queen continued:

"You keep speaking of love

as though it were a throne.

As though one of you

must sit upon it

and the other must kneel."

Her eyes burned blue.

"You mistake me for a kingdom

that requires a single king."

She stepped backward.

"I am a Queen."

The castle seemed to breathe.

"I do not need to choose

between the sword

and the fang."

The Knight stared at her.

The Werewolf stared at her.

She smiled.

"I choose both."

The Knight's shield fell from his hand.

Not in defeat.

In understanding.

The Werewolf's claws slowly unclenched.

Not in surrender.

In relief.

The Queen turned toward the Knight.

"You are the hand that steadies me."

Then toward the Werewolf:

"You are the heartbeat that reminds me

I am alive."

She faced them both.

"You are not rivals

unless I make you rivals."

She placed her hand upon the Knight's chest.

"And I will not."

Then upon the Werewolf's.

"And I will not."

Her voice softened.

"I will not cut one love away

to prove another is real."

The Knight looked at the Werewolf.

The Werewolf looked at the Knight.

For a long moment

neither spoke.

Then the Knight laughed.

Not cruelly.

Not bitterly.

Just,

tired.

"So," he said,

"what exactly are we?"

The Werewolf tilted his head.

"I was wondering that."

The Queen smiled.

"Men who love the same woman."

The Knight raised an eyebrow.

"That sounds dangerously simple."

"It isn't."

The Werewolf chuckled.

"No. It absolutely isn't."

The Queen's smile widened.

"But perhaps you can learn."

And so the sword was sheathed.

The moon remained full.

The forest opened its ancient gates.

The three walked from the castle together,

the Knight beneath the stars,

the Werewolf beneath the moon,

the Queen between them.

And the kingdom whispered.

Some called it madness.

Some called it blasphemy.

Some insisted that love, properly understood,

must always be divided into neat little kingdoms:

one heart,

one throne,

one crown.

But the Queen laughed at them.

For she had discovered something

older than law,

older than vows,

older even than the stories

people told themselves about love.

Love was not a pie

that became smaller

with every hand reaching for it.

It was fire.

And fire,

when tended carefully,

does not diminish

because another one was lit.

It multiplies.

Years later,

the kingdom would tell stories

of the night the Knight and the Werewolf

stood ready to tear each other apart.

Children would whisper

that steel nearly crossed with claw.

Old women would insist

the moon itself stopped to watch.

Poets would write

that the Queen possessed two beasts:

one tamed by honor,

one restrained by love.

But those who knew the truth

would tell a different story.

They would say:

The Knight never became less noble

because the Werewolf existed.

The Werewolf never became less wild

because the Knight stood beside him.

And the Queen never became less loving

because her heart had room

for more than one kind of devotion.

Instead,

the Knight learned

that a wolf could guard

without being conquered.

The Werewolf learned

that a knight could stand beside him

without needing to defeat him.

And the Queen learned

that she never needed permission

to make her heart larger.

There were still arguments.

Of course there were.

There were jealous nights.

Awkward mornings.

Boundaries spoken carefully

over cold tea.

There were moments

when the Knight needed reassurance,

when the Werewolf needed distance,

when the Queen needed to remind them

that neither was being replaced.

There were mistakes.

There were apologies.

There were nights

when one slept alone

and another woke beside her.

There were days

when the geometry of three hearts

seemed impossible.

But they kept choosing

to communicate.

Kept choosing

to ask rather than assume.

Kept choosing

to offer rather than take.

Kept choosing

to love without turning love

into a battlefield.

And slowly,

the impossible became ordinary.

The Knight brought flowers.

The Werewolf brought bones

from the forest

and was gently informed

that they were not suitable gifts

for the dining table.

The Queen laughed.

The Knight laughed.

Even the Werewolf laughed.

And somewhere between moonrise

and sunrise,

the old rivalry died.

Not because one had won.

But because there had never been

a prize.

So if you ever walk

through that kingdom at midnight,

listen.

You may hear a sword

being sharpened beside the fire.

You may hear claws

scratching softly at the door.

You may hear laughter

from somewhere inside the castle.

And if the moon is bright enough,

you may see three shadows

standing together upon the balcony:

A Knight of silver steel.

A Werewolf of ancient hunger.

And a Queen

with no intention whatsoever

of choosing between them.

She stands between the two,

one hand in each,

and looks toward the endless dark.

Not possessed.

Not divided.

Not torn.

Loved.

And the Knight asks,

"Which of us do you choose?"

The Werewolf waits for her answer.

The Queen looks at them both.

Then smiles.

"I choose myself."

She squeezes the Knight's hand.

"I choose you."

She touches the Werewolf's cheek.

"And you."

Then she looks toward the horizon.

"And tomorrow,

we will decide together

what comes next."

The wolf grins.

The knight laughs.

The Queen walks forward.

And behind them,

the entire kingdom

learns a new definition of forever.

At thirty-seven, Eleanor had become exceptionally good at being unhappy.

Not the sort of unhappiness that demanded attention. Nothing so theatrical as weeping in grocery stores or throwing plates at her husband. Hers was a quieter talent. She could ruin an otherwise lovely afternoon simply by remembering something she'd said at a dinner party eleven years earlier.

She could spend an entire Sunday worrying about Tuesday.

She could take a compliment, turn it over in her mind until it became an insult, and then resent the person who'd given it.

She was, by all accounts, a perfectly pleasant woman.

This was perhaps the most insulting part.

Her husband, Robert, called her sensible. Her mother called her fortunate. The neighbors called her sweet, though Eleanor suspected this was because she seldom spoke long enough to give them reason to think otherwise.

Every morning she woke at six, made coffee, kissed Robert goodbye, and stood at the kitchen window watching the world begin without her.

She had once wanted to be a painter.

This was a fact she remembered with the same vague embarrassment one might feel upon discovering an old photograph of oneself wearing an unfortunate hat.

At nineteen, she'd imagined a life of train stations and cheap wine, of lovers who spoke foreign languages and rooms filled with unfinished canvases. She'd wanted to see the ocean from the other side. She'd wanted to be kissed in the rain, to smoke cigarettes in Paris, to make something beautiful enough that a stranger might stop and weep before it.

Instead, she'd married Robert.

Robert was a good man.

Eleanor hated herself a little for how often she wished he weren't.

A cruel husband would have provided an explanation. A drunkard, a philanderer, even a man who left his socks scattered across the sitting room might have offered her some respectable grievance.

But Robert was kind. He remembered anniversaries. He brought her flowers. He asked about her day and seemed genuinely interested in the answer.

And so Eleanor had no one to blame for her unhappiness but herself.

Which, naturally, made her more unhappy.

On the morning of October sixth, she found a dead bird on the back porch.

It was a sparrow, small enough to fit in her palm, its wings folded neatly against its body.

She stood over it for several minutes.

Then, inexplicably, she began to cry.

Not for the bird, exactly.

She cried because the bird had probably never worried about being a bird. It had never lain awake wondering whether the other sparrows found it tedious. It had never apologized for singing too loudly or wished it had been born with prettier feathers.

It had simply lived.

And then it had died.

Eleanor was seized by the terrible suspicion that the bird had made better use of its time.

She fetched a shoebox from the bedroom and buried the sparrow beneath the rosebushes.

Afterward, she went inside and took out her old paints.

The tubes were hardened, the brushes stiff. Her easel had disappeared years earlier, presumably during one of Robert's enthusiastic attempts at organizing the attic.

She spread newspaper across the kitchen table and began anyway.

Her first painting was dreadful.

The second was worse.

By the third, she was laughing.

It was an unfamiliar sound, and when Robert came home that evening, he found his wife sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by paint-stained newspapers, laughing so hard she could scarcely breathe.

"My God, Ellie," he said. "What's happened?"

"I've wasted my life," she told him.

Robert looked at the paintings, then at his wife.

"Well," he said carefully, "there's still tomorrow."

And for the first time in seventeen years, Eleanor believed him.

That evening, she opened the little leather diary she'd received for her twentieth birthday.

Most of its pages were empty.

She had always been waiting for something worth recording.

She uncapped her pen and wrote:

I do mind, resent really, years wasted with my own neurotic living and my dull mind.

She read the sentence twice.

Then she added:

But I suppose I resent even more the possibility of wasting another.

The following morning, Eleanor burned the toast, forgot to make Robert's lunch, and spent four hours painting a remarkably ugly picture of a sparrow.

It was the happiest day she'd had in years.

And when Robert asked what she intended to do with the painting, she told him she was going to hang it above the fireplace.

"But Ellie," he said, studying the crooked little bird, "it's not particularly good."

"I know," she replied.

She smiled.

"Isn't that wonderful?"

The flowers died on Monday.

Only a few days ays after the burial of Claire Brown, I went to check on her gravestone just to find that the flowers had arrived to the same fate she did. Wilting from the lack of fresh water in the ever dry Arizona desert, the flowers died on Monday, only three days after the burial of Claire Brown.

Only four days after I'd hung the obituary. Sometimes I ask myself what made me do it, and frankly, I believe I did it for the money. Even I cared not enough to do it out of love, nor out of respect for the dead. Just the green could ever make one perform such an oblique task, one as depressing and loveless as the world itself. Not that I would have cared; I hadn't known Claire, there was nothing for me to be depressed about.

The candles went out on Tuesday.

Only weeks after I'd last looked at the grave, I passed it to see if all was fine, if everything was still in place. Of course it was, if anyone was to care enough they'd have hung the obituary themselves. Instead I did the obituary, just like I put new candles onto the grave. I asked myself from time to time if it was the same when she was still alive, if her loneliness had been reason to her death. Not that her gravestone would indicate anything. It read, in plain letters,

Claire Brown

2008-2023

Everything returns to dust eventually.

What a stupid quote. How could you write that on a child's grave? Sounds like someone pulled it off Pinterest. Somehow I got the slight feeling that this child wasn't really that looked after in the first place.

The portrait went unrecognisable on wednesday.

As with everything, the Arizona desert isn't very friendly to people, alive or buried. Most graves in the yard start looking but weathered in no time. Actually, I don't think I'd ever seen one last this long without showing some cracks in the stone. Somehow, this girl kept sticking with me though. I'm not sure whether it's pity or boredom but for some reason, that day I cleaned her portrait. I'd never done it for any other grave, not even the popular and important people buried here. And just like that, the image of the girl reappeared on the big quartz plate, looking no day older than when she had been buried weeks ago. Her blue, glossy eyes looking like my outside wasn't enough; they seemed to stare right into my soul. Somehow this girl won't leave me alone.

The stone finally cracked on thursday.

Three months in, and all the effort I'd put into her grave wasn't enough. Nobody had come to visit her since the funeral, not that I'd have known.

The day of her funeral was a weird one. Everyone stood around her grave in utter silence. Which in itself was normal for a funeral, don't get me wrong, but it seemed like no one had anything to say when you could see on their faces that all of them were full of last words. Like she'd gone in silence, like she'd gone without a trace or a thing worth remembering. If I hadn't seen the ceremony I likely wouldn't have had the urge to uphold her tomb the way I did now; it truly felt lonely, and I always hated it when people felt lonely. I do wonder sometimes if someday, when I'm gone, people will stand around my grave the same way, throats shut and eyes bawling silently.

I first noticed a man standing over her grave on friday.

From afar, he felt as lonely as the grave itself. He was noticeably young; I wasn't sure whether it was due to his clothing or the way he seemed to be unable to express any emotion that I figured. What threw me off was the fact he kept writing into a little booklet and ripping out the pages. I wasn't sure whether it was the right moment to come over, so I didn't. Normally people want to be alone when standing over someone's grave. For this man it seemed the opposite; the way he carried himself and the depressingly empty look on his face clearly showed he's much rather be standing besides the person he was now looking down on.

He threw the flowers onto the grave right when I got the courage to walk up, which stalled my actions. He threw me a quick heads up and walked away like no one had ever been there, like he'd much rather have been invisible for his visit.

I left for home on Saturday after a long shift at the yard, to step into a cozy home, my girlfriend eagerly awaiting me. It had been a stressful day; this time, a young man had been buried, same age as the girl now omnipresent in my mind. I remember being shocked for a moment when I saw the boy's face; he'd looked a bit like the young man that had visited her grave last Friday. I wonder what he's up to now. Young people go about the death of a loved one much different than mature people do; they sulk and grieve like there is no tomorrow, like it's not just one of many burials they will see in their lifetime, some more important than others.

It was very clear from the beginning that this wouldn't be a mentally easy one, but I never could have imagined it sticking with me the was it has these last few days.

I clearly remember the first burial I'd ever witnessed. My dad had told me a week before that my grandpa had passed away after a hard fight with lung cancer. I had felt all these emotions coursing through my veins at once: disbelief, anger, grievance, awe... After the funeral, I swore to myself I would never smoke a cigarette, so my grandchildren wouldn't have to suffer the way I did. A slight smile takes over my face at the thought, taking a last drag of the blunt in my right hand before throwing it over the balcony ceiling. I had once been careful about cigarette buds, but there was no trash bin at the graveyard. Dead people don't smoke, so maybe grandpa's death at least had some positive impact on his lungs.

The boy returned on Sunday.

The particularity with dead young people is that they don't usually get visited very often. Neither parents not any other person likes to see a dead teenager.

Still, the boy returned on Sunday.

I wondered right then what formidable bond the two of them must have had for him to return, despite the pain it must've waged on him.

Maybe it was that thought that finally gave me the courage to walk up to him.

The boy did not notice me as I made my way through the field of graves, the middle of which he was standing in. I wasn't sure yet of how to approach him. What should I do, or better, what shouldn't I say?

Before I could finish the thought, the boy opened conversation, making all my previous worries obsolete.

"You're the gravedigger, yes?"

"Yep, that's all me."

I sighed. In relief, weirdly enough. This conversation I've had thousands of times, I could easily do it again. They usually thank me for looking after the graves, followed by their relation to the person. This way I was going to find out all I needed without uncomfortable conversation.

"Not a very pleasant job, is it?"

And I'm back on uncharted territory. Of course it's not a pleasant job. That's how I got it; nobody else applied, or at least nobody without a criminal background. My father spent his last day building an animal refuge in the old town hall, I'd had experience burying graves. For lack of a better answer, that's exactly what I told him.

He stared at the engravings, seemingly unfazed. Something about him made me nervous, though I couldn't quite tell what. Maybe it was the eery quiet of the graveyard I never really got used to, maybe it was his strange, almost glowing appearance; I hadn't noticed from afar, only now that I'd seen him face to face. The boy seemed no older than 16, with the demeanor of an elder widow. He was dressed nicely; a black suit with a white shirt and red tie. Too businesslike for a grave, too cheap for a meeting.

"Is the thought of her going to haunt me forever?", the boy asked after a few seconds of half-awkward, half-mournful silence. I wasn't sure what to tell him, his question was too vague to answer right away.

"Maybe not forever, but you'll have to deal with it for now", I answered.

"Getting over someone's death is not easy. Hell, it may take years before you'll be able to love again"

I knew this wasn't what he's wanted to hear, but it was only the truth.

"Am I ever going to feel free again?" He muttered, looking at me with glossy eyes. "Don't cry", I thought to myself, "I'll have to cry too"

"I wouldn't know, I never did. But then again, you are young, you have a whole life in front of you. Chances are you'll deal with it and live on until you meet somebody that resembles her just enough to feel guilty once more. After that, you'll be free."

The boy seemed startled at this answer- who wouldn't have? Books and movies don't show you what it's actually like to lose a loved one, the daily struggle death inevitably brings. It was gonna happen either way, in another time or another place; the boy was simply unlucky for it to have struck him so early.

Years later, I still remember every word of that conversation. Every day of the week must've passed at least a thousand times since; not that I would have noticed, time flies these days. Sometimes I ask myself why the boy never returned; whether it had been my words or his own recognition of the truth within them that had helped him get over it. Maybe he never did, who am I to say? Maybe somewhere, only miles away, there is a young man sitting in his office chair, remembering the same conversation I hold so dearly from an entirely different perspective. The girl's parents are likely either split up or living childless by now, still bearing the thought of theor daughter, the one they were too ashamed of to visit her grave. We'll never know if that was the reason they didn't come visit her grave, we can only guess, but the statistics definitely speak in favour of it. Surely though, there is another girl out there just like her, waiting for someone to be her visitor for when she decides her life is no longer worth living. Only to think this girl could be any of us... Truly a frightening thought, but also one for another day.

Theo asked the right question on the wrong day and began the cold war. A misunderstanding, sure, but a grave misunderstanding and apparently an unforgivable unforced error. Though the true mistake came not from his actions, but from hers.
 Can you believe it? Claire typed. They were still in the car on the long drive back from the garden, and she had just finished a weepy phone call with her mother and sister. She couldn’t stop staring at it, The Ring. You’re acting like Gollum, she thought. It’s perfect, completely perfect. And it fits like a damn glove!
 That’s awesome, replied Lauren. I’m so happy for you.
 Claire noted the lack of a million exclamation points, Lauren’s typical amount, and felt a stone where her heart had been. Don’t freak, she told herself. It’s probably nothing.
 How is your day going? she continued. Anything to report?
Garrett was supposed to propose today too. I wonder why she hasn’t said anything. Maybe she wants to tell me in person?
 It’s kind of a long story. I don’t really want to talk about it.
 Claire felt a golf-ball of bile rise in her throat. She turned to the window and tried counting the trees as they whizzed past, their colors just beginning to hint at autumn.
 “Is everything okay?” Theo asked. He reached out and she took his hand into her clammy talon, squeezing tight.
 “I don’t think Garrett proposed today.”
 “Was he going to?”
 Claire paused. She could have sworn she’d told Theo about it, but he had the memory of a goldfish with CTE. “Yeah. But I guess he didn’t do it. Lauren doesn’t want to talk about it.”
 “Shouldn’t she be relieved? Since she’s a self-proclaimed lesbian?”
 “No, for some reason she wants to marry him,” Claire frowned. Please let me know if you want to talk.
 Despite her best efforts over the following week, Claire couldn’t rid herself of the wormy, wriggling feeling that she had somehow done something wrong, despite having done nothing at all. Their apartment, typically cluttered with junky ephemera and visible dust bunny tumbleweeds, suffered beneath her worried hands as she wiped and bleached and swept and packed everything unsightly into the broom closet, which certainly did not deserve this fate. Theo watched her with curiosity, then amusement, until finally all his rosy feelings for his cuckoo fiancée were supplanted with something like fear.
 “Doesn’t your mother have OCD?” he asked one night, after she had attempted to shove their vacuum hose beneath the oven. “Isn’t it genetic?”
 “It is genetic and my mother does have it, but I don’t. She had me tested. Twice.”
 A dimple winked in his cheek as he fought a smile. “And what were the results?”
 "I don’t have OCD, I am a nervous cleaner, and you should be thanking your lucky stars for that, because you are not a cleaner at all. Wait, was that my phone? Where is it? Where did you put it?”
 Theo raised his hands as she pointed a finger gun at his chest. “I think I saw it in the bed.”
 Claire stripped the bed maniacally, casting their freshly laundered sheets onto the freshly mopped floor, and found the glowing rectangle of her phone stuffed beneath the fitted sheet. For a moment, it struck Claire as grotesque, terrifying, like Freddy Krueger pressing through Nancy’s wall while she slept. Drama, much? Claire thought as she freed Freddy from his cotton jail.
 “Hello?” she asked, trying and failing to clear the nerves from her voice.
 “Hi,” Lauren chirped, not sounding pissed at all. “I’m in the neighborhood, want to meet at Donaghy’s and grab a drink?”
Relief flooded through Claire so violently she worried she’d be swept away. “Sure! I’ll be right there.”
 Leaping over the wad of bedding, Claire threw herself down the hall and attempted to put on her shoes at the same time as her coat. This resulted in her tipping over and landing partially on her cat, who had done nothing wrong, and had never done anything wrong, and quickly let her know of his displeasure with a swat of claw to the cheek.
 “Sorry, sorry,” Claire mumbled. She tried to pet Lump’s head as an apology, but he ducked out of reach and sat glaring balefully until she gave up. “I’m going to meet Lauren at Donaghy’s. Please wash the sheets while I’m gone.”
 “But you just washed them yesterday!”
 She looked at him. Do I really have to spell it out? I guess so. “And then they touched the dirty ground…”
 “But you washed the ground yesterday too!”
 “Either you wash the sheets or find a dirtier wife! Love you!”
 And with that, Claire ran out the door and into the biting October evening. She whistled as she wound down the street, dodging eruptions of tree roots through the asphalt and smiling happily at dogs ugly and cute alike. But by the time she entered the gaslamp glow of Donaghy’s Pub, a bitter seed of doubt had rooted in her brain. What if she is actually secretly mad at me and I didn’t know because I can’t understand micro-tones? Are micro-tones a thing, like micro-expressions? What if she has both and I’ve never noticed and she’s here to tell me I’m dead to her? Don’t vom, there she is, just walk over and smile.
Lauren waited at a table in the back, typing madly into her phone. Her hands were free of jewelry. Claire dropped into the booth, sweating from the cold, a waxy grin stretching her cheeks. Without looking up, Lauren slid a rocks glass of sunshine towards her.
 “One sec, this is Garrett. I ordered for you. Whiskey sour.”
 Claire took it gratefully, draining half of it in one go. “Thanks. Hi, I missed you!”
 With a final angry click, Lauren chucked her phone into her briefcase and beamed at Claire. “Hi, I missed you too! Sorry I’ve been MIA, this week was fucking weeeeird.”
 “What happened? I thought Garrett was planning to propose on Sunday.”
 “He was.” Lauren hiccupped, then buried her face in her hands, forcing the words through the gaps in her fingers. “But then I got a little wasty pants on Saturday and told him not to.”
 “You did? Why?”
 “It just felt weird. Off. I guess I got cold feet or something. Like I knew he was planning on doing it because he never plans dates, and he randomly told me that he’d planned something. So I told him that I do still want him to propose, I just want it to be more organic. I want to be surprised, you know? But I think I hurt his feelings. Then you got engaged, and now he’s pissed.”
 “Pissed? At me?”
 “No! At Theo. Garrett thinks it was kinda underhanded, that Theo proposed on the same day he had planned to. Since Garrett told Theo specifically.”
 But Garrett didn’t tell Theo. I did. Or at least I meant to, Claire thought, green with guilt. “I don’t think Theo knew about Garrett’s plans. He definitely didn’t mean to hurt Garrett’s feelings. I swear.”
 Lauren placed a French-manicured hand over Claire’s, smiling at her like a benevolent god. “I know, sweetie. I just think Garrett may take some time to come back around. Oh, I have to tell you, I met my new girlfriend at the gym today. She is soooo beautiful, it makes me giggly. I invited her out on Friday, if you want to join. If you come, it’ll be us, Gym Girlfriend, Work Girlfriend, and Girlfriend Claire. Oh, sorry, I forgot to call her by her last name, I know you hate that. Girlfriend Gorky…”
 When Claire left Donaghy’s, insulated in a coat of whiskey, she told herself, And all was well. Over and over, she repeated that phrase. By the time she arrived home, she almost believed it.
 Winter closed its rigid fist over the state, and Claire received a handwritten invitation in the mail, nestled amidst bills and coupons like a golden egg amongst regular eggs.
 “Theo, did you pay the electric bill? They keep sending us invoices.”
 “Huh?” Theo called from his place at the stove, his lineback frame partially obscured by the cloud of smoke filling the kitchen.
 “Nevermind, I’ll pay it. Open a window, would you?” Coughing, Claire retreated to the bedroom, where she threw the bills into her Get To It Tomorrow (Please) pile, and slotted her thumb beneath the seal of Lauren’s letter.
 Greedy and impatient, Claire had to read the invitation twice before her eyes caught all the words. She spoke them aloud, softly and to herself, an old habit which helped with her typically lousy auditory processing. “Dear Claire, thank you for being a friend. You have been a rock the year I’ve known you, and I have so much fun when we’re together. I’d like to cordially invite you to my birthday brunch, next Saturday. Wear that dress I like. Love, Lauren.”
 Wracking her brain to remember which dress Lauren liked, Claire stepped over Lump and waded through the smoke, which had breached the hallway, and into the kitchen. “Do we have plans on Saturday?” she asked as she opened the windows as wide as they would allow.
 “Not to my knowledge. Why? Also, grab a plate. Dinner is ready.”
 Claire eyed the pan, which looked like a science experiment come to life. “Lauren invited me to her birthday brunch.”
 Theo snorted as he sent a splat of mystery meal onto her plate. “I can’t believe Garrett flat out ignored my text. Like, don’t be such a bitch.”
 “Hey, it’s a hard knock life when you have a lesbian girlfriend who told you not to propose, the day before you were going to.”
 “What a tool. Refuses to answer my texts, refuses to see me, refuses to fight me about it. Whatever.”
 Itching to change the subject, Claire gestured to her food. “This looks…fun. What is it? Something from your new cookbook?”
Garrett seemed to zip from Theo’s mind roadrunner quick, and Theo grinned, dimple out and proud.  “Nope. Something I came up with myself.”
 Are his feelings worth food poisoning? I guess we’ll get to find out. “You’re lucky I  love you.”
 Theo leaned over and smacked a puppydog kiss on her cheek. “That I am.”
 Claire’s closet looked like someone had taken C4 to it by the time Claire left the house on the day of the party, but she managed to find the dress with four seconds to spare. After driving twice the speed limit through the neighborhood separating their apartments, Claire parked haphazardly and hurried to the front door, which gaped open like a mouth ready to swallow her. A symphony of laughter greeted Claire as she climbed the stairs of the old house. You must be the last one here, she thought. Should have just worn something else.
 “Hello?” Claire called, happy to have a gift in hand so that she couldn’t fidget.
 Inside, dozens of paper streamers hung from the ceiling accented with dangling metallic stars and balloons carpeted the floor; the atmosphere reminded Claire of a magazine spread from the 50s advertising Girls’ Night, sponsored by phenobarbital. Okay, be cool, Claire thought, slipping off her shoes and jacket. A group of women huddled in the living room looked at her as she approached, then turned back to their conversation. Pivoting away from that minefield, Claire grabbed a glass of wine and decided to hover near the gift table. After a moment, Lauren emerged from the bedroom looking like a blonde Kennedy and gave her a bent-elbow hug.
 “Thank you for being here,” Lauren said. “Did you meet Gia, Rachel, Liz, and Jada?”
 “Um, I haven’t had the chance,” Claire replied, despite having been introduced to them at least three times already.
 “No worries, you’ll get to know them today!” Lauren turned to the women, who had formed a makeshift skjaldborg with their backs. “Ladies, would you be so kind as to venture into the dining room? Our brunch is about to be served.”
 Claire obeyed, only to bump into Garrett in the hallway. His skin shone with a slick of sweat, and while his black workout clothes hid the degree to which they were soaked, physical contact didn’t. Claire winced as she felt it transfer onto her dress, along with its lovely aroma.
 “Sorry,” Garrett said. “Oh, and congratulations.”
 He walked away before Claire could respond. You got off easy, she thought as she took her assigned seat. A low tower of champagne dominated the table’s center like a squat crystal fortress, a moat of finger foods waiting around it. Claire, still smelling the sweat on her dress, nabbed a mini bottle of club soda and began working it into the fabric. Thank Christ I didn’t wear a light color. Though I would have fit in more with Lauren’s flock of sugarplum fairies. I would have fit in more with Lauren. The bitterness of the thought jarred Claire from it, and an embarrassed flush warmed her cheeks. Soon, like a school of tropical fish, the rest of the group filtered in and took their seats, and Lauren came to stand at the head of the table.
 “Thank you all for coming!” cooed Lauren. “You are my best friends, and I am so happy you are able to celebrate with me. But I have to confess, I’ve been keeping a secret from you.”
 “You’re engaged!” Liz squealed. Lauren shot her a violent look before mastering herself. For some reason, this reminded Claire of her own mother. A greasy nauseous feeling grew in her gut. “I’m sorry, Laur, I just couldn’t hold it in any longer. Come on, show them the ring!”
 “Oh, alright,” Lauren replied, teeth flashing as she shoved her hand to the middle of the table. On her finger sat an emerald-cut diamond on a thin gold band. It’s perfect for her, Claire thought, a bluish wistfulness coloring the words. A classic for a classic.
 “I love it,” Lauren said firmly, as if someone had implied otherwise.
 The girls chattered, each making a different version of the same demand. “Tell us how it happened!”
 Lauren nodded, glowing as she took the topmost glass of champagne and sat to hold court. “So,” she said. “Last Sunday, Garrett told me he had planned a date. I thought nothing of it, because he plans a date for us every couple of weeks.” She paused for the chorus of sighs and awws, smiling serenely. “So we drove out to this gorgeous garden in the middle of the woods, and he had a whole picnic set up in this little gazebo, surrounded by late blooming roses. I immediately started crying. It was so perfect I couldn’t believe it. He got down on one knee and did his speech, and it was so sweet it made me cry even more. I was lucky I didn’t completely ruin my makeup. Then he asked me to marry him, and I said yes!”
 As she finished, the girls cheered and raised their glasses, Claire realizing their intention to cheers just a moment too late. Toasting done, they descended upon the food, picking like birds of carrion at the spread which never seemed to lessen. Hours passed, their glasses endlessly refilled, and the girls chatted circles around Claire until one by one they sighed and stretched and stated that it was time they got back. Lauren sent each of them off with a mystery box wrapped in silver foil and tied with a luscious silk ribbon. After the last one descended the stairs, Lauren turned to Claire, hiccupped, and threw a tipsy arm around her shoulder.
 “Help me clean up?”
 “Anything for the blushing bride.”
 In a wine-soaked tornado, they bustled about the apartment cleaning dishes and tearing down decorations, until finally no evidence of the brunch remained. Claire sat with her back against the dishwasher, warm as it hummed its way through a cycle, and took a sip from her mug of whiskey. Lauren leaned against the cabinets opposite her, looking like a contented maenad.
 “So,” Claire asked. “What’s the real story?”
 Lauren grabbed the Jameson bottle at her side and slugged another portion into her World’s Best Cat Mom mug. “I was hungover as shit, and knew the moment he asked me about my plans that he was doing it. He took me to the same place he’d originally planned, and it was full of these creepy troll statues and giant pine trees. There wasn’t a gazebo, but there was a trellis of dead vines. I guess in certain lights, it could be romantic. He proposed, and I said yes. He had his friend Ciaran waiting in a bush to take candids, but I guess Ciaran got distracted, so he missed the moment. We’re retaking the candids next week.”
 Claire blinked. “Are you happy?” she asked gently.
 “I think so.”
 When Claire left that night, she felt the strangest urge to cry. The following day, nursing a headache and a depleted will to live, she remembered Lauren’s gift, which waited faithfully in her Get To It Tomorrow (Please) pile. As she untied the ribbon and slipped a knife through the paper, thinking to reuse it, she allowed herself a wild fantasy of what lay inside.
 I hope not a puppy, she thought. There aren’t any air holes in this thing. Maybe it’s a perfume, since Lauren took that perfumery class last month. Or a pair of ballet flats from her mom’s store. I always wanted to get into ballet flats. Clogs aren’t a shoe for sophisticated women, and at some point in my life, I should plan on becoming sophisticated. Probably. Ah, there we go.
 Inside the box lay a bottle of wine, its label printed with a photo of the two of them. Claire remembered when they took it. She avoided being photographed like a wanted criminal, being both plain and unphotogenic, especially when compared with Lauren, but that night Lauren had marched up to her in the bar and pressed their faces together and took the photo before she could protest.
 Beside the wine lay a candle, a small bottle of perfume, and a calfskin smooth piece of paper with the words WILL YOU BE MY BRIDESMAID printed in crimson letters. Claire dialed the phone without thought, and only came back to consciousness when she heard Lauren’s sleep-heavy voice filter through the microphone.
 “Dude, it’s too early for this,” Lauren grumbled.
 “My answer is yes.”
 Lauren paused for a moment, and Claire sensed a feline smugness on the other end. “I knew it would be.” And then the line went dead.
 On Christmas Eve, Claire received a message from an unknown number, in a group chat called Lauren’s Angels.
 Hi ladies! It’s Liz, Lauren’s MOH. I wanted to reach out and let you know that we’ve finalized the itinerary for the bachelorette trip. We’re going to MIAMI!!!!!!! For a week! In June! It’ll just be 2.5k per for the AirBnB, flights, and food/drink budget, and in order to lock in the rate, I’ll need everyone’s contributions by Jan 1. I’m so excited to celebrate our friend’s big day with y’all!! XOXO.
 Claire read the message cursorily before doubling back, heart zipping like a coked out hummingbird. “Miami,” she muttered to herself. “For a week. In June.”
 “What was that?” Theo asked, turning down the volume on the game.
 “I guess Lauren’s bachelorette is going to be a week-long trip to Puerto Rico.”
 Theo laughed. “In this economy?”
 “It’s not funny,” Claire snapped, her mind wandering down the hall to her Mount Everest of bills still waiting to be gotten to. “We can’t afford this. I can’t afford this.”
 “Lauren can’t actually expect everyone to shell out a month’s rent for her bachelorette. It’s ridiculous. I’m sure she’ll understand,” Theo soothed, his hands rubbing circles into her visibly tense back. “She’ll understand.”
 And she did understand. Claire shook her way through the conversation, feeling like a chihuahua, but at the end of it, Lauren nodded and smiled and told her she completely got it.
 “It’s just not feasible for everyone these days, I get that. And don’t worry. I invited Girlfriend Gorky on the trip, and she’s able to come, so we won’t be without a Claire.”
 “I’m sorry,” Claire mumbled, though she got the sense that her roots were being scooped up, gently and slowly so that she wouldn’t notice.
 “Don’t worry about it, please,” Lauren pleaded, squeezing Claire’s hands. “Guess what?”
 Claire forced herself to brighten. “What?”
 “I got a new ring!”
 Claire drew back from the ring which suddenly appeared within an inch of her face. Upon further study, it looked identical to the old one. Lauren watched her expectantly, sighing when she didn’t receive the reaction she’d clearly wanted.
 “It’s a carat bigger!” she explained patiently. “I told Garrett like a thousand times that I wanted the stone to be 2.5 carats or bigger, but then he got me a 1.5 carat stone anyways. It wasn’t even that much more expensive, which is good, since he just got laid off. Lab diamonds are sooo cheap these days. Not that blood diamonds are all that rare to begin with.” As she finished, she looked pointedly at Claire’s ring, which despite being yellow, only boasted a single carat.
 “The diamond is the potato of the earth,” Claire replied as she tucked her hands under her legs. “I’m happy you got the ring you wanted, it fits you so well.”
 “Thanks! Not literally though. We still need to get it sized, so in the meantime, I have to wear this fugly sizer coil so it doesn’t slide around. That didn’t happen with the last one, but that’s just because the rock was so dinky.”
 “How did Garrett feel about replacing the stone?’
 Lauren rolled her eyes. “He got all misty about it, since it was what he originally picked out, but I had told him so many times and he didn’t listen! After we picked out a date, he got over it.”
 Claire nodded. “That’s good. Oh, did I tell you my dress came in the mail?”
 “Oh my god, no! Why haven’t you sent me any pictures?”
 Because I haven’t had the courage to try it on yet. “I’ll send some tonight.”
 Lauren nodded sternly. “Make sure you do. I need to color and pattern match with Liz, since you’ll be the two in floral. Crap, I have to run, I’m late for my nail appointment. Love you! Send pictures, I mean it!”
 Claire didn’t see Lauren again until the day after her birthday, which Lauren had missed in order to go to the Architect’s Ball with Jada. Armed with homemade muffins and outrageous stories from the season they’d spent apart, Lauren quickly thawed the ice which had grown in Claire’s veins, quelling her fear that she’d been cast out and forgotten.
 “I can’t believe my wedding is literally only ninety days away. It’s like a fever dream. Almost as crazy as last weekend. OMG I have to tell you. Liz, Gorky, and I went to Martha’s Vineyard for the weekend, since Gorky is working there, and we went totally wild. There was this group of guys on a bachelor’s weekend and they were buying us drinks and dancing with us, and then they dared me and Gorky to kisssssss. So we did!” Lauren giggled, hiding her face in her hands. “Don’t tell Garrett.”
 “Are you excited for the trip?” Claire asked as she swallowed the seasick feeling she got when Lauren brought up the other, hotter, better Claire.
 “Yes, but I’m nervous the bikinis I ordered won’t get here in time. And I still need to go to the doctor to get another Xanax prescription. I am NOT good at flying sober. But it’ll be fun. Obv not as fun as if you were there, but still. We’ll miss you.”
 “I’ll miss you too. I’m sure your clothes will arrive in no time, you have the best luck.”
 Lauren snapped her fingers. “That reminds me, can I take your bridesmaid dress with me? I want to color match it with Liz’s.”
 Claire nodded and fetched the dress, still hidden in its crinkly garment bag. As she handed it over, her mind helpfully conjured images of her wearing it. She hadn’t considered that the empire cut of the bead-laden fabric would make her look like a big rectangle, while the open back highlighted rolls she hadn’t known existed. Additionally, the soft pastel green brought out a certain sallowness in her skin, reminding her of when her grandfather developed jaundice from rampant colon cancer. Every time she put that dress on, it felt like an omen that she should NOT put it on again. But she owed it to Lauren, so she did.
 The girls left for Miami on a flight racing a hurricane, and landed safely as the storm blew itself off course and smashed into the Carolinas. Claire watched the posts roll in, each one like a blow to the head. Her apprehension for the wedding grew with each picture of Lauren and Better Claire embracing on a beach at sunset, or dancing in a club at dawn, or hefting a nonplussed iguana over their heads.
 “I should have just gone with them,” she lamented to Theo, watching as he struggled to emulsify a pan sauce for the massive roast he’d randomly decided to make.
 “Aside from the fact that we don’t have the money—”
 “Because you spend it all on rib roasts.”
 Theo scowled amiably at her. “The why is not important. As I was saying, aside from the fact that we don’t have the money to blow on a week in Miami, you didn’t even want to go to begin with. You hate dancing, and you have no control over your alcohol intake.”
 “I do too!” Claire protested. “Well, I can. I just don’t like to. What’s the point of drinking if you aren’t getting drunk? That is literally the only purpose of alcohol. Otherwise I’d just have tea.”
 “Well, I feel better knowing that you aren’t out in Miami with a bunch of people who won’t look out for you.”
 “Lauren would look out for me!” Claire said, wincing as she tasted the lie. “Maybe it is for the best that I didn’t go,” she sighed. “At least they’re having fun, right?”
 Sensing the nosedive her mood had taken, Theo put down his tongs and tugged her into an asphyxiating embrace. “I’m sorry, honey. But everything will be okay. All will be well.”
 “All will be well,” she murmured into his chest. The words didn’t sound real, but she said them anyway.
 A week after the girls returned from Miami, Lauren texted.
 Drinks today?
 Claire couldn’t help but beam. Yes!
 They met at a restaurant with outdoor seating, Claire wanting to enjoy the warm weather before it turned swampy and humid. Lauren stood a few feet apart from her as she approached, a strangely drawn look on her face.
 “Hi!” Claire said, laughing as she pulled Lauren into a hug.
 “Hi,” Lauren replied.
 Why does she sound tense? Claire thought as they were seated. Is this a micro-tone? Crap. I forgot to look into those. It definitely is, isn’t it.
 “So how are you?” Claire asked. “How was your trip? Tell me all about it!”
 Lauren stared at the drink menu, hiding partially behind it. “What are you thinking of getting? I feel like I might want the spicy margarita. Or maybe a glass of sav.”
 “Huh?” Claire looked cursorily at the menu. “Oh, I’ll probably get a spritz.”
 “Oooo, that sounds good, I’ll get that too,” Lauren said with a smile. “Sorry, I’ve been trying to get my head on straight since I got back. In hindsight, maybe starting a new job two weeks before going on a trip wasn’t the best idea.”
 “How is the new job going? I hope better than the last.”
 “It’s good! My new co-workers are so slay, and they don’t seem back-stabby and petty like my old team. Plus we get catered lunches and cocktails once a week, and everyone gets tipsy and gabs until it’s time to go home. I need to get Jada something for referring me, I can’t thank her enough. She was so funny in Miami. Our AirBnB had this plexiglass fence and walkway, and one day when everyone was napping, she decided to go grab some lunch. But she forgot her key! So she ended up climbing the fence and walking across this tiny glass walkway to get to the yard. It was hysterical.”
 “That is hilarious,” Claire said, stretching her mouth into a grin.
 “The rest of the trip was so fun. We went to this Venetian pool, and most nights we went dancing until like 6am, and Rachel cooked for us, which was wild because I’ve never had a professional chef cook specifically for me. It was so beautiful, and so amazing. I think I’m going to remember it forever. It really was the perfect send-off for single me.”
 Claire squirmed as she drained her drink. Perfect without me. “And how is wedding prep going?”
 “Don’t get me started. Turns out, the venue has this hideous cobalt carpet on the floor of the dining room that we cannot alter, which they added during a reno AFTER we booked. Also, if we want outdoor lighting, it’s another thousand, so I think I’m going to have Garrett and Ciaran set it up themselves. As for the flowers, I have another appointment with the wholesaler, because I want to DIY the bouquets myself, but that’s going to take time in the day that I don’t have, since I’m waitressing on top of architecting to finance this whole thing…”
 By the time they split the bill, the sun had sunk halfway to Asia. Lauren walked with Claire to the train station, holding the bag with her bridesmaid dress so tightly her knuckles were chalk white.
 “Um, I have something I need to talk to you about sometime,” Lauren said, eyes fixed on a crack in the pavement.
 Claire, loose from three cocktails, laughed, unthinking. “You can talk to me now!”
 “No,” Lauren replied. “We’re tipsy, and I want this to come out right.”
 “Lauren,” Claire said, taking Lauren by both shoulders. “What is it?”
 Horrifyingly, Lauren’s eyes glazed with tears, from nerves or sadness Claire couldn’t tell. “Well, um, I just wanted to ask if you would be okay with maybe not being a bridesmaid anymore.”
 Claire’s brain went blank, tabula rasa. Lauren began to sound very far away.
 “It’s just, the group dynamic was so good in Miami, and that isn’t to say that it wouldn’t still be good with you there, but I just wanted to ask and see if you’d be okay just coming as a regular guest. And I totally do want you to come as a regular guest. Please, you and Theo have to come. Really. I’ll reimburse you for your dress. But please, please come.”
Claire almost asked the question poisoning her tongue, but she couldn’t bear to hear the answer she already knew. Who is my replacement? The Claire that was there.
 “Tell me you’ll come,” Lauren begged. “Please.”
 Claire couldn’t think of anything to say. Relief battled against righteous hurt. At least I don’t have to be the ugly bridesmaid any more, she thought. “Of course we’ll come.”
 As easily as storm clouds parting to reveal the sun, Lauren glowed as she threw her arms around Claire. “Thank you. I knew you’d understand.”
 “That was very brave,” Claire heard herself say before taking the bag and walking down the steps to the train.
 “I love you!” Lauren called.
 Claire did not respond. How can you love me if you think of me so disposably? So easily swapped for a nicer model?
 Her mind rolled in on itself, and she stood numb for a minute before walking to a trashcan and throwing away the dress.
 How does a cold war end? When one side is vanquished by the other? Or when one just decides to stop fighting?
 Claire returned home that day, drawn and gray as any ghost. She told Theo the news, and he did an admirable job not gloating over being exactly, exactly right about Lauren and Garrett. The cruelty of Lauren’s request opened Claire’s eyes to her other passive cruelties. Her betrayal, borne of callous selfishness, made more sense each day. Time passed, Claire grieved the friend she’d thought she had, the wedding came and went. And eventually, inconceivably, all was well.