cracks in the quiet

– She carried the kind of silence you only earn by surviving it.

The shop had settled in a place that did not want it; where the wind carried the scent of metal and dust, of things long left to wither. Beyond the window, the world was colorless—gray streets, gray walls, gray air thick with the remnants of yesterday’s rain...

The train station loomed close, its fluorescent lights flickering half-heartedly against the early morning dark. Orrin could read the arrival board from his spot by the window, the letters glowing weakly against the gloom: INCOMING TRAIN – SCHEDULED 4:15 AM – DELAYED.

The streets stretched empty in every direction, save for the forgotten bicycles locked to rusting poles, the peeling posters plastered against damp walls. A single vending machine hummed in protest, its flickering screen offering lukewarm drinks to no one at all.

The last bus had left at 4:45. He’d watched it rumble down the cracked street, its red taillights swallowed by the mist that clung low to the ground. The next bus wouldn’t come until six.

Orrin turned away from the window.

A soft thunk met his ears, followed by a tiny, determined clink-clink-clink.

Little Sir Menace was on the counter again.

The unfinished knight had taken to claiming the highest ground whenever possible, despite—or perhaps because of—his complete lack of balance. His stubby legs wobbled as he lifted his lance in a valiant attempt to duel the teapot.

The teapot, unbothered, let out a puff of steam.

“None of that,” Orrin sighed, plucking the tiny knight by the back of his armor before he could launch himself at his newfound foe.

Little Sir Menace kicked wildly in protest, but his legs were too short for it to have much effect.

Orrin carried him to a low table and set him down gently, keeping a wary eye as the little knight immediately began assessing his surroundings for another battlefield. The shop had its moods, and tonight, it felt stretched thin, as if reluctant to be here at all. The lanterns swayed slightly on their strings and somewhere in the shop, a door that hadn’t been there before shifted in its frame.

A low, distant rumble crawled through the walls, making the stained glass panes shiver in their frames. Orrin barely had time to glance toward the window before the vibrations reached the shelves.

A porcelain teacup rattled its way to the edge, tipped, and would have met an unfortunate end had the shop not caught it mid-fall. Instead, it simply wasn’t there anymore, reappearing neatly on the far shelf as if it had never moved at all. Less fortunate were the smaller, more fragile things—the delicate clock hands that scattered from an open box, the loose paper scraps that took flight like startled birds before drifting to the floor. Somewhere behind the counter, a single book tumbled spine-first onto the wooden boards with a soft thud.

Orrin pressed his palm to the counter, a steadying gesture more than anything. “I know,” he murmured to the shop, as if it had voiced a complaint.

He turned back to the window, observing the train station where the delayed train had finally arrived; metal gleaming dully beneath the harsh station lights, its doors hissing open to reveal no more than a handful of passengers. Most moved with sluggish inevitability, already knowing where they were going.

But one figure stood out.

A single person broke into a hurried pace, stepping off the platform and cutting straight toward the bus station.

Orrin watched them, his gaze tracking their steps the way one might follow a falling leaf—curious, but not expectant. The figure moved with purpose; shoulders drawn tight against the cold. But then they stopped.

Even from here, Orrin could see the slight sag in their posture, the tilt of the head as they looked up at the empty road, at the bus stop sign that promised a wait far longer than they’d expected.

He exhaled slowly. If they were desperate enough, if their gaze wandered the right way, if urgency pressed against them just so… perhaps they would see the shop. But that was not his decision. Neither was it one the shop could make.

Orrin’s fingers tapped absently against the counter. Across from him, Little Sir Menace had given up on battle and was instead prodding a fallen scrap of paper with his lance.

Outside, the figure lingered beneath the weak glow of a streetlamp, shoulders curled inward against the cold. The station lights cast long, pale streaks across the pavement, but beyond them, the town lay in restless darkness—cracked roads, shuttered windows, and buildings that slumped against one another like tired old men.

A fine mist began to creep in, soft at first, then thickening as the air grew colder. Orrin watched as the figure glanced up, blinking at the sudden drizzle, pulling their coat tighter around themselves. The pavement darkened where the raindrops struck. Soon, it would be more than just mist.

Something clinked against the counter.

Orrin turned just in time to catch Little Sir Menace dragging a fallen clock hand across the wood, his tiny lance abandoned in favour of this new, more interesting weapon. He lifted it with both hands, tilting it toward Orrin as if expecting approval.

Orrin gave a small smile. “Temporarily useful, perhaps, but I assume your lance is still a better fit.”

The knight hesitated. Then, with great deliberation, he stabbed the counter with his new prize. The metal piece barely made a sound against the wood.

Orrin arched a brow.

Little Sir Menace looked at the clock hand, looked at Orrin, and then hurled the offending item onto the floor with all the dramatic flair of a small knight with big attitude.

Before Orrin could intervene, the windchime above the door let out a single, delicate note. A breath of air stirred through the shop, cool and damp with the scent of rain. Swiftly, Orrin reached for the little knight, cradling him against his chest. Glancing down at the hollow sockets, Orrin lifted a finger to his lips, winking at the little thing who was still so very unused to the nightly business hour.

As Orrin and the little knight blended into the shadows of the nooks and crannies within the Four Fourty-Four, the doorbell chimed again, not just with sound, but with weight, a whisper of recognition threading through its hollow notes.

The shop exhaled, the lanterns tilting ever so slightly, as if leaning in, as if eager to meet their new friend. The door opened, drawing in a cold breeze, some leaves, and a young woman named Augustine.

Orrin watched from the shadows; his fingers still curled protectively around Little Sir Menace. Augustine stood inside the doorway, her shoulders hunched against the cold, her eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. She looked like someone who had been running for a long time, though not necessarily on foot. The shop seemed to hold its breath, the lanterns casting a soft, golden glow that made her look almost faded.

“Well, well,” Orrin murmured under his breath, his voice never reaching Augustine. “What a lovely surprise to find her here. But in a place like this? From all the places you could have been in... oh, dear.”

Little Sir Menace squirmed in his grasp, as if eager to greet the newcomer, but Orrin tightened his hold. “Not yet,” he chided softly.

Augustine stepped further into the shop, her boots clicking softly against the wooden floor. The air was warm and thick with the scent of old books, dried herbs, and something sweet she couldn’t quite place.

Her eyes swept the room, taking in the cluttered shelves, the lanterns, the corners which offered even more tables and shelves to explore.

Odd, she thought as she stepped further into the room. She’d been at this station daily; getting off the train, into the bus, out of the bus, home… but this little shop? That hadn’t been here yesterday, had it?

“Hello?”, she called, her voice as small as Orrin expected. The bell had been quite docile, after all; withered, even, considering what it usually sounded like; all vibrant and bright, making sure that even the thickest presence in the room would hear it.

A teacup rattled on a nearby shelf, and Augustine —the poor thing— flinched so hard that one of the nearby books thudded to the ground; caught up in equal shock as Augustine.

“Hello?” she called out again as she put the book back on the shelf, her voice barely above a whisper. The shop didn’t answer, but the lanterns seemed to tilt toward her, their light growing warmer, more inviting, finally anchoring her in place.

Orrin watched as Augustine hesitantly approached a shelf filled with trinkets and oddities. Her fingers hovered over a music box; its surface etched with swirling patterns that seemed to shift in the light. He could see the moment she noticed it—the way her breath caught, the way her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.

“Go on,” he murmured, though she couldn’t hear him. “Take a closer look.”

As if in response to his unspoken words, the music box began to play a faint, haunting melody; one that was too much for such a young thing, too worn, full of missing tones. Augustine’s hand jerked back, but she didn’t step away. Instead, she leaned in, her curiosity overcoming her fear.

Augustine’s gaze drifted to a small, overstuffed pillow perched on a nearby chair. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen—its fabric shimmered faintly, almost as if it was shifting colors as she watched, and its tassels wiggled as if impatiently waiting. Courtesy of the breeze she had brought in with her when she had entered; surely. Hesistantly, she reached out and picked it up.

The moment her fingers touched the fabric, a wave of calm washed over her. The pillow hummed softly, its tassels curling around her wrist like snakes.

“Well, hello,” it muttered, its voice a faint, melodic hum. “Took you long enough.”

Augustine nearly dropped it in surprise but for some reason, her hands didn’t quite obey. The pillow’s embroidered face formed a sly smile, the eyes rolling as if annoyed. “Good grief, Augustine, already letting me down, are you? Rude.”

Augustine quickly adjusted her grasp on it, her cheeks flushing.

“Oh god. I fell asleep on the train.”, she whispered, her voice trembling. “And now I’m having a nightmare.”

Claude’s glow flickered violently, his fabric shifting to a deep, indignant red. “A nightmare?!” he exclaimed, his voice rising several octaves. “Excuse me, but I am not a nightmare. I am a luxury. A marvel. A masterpiece of comfort. And here you are, calling me a nightmare? The audacity!”

Augustine blinked, taken aback by the pillow’s outburst. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, you meant it,” Claude interrupted, his tassels flailing dramatically. “I can feel your scepticism radiating off you like your cheap perfume. But let me tell you something, Steeny. If this were a nightmare, you’d be running from your inability to put some heart into things, or the avoidance of your own boundaries and your ignored responsibilty to communicate them. Instead, you’re here, holding me, the pinnacle of pillow perfection, but call it a nightmare. You know what a nightmare is? Your constant people pleasing because even at your formidable age, you have not learned to say ‘no’ yet. So, no, I am not a nightmare. I am a privilege.”

Augustine stared at him, her mouth slightly open. “You’re… really upset about this, aren’t you?”

“Upset? Upset?!” Claude’s glow pulsed brighter, his fabric shifting to a fiery orange. “I am appalled. I am offended. I am deeply wounded by your lack of appreciation. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to pick me up? What took you so long? Where was the issue? You had one job! It’s always cheap diner waffles and convenience store sandwiches, always your J’s or your T’s. I lowered myself to the worst places. Where were you? Do you know how many times you have walked right past me, oblivious to my magnificence? Are you blind? What stopped you? And now, finally, finally, you manage to get to the right place —oh the place! Why here? Why in this street full of withered what if’s and could have’s—, and, and what do I get? ‘Oh no, I’m having a nightmare.’ Unbelievable.”

Augustine couldn’t help it—she laughed. It was a small, startled sound, but it broke through the tension like sunlight through clouds. Claude’s glow dimmed slightly, his fabric softening to a warm, golden hue.

“Oh, so now you’re laughing?” he said, his tone still indignant but with a hint of amusement. “Is this funny to you? Is my existential crisis a source of entertainment?”

“I’m sorry,” Augustine said, still chuckling. “It’s just… you’re very dramatic. “

Claude’s embroidered face shifted into an expression of mock offense. “Dramatic? Dramatic? I’ll have you know that drama is an essential part of my charm. Without it, I’d just be a boring old cushion; one of those ridiculous Swedish-named ones. All dull, overpriced, and no good. And where’s the fun in that?”

Augustine smiled, her initial fear fading. “Okay, okay.“

Her thumb gently stroked the corners, trying to feel the material but she remained oddly uncertain about it. It wasn’t cotton or satin, not polyester or flannel.

“If I’m not having a nightmare, then what is this? I did fall asleep, right? Will I miss my stop? That would make everything so much more complicated…”

From the shadows, Orrin watched the exchange with a faint smile. Little Sir Menace squirmed in his grasp, clearly eager to join the conversation, but Orrin held him back with a gentle hand.

“Not yet,” he repeated, his voice still not reaching Augustine.

The shop seemed to agree, the lanterns tilting ever so slightly toward her, their light growing warmer, as if trying to share theirs with her for that’s what the poor thing lacked most.

Orrin leaned against the wall, his eyes never leaving the young woman. She was handling this better than most, though the faint tremor in her hands betrayed her nerves.

Claude’s glow flickered, his fabric shifting to a softer, more contemplative blue. “Oh, Steeny,” he said, his tone suddenly gentle. “You’re not on the train anymore. You’re in Four Forty-Four. And trust me, missing your stop is the least of your worries now.”

Augustine frowned, her fingers tightening around him. “Four Forty-Four? What’s that? Some kind of… dream world? Wait, ‘now’? What’s that supposed to mean?!”

Claude’s tassels twitched, and his embroidered face formed a sly smile. “You’re just… lucky.”

“Lucky?” Augustine repeated, her voice tinged with fragile panic. “Am I dead?!”

“Not dead, my god. And you call me dramatic? I said lucky,” Claude confirmed, his glow brightening. “You’ve found me, haven’t you? That’s luckier than winning the lottery. Or finding a parking spot right in front of the coffee shop. Or—”

“Okay, I get it,” Augustine interrupted, though a small smile tugged at her lips. “You’re a big deal.”

“The biggest,” Claude said, his tassels curling proudly. “But enough about me. Let’s talk about you. You look a lot less than what I expected you to look like. No fire, no storms, no chaos, no mischief, not the slightest bit of drama in your blood —or iron—, nothing.“

Augustine’s smile faltered, and she looked away.

Claude’s embroidered face shifted into a mischievous grin. “Got you. I’m that good, aren’t I?”

She laughed, a small, startled sound that seemed to surprise even herself.

Claude’s tassels twitched, as if he were considering his words carefully. “You know, I bring a lot of that. I can share it with you. Except for the iron part, I think you should visit a doctor for that one.”

From the shadows, Orrin watched silently, his expression unreadable. Little Sir Menace had stopped squirming, his hollow sockets fixed on Augustine with something akin to curiosity. The shop seemed to hold its breath; the air thick with anticipation.

Orrin straightened. It was about time.

“He’s right, you know,” he said, his voice calm but carrying a weight that made Augustine startle. “Claude here brings a lot of everything. It’s why most people return him. He’s quite the handful.”

Claude’s glow brightened, his tassels curling protectively around Augustine’s wrist. “Oh, wow. Orrin. Now you do your job. How nice of you.”

Orrin ignored the jab, his gaze fixed on Augustine. “Welcome to Four Fourty-Four. It’s nice to finally meet you, Augustine.”

Augustine looked between them, her brow furrowing, ready to question him but Orrin waved her off, his lips curving into a faint smile. “I know, I know. I hear that every night. I’m saying that sometimes, the things we need find us before we understand that we are looking for them.”

Augustine stared at him, her grip tightening on Claude although all she wanted to do was drop it and bolt. “And what exactly do I need?”

Orrin’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes seemed to darken, just for a moment. “Claude, apparently. “

Claude’s embroidered face shifted into a smug expression. “Damn right she does. And let me tell you, it wasn’t an easy thing to process. I’ve got standards, you know.”

Augustine glanced down at him, her confusion giving way to exasperation. “You’re a pillow.”

“What is wrong with you, lady,” Claude hissed, his tassels twitching indignantly. “How dare you.”

Augustine shook her head, her voice rising slightly. “But I don’t even know what this place is! Or why I’m here. Or why—” She broke off, her breath catching as the lanterns around her flickered.

“W-What is that? What’s happening?”

Claude’s glow softened, his fabric shifting to a calming blue. “Hey, hey, easy there. No need to get all worked up. Orrin’s the one still on probation, not you.”

Orrin raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Augustine took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “Probation? Am I in hell?!”

“You certainly lived there for some years, did you not,” Orrin said, his voice quiet but firm. “But you know, it might not make any sense. Not yet, I suppose. Sometimes, the most important things don’t make sense until later.”

Claude’s tassels curled around her wrist again, his hum deepening into a soothing vibration. “No wonder your skin looks like it’ll fray at the edges any moment. If you’re getting worked up about some struggling little lights… You’re quite the mess.”

Augustine looked down at him, her expression softening. “You’re really bossy.“

Claude’s embroidered face formed a grin. “The bossiest.”

Little Sir Menace let out a faint clatter, as if in agreement. Orrin glanced at him, then back at Augustine, his smile returning. “You’ll be in the best hands – well, tassels.”

Augustine hesitated, her gaze drifting to the lanterns, the shelves, the strange, humming objects that seemed to watch her with quiet curiosity. “And what happens now?”

Orrin merely grinned, bowing slightly as if to bid his goodbyes. He glanced at Claude, whose smug grin widened proudly, and then looked at Augustine one more time.

“He’s all yours. Please don’t return him. The embroidered paintings loathe him.”, he said with a smile, ignoring Augustine’s momentarily frightened expression. He turned to Claude. “How unusual for you; you never pick the ones that require you to actually work. I suppose, there’s still surprises for me to experience, even at my age.”

Claude huffed, its body puffing up, tassels swinging. If they were long enough to reach Orrin, it might have been a sufficient threat.

The shop fell silent, the only sound the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Its hands, which had been frozen at 4:44 for what felt like an eternity, suddenly lurched forward, the gears groaning as they shifted. The clock struck six, its chime echoing through the shop.

Orrin stood in the center of the room, his coat shifting to a deep, shadowy tint. Little Sir Menace clattered in his hands, the tiny knight’s hollow sockets fixed on the spot where Augustine had stood just moments before.

His tiny arms pointed outside, where the bus rumbled up the cracked street, its red taillights swallowed by the mist that clung low to the ground. Orrin cradled the little knight closer against his chest, his fingers brushing gently over the knight’s tarnished armor.

“One day, we will find yours, too,” he murmured, his voice soft but steady. “I promise.”

Little Sir Menace tilted his head, his hollow sockets seeming to search Orrin’s face. For a moment, the tiny knight was still, as if considering the words. Then he clattered softly, his tiny arms reaching up as if to grasp something just out of reach.

Orrin smiled faintly, his thumb tracing the edge of the knight’s shield. “I know it’s hard to wait. But the right person will come. Someone who sees you for what you are—not just a thing, but a companion.”

The shop seemed to agree. The lanterns tilted toward him, their light flickering faintly, as if in acknowledgment. The air grew warmer, the scent of old wood and dried herbs thickening, and for a moment, Orrin could have sworn he heard the faintest whisper, like the shop itself was speaking.

“You gave her more time,” he said, his tone softening. “More than she was supposed to have. That was kind of you.”

The shop didn’t respond, but the lanterns glowed a little brighter, their light spilling across the cluttered shelves and the strange, humming objects that seemed to watch him with quiet curiosity. Orrin sighed, his gaze drifting to the grandfather clock, its hands now frozen at 6:00 AM.

Augustine stood at the bus stop for a moment, her silhouette blurred by the mist, the small, overstuffed pillow clutched tightly to her chest. Claude’s glow was faint but steady, his tassels curling protectively around her wrist as if to reassure her.

She boarded the bus with hesitant steps, her movements slow and deliberate, as if she were still half-convinced this was all a dream. The driver didn’t look up as she passed, his face obscured by the brim of his cap, and the other passengers—what few there were—seemed to pay her no mind. Augustine settled into a seat in the back, near the window, her reflection ghostly in the fogged glass.

For a moment, she stared out at the empty street, her expression unreadable. Then she looked down at Claude, her fingers tracing the edge of his fabric. His glow brightened slightly, his hum deepening into a soothing vibration that seemed to fill the space around her; almost like an invisible, protective bubble.

Orrin watched from the shadows of the shop’s doorway as the bus lurched forward, its tires crunching over the cracked pavement, and Augustine’s reflection faded into the mist as the vehicle disappeared down the street.

Orrin watched until the taillights were nothing more than a faint red smudge in the distance, his expression unreadable.

Behind him, the shop exhaled softly, the lanterns flickering as if in farewell. Orrin turned, his coat shifting back to its usual color, and stepped inside.

The door closed with a soft click, the sound swallowed by the mist.

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