a sky of spilled shade

– Look up. The shadows aren’t just falling — they’re waiting.

Shadows pooled in the cracked pavement, salt clung to the rooftops, and the air carried the faintest trace of something burning, although nothing had caught fire.

It was all a not-so-quiet reminder that the town was awake in all the wrong places.

The walls of the buildings around him leaned in just slightly, as if eavesdropping, and a narrow street nearby twisted out of sight, as if trying to stay out of the way.

“What a mess…” Orrin sighed, shaking his head. He turned back to the shop’s window to remove the last bit of salt. Inside, he spotted Little Sir Menace scaling a shelf, eager to reach the candles with the half-melted candles faces, who were humming a funeral song, their eyes trained on the little knight.

Orrin sighed again. “What a mess indeed…”

He wiped the last stubborn grains of salt from the glass, stepped back, and looked at the scene before him with a mix of disbelief and amusement.

The shop had settled itself at the doorstep of a double-doored business, snug between two halves of something more ordinary. To the left, a flower shop slumbered behind dark windows, its sign rocking gently in the cold breeze. Thick leafs pressed against the glass from inside, giving the eerie impression of something looking back at him. To the right, there waited an everyday-store, ready to receive letters, exchange claims for coins, and make quick work of even smaller needs.

Both businesses shared one arched door, one little staircase. And right there—on the worn stone step; the third from the bottom—the Four Fourty-Four had claimed a spot for itself.

Orrin tilted his head. “Neither really here but not fully gone either,” he murmured, testing the step with the toe of his boot. “What a mess…”

As expected, the world did not shift for him. He belonged to the shop, after all. But for someone else… well.

Orrin glanced back inside at Little Sir Menace, who was now sternly distracted by a floating teaspoon drifting just out of his reach. He sighed again. This damn tea set…

He forced his attention back to the odd situation in front of him. All it would take was an unfortunate early riser, someone in a rush, someone with a lack of intent, or with the wrong intent, or someone with the right intent at the wrong time…

There were too many possibilities. Too many ways this could go…

Orrin exhaled slowly, watching a few early risers pass by, oblivious to the mystery right under their noses.

He chuckled.

The very idea of it—how easily the world could topple and twist if one wasn’t careful, or how one could miss a chance for their world to topple and twist because they were too careful...

It was, for a moment, almost funny.

Almost.

A sharp voice cut through the quiet morning air.

“Hurry up, Lisette. We haven’t got all day.”

Orrin lifted his gaze just in time to see a woman in a deep blue coat climbing the steps, a young woman trailing behind her. The girl—Lisette—had a wary, drawn expression, her grip tight around a small bundle of paper. Unlike her mother’s purposeful stride, she hesitated just before stepping onto the third stone step.

Orrin made a small, thoughtful noise. Tilting his head, he eyed the older woman –Cecelia— and he couldn’t help but feel like the funeral song the candles had hummed earlier was appropriate now more than ever.

Cecelia wasn’t much Cecelia anymore.

What a pity.

Finding himself behind the counter, Orrin kept his eyes on the door, the voices now outside rather than right next to him.

“Poor thing… Life has a way of snuffing itself out, I suppose…”

He had barely finished his thought out loud, when the shop started to arrange itself. The twisting aisles and the shelves vanished, replaced by a small selection of mixed-offer tables, a few (mostly empty) wall shelves, and a small woodfire stove by the counter. A battered little post box, one that hasn’t been there before, let out a sleepy creak as it settled onto the counter. A few plants dotted the cramped space, the usual endless size of the shop now just a rumor.

Little Sir Menace, just like the humming candles, had somehow managed to remain. They were perched on a small board right above the door, frozen in the briefness of choice.

Orrin’s eyes wandered back to the door. Cecelia—tall, rigid, the type of woman whose presence alone could order a room into silence—had no hesitation. She strode forward, pushed the door open with the tip of her boot, and dragged Lisette along with a firm hand.

The door hadn’t even closed behind them when the woman had beelined toward the counter, her eyes void of any sparks but full of fire.

Was it her, then? Or her young one? Orrin wasn’t sure still.

Lisette, however, had neither sparks nor fire. She was not a blank canvas, but a void one. One where the artist had erased and erased, chafing the surface and what was underneath beyond repair.

A woman as old as Cecelia lacking sparks… that wasn’t unheard of. But one as young as Lisette lacking not only sparks and color, but also the ground for them to settle? Tragic.

But the way Cecelia was so unfazed… surely, she was not the one. Because if she was, she would have noticed that this wasn’t the everyday-store. That he wasn’t the usual store clerk.

But Lisette wasn’t fazed either. There was no confusion. Not the tiniest bit of curiosity.

Was it that the illusion held? That, to Cecelia and Lisette, this was just the everyday-store, just the everyday-clerk, just a simple errand, just another small step for Cecelia in making sure her daughter stayed in place. Another small step for Lisette to put herself last.

Orrin straightened slightly when Cecelia ripped the envelope out of Lisette’s hands and slapped it onto the counter. “Delivery,” she said crisply. “Best get it done where I can see it get done.”

Behind her, for a brief second or two, Orrin watched how Lisette looked around the small space, clearly fumbling with a second letter in her coat pocket.

He turned his attention back to Cecelia.

“To whom and by when may I deliver it?”

Cecelia barely spared him a glance. “Somberlain Acadamy. Best by yesterday, but I suppose today will do.”

Orrin hummed, turning the envelope over in his hands. It was crisp, unbent, untouched by second thoughts. The ink on the front was precise, the handwriting strict and careful. A name. An address. A no contact inquiry. He let his fingers run over the surface, sensing no hesitation in the letter’s journey—clearly, Lisette hadn’t been the one writing it. Orrin let his eyes linger on the address a little longer.

“Somberlain? One can only wonder what better option there must be available to turn down such a place.”

Lisette, behind her mother’s shoulder, was stiff. Her gaze flickered between the letter and the post box on the counter, the second envelope trembling in her pocket like a restless bird.

“House and hearth, to be exact.”

Lisette opened her mouth, hesitated, then pressed her lips into a thin line.

Orrin leaned forward, resting an elbow on the counter. His voice was easy, calm, but the space between his words left room for something unspoken.

“This everyday-store,” he said lightly, “has an outstanding schedule. Some letters find their way within hours. Others… take longer. Days. Weeks. Sometimes they never arrive at all.”

Cecelia, who had smiled at the first words, frowned. “That’s unacceptable.”

“It depends on the nature of the letter. Some are eager to leave. Others resist.“ He tapped the envelope against his palm, watching Lisette out of the corner of his eye. “There are even cases where a letter is caught between two fates… a peculiar thing.”

Lisette inhaled sharply, but before she could speak, Cecelia eyed him sharply. “Nonsense! A letter is a letter is a letter. Nothing but, nothing much, nothing less, and nothing more.” Cecelia’s expression darkened. “Now, send it.”

Orrin met Cecelia's gaze with a slow blink, his fingers still resting on the envelope. He exhaled through his nose, a soft sound that barely broke the silence, before finally lifting the envelope with delicate care. From underneath his counter, Orrin pulled a small journal. Scribbling in the address, the date, and the name of the sender, he fumbled for his small keychain-watch to add the time he received the letter, too.

Glancing between the two moments, his eyes found Lisette’s. “You’re running out of time, dear. I sell a lot of things, but time isn’t one of them.”

Cecelia—who had not and could not notice the brief exchange—tapped her fingers against the counter. “How much will it be? Four coins? Five? Twenty? I do not care. I want it straight to Somberlain.”

The sharpness of her voice cut through the shop’s stillness, but Orrin didn't flinch. He simply turned his hand, allowing the envelope to rest between his fingers.

There was something almost tragic about the way Cecelia spoke—an unyielding certainty that had long since stifled the ability to see anything beyond her own wants. And yet, in Lisette’s silence—one that was so much like the shop’s silence—, he could sense a flicker of something much more fragile.

Orrin glanced at Lisette, who still stood frozen behind her mother’s tall frame. Her eyes flickered toward the post box, then back to the envelope he held. Cecelia barely noticed the action, too consumed with the notion of control. She rummaged in her purse, hunting for the coins needed to get rid of the matter altogether.

Orrin faced Lisette once more.

“The hearth is not your place. Somberlain sends one offer per bloodline, dear. You’re the peak of your family’s past and future. If Somberlain chose you, then you are what no one of your bloodline ever was or ever will be.”

The shop faltered, almost as if it struggled to exist, to breath, to hold on, but if it was the shop alone or Lisette also, Orrin couldn’t say.

The post box creaked, as if it, too, had become a little more impatient about the matter.

Cecelia tossed him a full hand of coins. It was quite an amount for a mere letter, but barely anything notable in every other way. “Will that be enough? I do not care what it costs.”

The fire in the small stove crackled, the flames rising.

Orrin didn’t immediately respond to the coins, and instead, let them sit untouched on the counter for a moment. Lisette shifted slightly behind her mother, her gaze never leaving the envelope, the post box, and the stillness that seemed to settle between her and her mother. Her fingers curled tightly around the second letter in her pocket. Cecelia, however, kept her sharp eyes focused on Orrin, as though the matter of the letter was the only thing that existed in the world.

The post box creaked again, and the sound seemed to echo louder this time, urgent. However, Orrin was the only one who heard it.

“Since you’re not complaining, I suppose the payment will do. Keep whatever change there is. Thank you for your time. Come now, Lisette. We have to be home.”

Lisette’s eyes flickered between the post box and her mother but a brief moment later, Cecelia had dragged her out the door and down the steps, along the narrow street that twisted out of sight, still as eager to stay out of the way as it had been earlier.

When the door fell shut, the fire in the stove went out.

Orrin sighed, gently picking up the payment before dropping it into a jar on the counter. “The cost isn’t the issue,” Orrin finally whispered into the empty room, his voice soft, but with an edge of something less, or maybe something more. “You’ve already paid for this… for you, for Lisette. One way or another. “

For a long while after, the shop remained silent. The post box let out one last creak before vanishing, the letter still where Orrin had left it. His gaze lingered on the door, on the space where Lisette had hesitated.

He exhaled slowly.

Little Sir Menace shifted on the shelf above the door, his hollow sockets focused on spotting his next foe.

Orrin couldn’t help but smile. “Barely out of moments and minutes, and already up to no good.” As he spoke, he walked around the counter, gently lifting the little knight off the high shelf.

Once Little Sir Menace had safely made it to the ground, Orrin busied himself with shopkeeping.

Soon, between dusting and bookkeeping, the keychain-watch gave a faint chime, announcing that the shop was meant to close.

Glancing at the grandfather clock by the counter, Orrin sighed when he verified that it was indeed six o’clock in the morning.

He let out a low grumble.

Already time…

A small grunt turned his attention to the window.

Little Sir Menace—once again tired of the safe ground—had scaled a chair or two and somehow made it onto the windowsill. Its lance lay discarded on the floor and its little hands were pressed against the window. In the reflection, Orrin saw that its hollow sockets were as wide as they could possibly go.

“Now there, what foe did you spot to make you that excited, mh? A rattling cart? A lose paper?”

But it was none of that.

It was the sky.

One of the prettiest Orrin had seen in a while.

A glow—faint but unmistakable—painted the edges in molten hues. Red, orange, gold; shades of them mixed and mangled; the prettiest kind of mess.

Fragments of color drifted past the glass, lazily exploring the street outside. Behind them, a boy came running, eyes as wide as the hollow sockets of Little Sir Menace.

Little Sir Menace, still pressed against the glass, shifted its weight, tiny fingers clenching and unclenching. Orrin followed its gaze past the drifting sparks, past the molten glow, to the boy skidding to a halt outside where a small cluster of people had gathered, eyes just as wide.

The child’s breath came in sharp gasps, his coat slipping from one shoulder, his hands fluttering, uncertain, like he didn’t know whether to clutch at his chest or his head.

“Back there—” His words tripped over each other, eager to get out. “The whole place—they can’t stop it—started in the hearth and—” He swallowed hard, eyes darting toward the horizon where the smoke curled upward, clawing at the colorful hues and shades. “The lady of the house—she didn’t make it—nor her daughter.” His voice wavered at the last part, the weight of it settling like ash on his tongue. “They’re saying… they’re saying it was like the flames wanted them. Only them.”

The crowd gasped. “That poor young thing.”, one woman whispered, dabbing at her eyes. “Too good for the house and hearth, always said so.”

The small crowd broke out into a fire of its own, one made of whispers and rumors, of intent and lack thereof.

Orrin turned away from the window.

He glanced at the small wooden stove by the counter.

The fire had returned. A few shades darker now, but calmer.

Orrin glanced at Little Sir Menace, still perched by the window. Carefully, he reached out, lifting the tiny knight into his palm. The little clay figure gave no protest, only shifted ever so slightly, leaning into the warmth of Orrin’s fingers. For its usual self, it was unnaturally still, its small fingers curled tightly into Orrin’s sleeve. He ran his thumb over its unfinished form, feeling the rough texture of clay that had never quite set.

“I told her.” Orrin mumbled, his eyes still lingering on the fire in the stove. “I told her the hearth is not her place.”

The flames in the stove flickered, steady now, as if they had never burned too high, never reached too far, never swallowed more than they were meant to.

And yet, the embers in the sky told another story.

Little Sir Menace stirred in his palm, tilting its unfinished face upward.

Orrin sighed. “No use in looking at me like that, little one. I sell a lot of things, but time isn’t one of them. I told her that, too.”

The fire in the small stove cackled and Orrin found himself watching the flames once more, observed the way they quivered and twisted, cackling and crackling over a job well done.

With a flick of his wrist, Orrin snuffed it. It flickered slowly, grew dimmer and more muted, tired even, before its flames curled back into the coal, the embers glowing faintly.

Orrin crouched down, pulling a slightly crumpled envelope from the ashes. It was charred at the edges, but the seal was still intact, untouched by the flames. Slowly, he unfolded the letter, his gaze falling on the words written in hurried ink, the writing smudged in places, as though Lisette had written the note of acceptance between one minute and the next.

Carefully, he folded the letter and put it back into the envelope. Someday, somewhere, someone would come and pick up where Lisette had left off.

Because what is discarded by one, finds its place with another.

That’s just how things worked. That’s why the Four Fourty-Four existed.

As a shelter. As a home. As a means to an end, or just an end.

---

---