a matter of moments and minutes

The shop had settled itself with quite the audacity tonight.

Wedged into the narrow, impossible sliver of space between the train platform and a waiting train, it loomed in the brief, blink-and-you-miss-it gap where keys, phones, pacifiers, credit cards, and dropped coins were doomed to disappear.

Orrin clicked his tongue.

“Now this is just ridiculous,” he muttered, sweeping his gaze over the platform. It was empty, save for the occasional drifting newspaper.

“I doubt there’ll be anyone boarding a train without the intent to board a train. You don’t accidentally take a train. People board them because they mean to.”

Behind him, through the hollow hum of a nearby vending machine, something small clinked.

He glanced back to find Little Sir Menace perched atop the counter, poking at a loose screw with the tip of his lance. Orrin sighed and leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching as another train rumbled to a stop. Steam curled around the wheels, doors slid open, and a few passengers stepped onto the platform, moving with the quiet purpose of people who knew exactly where they were going.

Which, Orrin had to admit, made sense.

This was not the sort of place where people lingered on accident. A train station was a crossroads, a fleeting in-between kind of thing where footsteps never stopped moving. The ones who stood still were simply waiting to leave.

There is no space for second thoughts when you already know where you’re going.

He exhaled. “Looks like we’re in for a long, uneventful night.”

As he stood there and watched, a woman in a slate-gray coat strode past, eyes fixed on her phone, tapping out a message with the mechanical certainty of someone whose hands always knew what they were doing. A man followed, briefcase swinging at his side, checking his watch twice in the span of a few steps.

Orrin watched them go, tipping his head slightly. None of them so much as glanced toward the Four Fourty-Four. None of them hesitated.

The train let out a soft chime, followed by a final boarding call. A few more absent-minded men and women hurried across the platform and with a sigh, Orrin made his way back into the shop. Perhaps at the next stop there’d be someone.

Or maybe the stop after that.

At the counter, he placed tonight’s newspaper on the wooden surface, smiling at the way Little Sir Menace instantly dashed forward, ready to lunge at the quivering pages.

Just as he glanced out the window one last time, movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention.

A young man, breathless and dishevelled, tore across the platform with the singular focus of someone who had mistimed everything. His coat billowed behind him, and one strap of his bag slipped from his shoulder—just as the train doors snapped shut, leaving him behind on the platform.

Or at least, that was what should have happened.

Instead, the man stumbled forward, falling into a stack of books, scattering them across the shop’s floor. Orrin, halfway toward the counter, froze, and so did Little Sir Menace, his hollow sockets fixed on the unexpected arrival.

The man himself blinked rapidly, chest rising and falling from the sprint, his fingers curled around the strap of his bag.

“…What,” he panted finally, his voice hoarse from the run. His eyes flicked toward the shop’s ceiling, the shelves, the counter, and then to Orrin. Instantly, he scrambled to a wobbly stand, his chest still heaving rapidly. “Where—”

The man twisted sharply, his gaze darting to the door behind him. The train should have been there—rows of seats, overhead lights, the muffled chatter of its few, unlucky passengers.

Should.

Orrin stepped forward, crouching to gather the books the man had scattered. “Well. That was quite the entrance, Erling. Or do you still go by Illo? Whatever you fancy more, I suppose.”

The man stared. “—what?”

Little Sir Menace, who had been perfectly still up until this point, made his way to the floor and abruptly jabbed his lance at the man’s ankle. The man yelped, stumbling back into the shelves with a rattling thud.

Orrin sighed. “Don’t take that personally.”

The man ran a hand through his hair, then down his face, as if trying to wipe away the last few moments and replace them with something that made more sense. “This… This isn't possible.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. Orrin continued to tidy up, gathering the books and a few loose pages, while Erling slowed his breathing, though his chest still rose and fell with the deep, uneven rhythm of someone teetering between panic and confusion. Finally, he let out a long, shaky breath, eyes still focused on Little Sir Menace, who had taken to jab its tiny lance into one of the books Orrin hadn’t picked up yet.

“This is a dream.”

Orrin arched a brow. “That would worry me. Why not dream something more entertaining then?”

The man’s lips parted, as if to argue—but then he stopped.

“Look,” Orrin said, brushing his hands together. “You’re here now. That much is certain. So why don’t we start with something simple?” He turned fully, lifting the books and Little Sir Menace off the floor with a flick of his wrist. He placed the bunch of them onto the counter before he met the man’s gaze with the kind of practiced ease that came from doing this a thousand times before.

“Do I call you Erling now, or would you prefer Illo?”

The man opened his mouth—then hesitated. His brow furrowed, something flickering behind his eyes, only to close his mouth again.

Ah… That kind of customer.

“How do you know that name? I haven’t used it in… well, since—”

Orrin waved it off. “It’s not that hard.”

“That's not an answer.”

“Sure it is,” Orrin said, leaning against the counter. “Just not the one you're looking for.”

Illo pressed his lips into a thin line. His hands curled around the strap of his bag again, his grip tightening. He looked around—properly this time—taking in the shelves, the warm glow of the lamps, the strange, stitched-together chaos.

Little Sir Menace, apparently bored of being ignored, gave the book he’d been jabbing one final, decisive stab before hopping down from the counter once again. He clanked his way over to the man’s foot and poked his shin with the lance—lighter this time, but insistent.

Illo startled slightly, glancing down. “What’s with the… thing?”

Orrin followed his gaze to Little Sir Menace, who was now squaring up against Illo’s shoe as if it were a worthy adversary.

“He’s just… confrontational. A little.”

Looking down, Illo huffed a short, incredulous laugh. Little Sir Menace stared back, utterly unmoving, his tiny lance still pressed against Illo’s shin.

“This is insane.”

Orrin hummed, noncommittal. “That’s what they all say.”

Illo dragged both hands through his hair, his fingers tightening briefly at the back of his neck before he let them drop. He exhaled slowly, as if trying to steady himself, but his foot twitched, causing him to take a step back. He muttered something under his breath, shaking his head.

“This is a dream. I fell asleep on the train. Or I never made it out of the house in the first place. Either way, this is a dream.”

“Maybe,” Orrin said, tilting his head. “Where were you going?”

The man swallowed, glancing at the door again. “I—” He hesitated. “I just… I had to go.”

“Had to?” Orrin repeated.

The man rubbed the back of his neck again, looking anywhere but at Orrin. “I mean—I didn’t really plan beyond that. I just—” He gestured vaguely. “Something would happen. Eventually.”

Orrin hummed. He glanced at the shop, the way its shelves seemed to breathe ever so slightly, shifting slowly but steadily.

So that was who he was now.

Someone who bought tickets not to arrive somewhere, but simply to leave.

“Well,” Orrin said, finally settling behind the counter, “what is it that you are waiting for to happen?”

Illo blinked, caught off guard. “What kind of question is that?”

“The kind you already know the answer to.”

Illo opened his mouth—then closed it again. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and his grip on the strap of his bag tightened once again. He turned his head slightly, eyes flicking toward the door.

“How about you take a look around while you’re here?”

Illo exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered.

“Most things worth thinking about are,” Orrin replied. “And you’re here either way, right? Asleep or not. Awake or not. It doesn’t matter much. Leaving now would simply be… a waste.”

Illo huffed, a sharp, humorless sound. He still stood stiffly by the shelves, his weight shifting from one foot to the other, as if he wasn’t sure whether to bolt for the door or stay where he stood. His gaze flickered over the shop again, slower this time, as if only now realizing the oddities nestled between the books and trinkets.

The shelves weren’t orderly, but they weren’t messy either. They looked… lived-in, as if they had been curated by time itself rather than by hand. Objects that shouldn’t belong together sat side by side—a half-burned candle beside a pocket watch with no hands, a violin bow resting atop a stack of letters addressed to no one...

His brow furrowed. Something about it all made his chest ache.

Eventually, Illo moved and began pacing around, away from the door and towards the different aisles. Little Sir Menace followed his every step, his hollow sockets unblinking but Illo ignored him. The deeper he wandered, the stranger the shop felt. Not in the way of a dream—where everything was woolly, distant, and fleeting, but… well… elsehow.

Like an intake of breath held just a moment too long.

He let his fingers ghost over aged spines, cool glass, and the rough edges of old paper as he passed them. Sometimes he spotted something he faintly remembered, like the brass key that sat atop a cracked ceramic saucer, or the tiny toy soldier who missed an arm, or the weathered sketchbook filled with scribbles too smudged to read.

He picked things up, turned them over, tested their weight in his palm. And yet, every time, he set them back down.

Nothing felt quite right, but also not really wrong. It was… strange.

Around him, the shop stretched further than it should have. The way the aisles stretched endlessly, how staircases appeared behind shelves, some leading up, others leading down… how the shelves themselves seemed to grow taller depending on where he went… surely, this must be a dream.

But perhaps… this was for the best. Perhaps this was just life intervening. Just… coincidence making sure he wasn’t making the same mistake again…

Illo fumbled with the aged spine of a book. Glancing out the window, nothing much stood out to him. The train station was gone, and so was the outside in general. His reflection was gone too, which made even less sense, but he had read about the brain’s inability to show faces in dreams once. So perhaps he was really dreaming after all.

He let out a dry laugh.

“I’m so stupid…”, he mumbled to himself, wondering how he’d feel like once he woke up.

Happy? Relieved? Sad?

Why had he even come here? Why had he snuck out? Hurried down the alleys, paid a fortune for rides and tickets… why? What was wrong with him?

His fingers tightened around the book’s spine as if grounding himself, pulled it from the shelf, but never opened it. His breath came short and shallow, and his heartbeat drummed in his ears, drowning out the quiet hum of the shop.

Next to him, something shifted.

When he turned to see what it was, he almost wasn’t surprised to see the shopkeeper standing next to him. He seemed at ease, leaning against one of the tables, eyeing him with those eyes he couldn’t place. One moment, they were warm, but the next they made you feel cold, alone. Only to turn warm again, to then just abandon you once more.

Suddenly, Orrin smiled. “It’s almost impressive, really.“

“What are you talking about?”

Orrin didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached forward, plucking the book from Illo’s trembling fingers with an ease that made his stomach turn. He flipped through the pages absently, gaze scanning something only he could see.

Then he said, “You do this every year. Same time. Same place. Same train.” He tilted his head. “The same platform. Same wagon.” He closed the book with a soft thump. “Don’t waste your time with the book. It’s not yours. At least not this time around.”

Orrin’s expression softened. “It’s alright, you know,” he said, vanishing the book. “There’s no shame in waiting.”

A sound clawed its way up Illo’s throat, half a laugh, half a broken exhale. His legs felt unsteady beneath him, like he was standing on the edge of the platform that wasn’t there anymore.

“I—” Illo tried, but his voice broke.

“But,” Orrin interrupted him gently, “sooner or later, you have to ask yourself… are you waiting because you believe they’ll still come?” Orrin’s voice grew quieter now, almost distant. “Or are you waiting because you don’t know how to stop?”

Illo’s throat burned. His vision blurred at the edges, breath shuddering as his hands curled into fists at his sides. The words settled over him like dust, sinking into the cracks of his heart he had spent years trying to fix. However, before he could speak, the shop around him seemed to breathe, stretching and shifting in the corners of his vision. The firelight ahead flickered, casting long, wavering shadows across the floor.

And then—

Then, something stirred in the quiet nook beyond the shelves.

Illo’s gaze flickered toward it, spotting a fireplace, cushioned seats, a small table with two mugs and a plate of cookies he used to like. And someone sitting there.

For a moment, all he could hear was the way his pulse pounded so loudly he thought it might drown him.

The figure sat as though they had always been there, one arm draped loosely over the armrest, the other resting in their lap. At first, they were only a shape in the firelight, indistinct, blurred at the edges—like a memory refusing to settle into place.

But then they moved.

And then they turned.

And then they smiled.

And it was them.

Beau.

His throat clenched so tightly he thought he might break apart.

He had spent so long remembering them as a ghost. As a space that no one else could fill; a space that he didn’t want anyone to fill. Beau was his cracks and his splinters, his sleepless nights, and the brief terror between turning the light off and getting under the covers.

As he stared, his breath came sharp and uneven. His fingers twitched at his sides, too much and too little all at once. His legs locked, but his body swayed forward, instinct fighting fear, disbelief tangling with hope.

Beau tilted their head, their gaze warm, understanding.

A small, broken sound escaped him, barely audible over the fire’s crackling.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick, as though the air itself had frozen in place. Suddenly, Beau patted the seat beside them, a gesture so simple, so familiar, it nearly shattered him. The warmth of it pulled at something deep inside, something he hadn’t realized was still alive, still aching. His chest tightened, the weight of all those lost years crushing him.

“Beau,” he whispered, the name barely audible, as though saying it out loud might tear the fragile thread holding him together. His throat ached, thick with emotion, but the word escaped anyway, unbidden, trembling in the air between them.

“I’m sorry,” Beau said softly, their voice warm and full of something unspoken, something that stung like the first breath after breaking the surface of the water. “I never meant to leave you waiting.”

The words hit Illo like a punch to the gut. He felt the years stretch thin, as if they were being pulled directly from his heart.

“Fuck you.” Illo whispered, but it lacked the sharpness and anger he wanted it to carry. Instead, it came out like a broken sob; one that lacked not only the energy to sound like one, but also the tears to accentuate the way everything was hurting right now.

However, before he knew it, he was moving. His body, desperate for confirmation, for the warmth of touch, took him forward, one hesitant step after another. He reached out, fingers trembling, almost afraid to make contact.

Slowly, almost reverently, Illo reached out, brushing his fingers against Beau’s, their skin cool but somehow familiar. The moment they touched, everything else seemed to fall away—the shop, the fire, the weight of all those years spent alone. There was nothing left but the feeling of Beau’s hand in his, solid and real and here.

Beau squeezed his hand gently and it was all that it took to completely tear Illo apart. His breath shuddered and he sank to his knees, wrapping his arms around Beau, pressing his forehead into their shoulder. Illo swallowed, his body trembling with a mixture of relief and disbelief, still unsure if this was truly happening, but too afraid to question it.

“I’m sorry I left you waiting,” Beau murmured again, their hand brushing gently through his hair. “I was on my way, you know. Got on the wrong train, but I didn’t know back then… You weren’t there, so I thought… I thought...”

The tears that had been building behind Illo’s eyes finally spilled over, and he let them fall, not caring anymore. He shook his head violently, pressing his face further into Beau's shoulder, his hands gripping at the fabric of their clothes, desperate for any connection. His breath hitched painfully.

“You never came. I waited every year, wondering if you’d show up this time. Same date, same time, same train. And you never came.”

Beau’s arms tightened around him, and they pulled him closer. “I’m so sorry,” they repeated, their voice breaking this time. “I’m so sorry, Illo. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to leave you thinking I didn’t care.”

His fingers clenched, clutching at Beau like they were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. “I thought it was my fault,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice so fragile it almost shattered. “I thought... I thought I wasn’t enough.”

Beau pulled back slightly, just enough to tilt Illo’s face up, meeting his gaze with such a deep sorrow that Illo’s heart skipped a beat. They cupped Illo’s face gently, their thumbs brushing across his tear-streaked cheeks. “I’m here now,” they said quietly. “I thought about you every day, even though I couldn’t find my way back to you.”

“I’ve missed you so much,” Illo whispered, his voice breaking one last time as he let the words fall freely from his lips. Beau didn’t speak again. Instead, they leaned in, brushing their lips softly against Illo’s forehead.

Orrin stood at the periphery of the scene, his eyes fixed on Illo and Beau, watching the reunion unfold with a kind of solemn detachment. He could see the way Beau’s form flickered at the edges, fading in and out like a candle flickering in a draft, and with each passing second, the scars from the decision Beau had made all those years ago began to bleed through Beau’s skin—dark, jagged lines of torn skin, reminders of the death that had stolen them away.

The way Beau’s hands trembled against Illo’s back, the way their breath came slower, more labored, the way their eyes betrayed a quiet panic—Orrin knew it all too well. The little sliver of time the shop could give them was running out.

Illo, oblivious, was wrapped up in the warmth of the moment, clinging to the hope of this impossible reunion, desperate not to let it slip through his fingers. The way he held onto Beau, as if trying to anchor them to the world, to make up for the years of waiting. He hadn’t noticed the shift in Beau’s form. The fading light in their eyes. The almost imperceptible decay creeping through their skin.

It was a marvellous thing what the shop could do. Stunning, really.

As long as there was a loss and a gain, everything was possible.

This, however, was neither. Illo wouldn’t really loose something; Beau was already lost to death after all. And a gain? Perhaps a death wish, but that wasn’t his field of work. It wouldn’t count.

And Beau… Beau had nothing to gain or to lose.

Beau’s gaze flicked away from Illo, and, just for a moment, met Orrin’s eyes across the room. The silent plea was clear in their expression—Please. Just a little more time. But time was the only thing he didn’t sell.

He sold opportunities. Chances. Possibilities—well… among other things. But time was a thing without value. It was there until it wasn’t. Gone from the start, so to say, but lingering just enough to make things worse.

They had already been given more than their fair share, a rare second chance that wasn’t meant to be. He glanced at the two of them, their hands still locked, their faces so close that it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

Orrin closed his eyes briefly. If he just wouldn’t see, if he just pretended to—

Next to him, something seemingly split apart.

It was an odd noise. Too soft for a crack, too sharp for a gentle ping. It was a bit like a heart breaking. A sound he had heard all too often. But the only thing next to him was—

Glancing to his side, Orrin dreaded what he would see.

He turned, and his breath caught in his throat as his gaze landed on Little Sir Menace. The tiny knight stood just a few feet away, his hollow, black eyes staring at the two.

Little Sir Menace’s clay limbs had started to crack, the fine fissures spreading outward like spiderwebs across his body. He stood frozen, small and fragile, caught between the weight of his impossible understanding, and the overwhelming sorrow of knowing what was to come.

Orrin watched helpless as the knight’s chest split open with a sharp snap, a jagged line forming down the center. The little warrior trembled, his vibrant attitude bleeding away, his form deteriorating as if the very act of understanding the inevitable had broken him.

Orrin’s throat tightened. He had seen pain before—too much of it, too often—but this… this was different. Little Sir Menace, in all his simplistic yet endearing defiance, was falling apart. Just like Beau, the little thing wouldn’t make it past the six o’clock chime.

Which was… normal.

Not everything stayed within the shop until it was found. More often than not, things were fleeting; a matter of moments and minutes.

And yet, watching Little Sir Menace fall apart, Orrin knew there was nothing for him to do.

Nothing other than…

Orrin took a deep breath.

He reached for the canvas, his hands steady despite the weight of his choice. As he began to paint, the brush moved with a sense of urgency—filling in the gaps, bringing life to the scene that was slowly falling apart in front of him.

Each stroke deepened the colors on the canvas, and as he worked, Beau and Illo’s forms began to flicker, blending with the strokes of paint as though they were being absorbed into the canvas itself. Beau’s face twisted in a final, wordless plea, their eyes locking with Orrin’s just before they completely faded from the room.

As the final strokes filled the space, the room seemed to dim, the edges of reality bending and distorting. The warmth of the fire flickered, as if to protest what was happening. And when the last stroke was etched into the canvas, a shudder rippled through the shop.

It was done.

The scene on the canvas was perfect: Beau and Illo, by the fireplace, wrapped in each other’s arms, together at last but trapped in that moment forever, locked inside the painting. Illo, still oblivious, was lost in the warmth of Beau’s touch. His face was peaceful, finally free of the weight of the years spent waiting, the years spent longing. Beau’s gaze was soft and tender, their hands gently cupping Illo’s face, never meant to be apart again.

It was a beautiful, fragile lie that he had crafted with his own hands –one that would surely come back to complicate things—, and even if it gave them both an endless moment of happiness, it would never be enough.

It could never be enough.

He stood before the painting, staring at it in silence, the weight of his choice heavy on his shoulders. He could feel the shop’s judgment, the oppressive pressure of its silent gaze. And yet, as he looked at the painting, at the two figures locked in their embrace, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

Not yet, at least. Perhaps another night.

As the room seemed to pulse with quiet judgment, Orrin's gaze was drawn away, his attention once again falling to the tiny knight by his side.

Little Sir Menace remained in the same spot, his tiny form now almost unrecognizable. The clay had splintered and cracked, his chest a jagged mess of broken pieces, his limbs and armor splintered like brittle wood.

Orrin moved slowly, carefully, as if afraid that any sudden motion might make things worse. He bent down and gently scooped the fragile form of Little Sir Menace into his hands, cradling the knight as tenderly as he could. His fingers brushed the cracks in the clay, the coldness of it seeping through his skin. The knight’s body trembled in his hands, but Orrin could feel the faint pulse of life still lingering there, fragile but persistent.

“Hold on, little one.” Orrin whispered softly.

With a deep breath, Orrin carried the tiny knight to his workbench, setting him down carefully. He ran a hand through his hair. Sure enough, repairing objects was a part of his job, however, Little Sir Menace wasn’t a ware. He was more.

He was someone’s, just that the someone still had to be found.

He closed his eyes again, and in the deepest nooks of the shop, he felt it—the pull of the shadows, the soft, silent movement of things unseen. He drew them to him, called them forward, and with a soft smile, he began to fill in the cracks.

Slowly, carefully, Orrin worked. The knight’s body mended, the splinters falling away, replaced with the deep, velvety shadows. When the last of the cracks had been filled, the knight’s form was whole again, though now it bore the faint traces of shadowed seams. He wasn’t quite the same; like a doll that had been mended with scraps of leftover material. But for now, that was all he could do.

Orrin sat back; his breath shallow. The shadows weren’t meant to be used to fix things. They were for hiding, for waiting in the dark corners. But now, they had been brought out into the light, woven into the fabric of the knight’s very being—which was just not the right kind of nook or cranny. Nor was it a blind spot or a dark corner.

Little Sir Menace shifted slightly, as if testing his new form, his tiny hands grasping at the edges of the workbench. He stood up shakily, his once-dull eyes now gleaming faintly in the dim light of the shop. As Little Sir Menace steadied himself, Orrin glanced back at the painting, where both, Illo and Beau, had closed their eyes, their forms shifted slightly into a more comfortable position.

Little Sir Menace, wobbly and a little unsteady still, pointed at it eagerly.

“Do you like it? I thought that’s the best cause of action. Perhaps one day, someone will find our shop and decide that the love of Beau and Illo is something they need. I think we can all need that sometimes, you know. Loving someone so hard that we lose ourselves in the good ways and the bad ways.”

Little Sir Menace, seemingly a little shaken still, nestled its tiny body against Orrin’s arm.

“Does it seem wrong to you?” he asked. “To trap them like this? To take away their chance at change, at moving forward, never able to grow, to find out, to experience? To freeze them in moments and minutes that weren’t meant to be theirs? Illo’s person is out there; never to find him. And Beau… well...”

There wasn’t much to say about Beau.

Beau was all pieces and what if’s.

Should be’s and could be’s. But nothing like Illo.

Illo was pieces, too, but… Illo was whole with the weight of every missing part.

Orrin sighed.

Little Sir Menace didn’t answer. He couldn’t, of course. He was too small, too simple, but the shadows that Orrin had used to mend the knight’s cracks whispered against his fingers, reminding him of the price.

He could feel the tension in the air, the heavy weight of the shop’s presence pressing down on him. He had bent the rules too far, he knew that.

And yet, as he gazed at the tiny knight and the painting, he realized something.

Perhaps it wasn’t about right or wrong.

Maybe it was simply about doing what you could—with the broken pieces you had.

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