some doors, once opened, cannot be closed

And some won’t stay shut, no matter how hard you try

At precisely 4:44 AM, a shop appears where no shop should be.

Four Forty-Four is neither rooted nor remembered—it lingers at the frayed edges of forgotten streets, and looms between buildings where no door existed the night before. Its lantern flickers with an uncertain glow, as if unsure whether it should be seen at all.

“Come on now,” Orrin mumbles, gently poking the lamplight. “Light the way properly, will you?”

The lantern sputtered, as if scolding him for the nudge, and then steadied into a soft amber glow. The shop’s narrow doorway behind him creaked open, and the shelves inside—barely visible through the thin veil of mist—shifted ever so slightly, as though stretching in anticipation.

A sudden clink drew his attention. The shelf near the door had just moved, a new row of books sliding into place. Orrin smiled softly. The shop was in a good mood tonight.

“Don't make me regret thinking that,” he muttered, glancing up at the ceiling where one of the lanterns dangled lazily, its string swaying, waiting to wrap around someone, preferably their throat.

Stepping inside, avoiding the outstretched string, Orrin made his way to the counter. The towering grandfather clock had already moved a couple minutes ahead, the bronzed handles joyfully chasing what was left of the night.

For a few moments, Orrin checked the lists from last night. Not because he wanted to keep track of things, that was mostly impossible anyway. But he checked them to keep some semblance of control over things. It was a matter or reassurance to himself that he was the one in charge of the shop.

But he wasn’t. He never was.

The shop itself had a say in everything that happened here. He couldn’t make it stay still. He couldn’t control the way the lanterns swayed on their twisted strings, or the way the half-melted candles occasionally hummed with a forgotten tune.

The shop had its moods—some days warm, others biting. Some days, as it was now, it seemed like a thing wrapped in shadows, waiting for something to happen.

One of the teapots hopped by as it chased the biscuit plate and Orrin grabbed it swiftly, pouring himself a tea. He set the teapot down carefully, ignoring the way it huffed and puffed steam, as if utterly upset at what had just happened.

The steam curled up into the air, twisting into faint shapes—faces, perhaps, or forgotten memories—but it dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. Orrin ignored it, his gaze lingering on the clock, now almost three minutes ahead of the time it had been. He wondered, for the briefest of moments, if it would ever truly catch up, or if, like everything else in the shop, it was merely content in its own time, unbothered by what passed outside.

With a small sigh, he turned back to the counter, lifting the delicate porcelain cup to his lips. The tea did little to soothe the tightness in his chest. The shop was waiting, and he knew better than to think it wasn’t.

As the nooks underneath the shelves began to fill with whispers, Orrin’s fingers tightened around the teacup. A soft click echoed from the back of the store, and up above the closed front door, the small bell chimed lazily.

Someone was here.

The teapot on the counter wobbled again, this time not in annoyance, but in anxious excitement.

“I see.” Orrin sighed.

It would be one of those nights.

Orrin placed the teacup back down with a soft clink, the porcelain making a sound that seemed too loud in the stillness. He stepped around the counter, his shoes quiet against the wooden floorboards, and walked to yet another door, waiting for the inevitable.

When it swung open, Orrin gently reached for it, stopping it just enough for the figure to walk in. He caught a glimpse of them, their silhouette framed by the dim light spilling from the lanterns, before the door wriggled out of his grasp and shut behind the figure with a shudder.

“Welcome,” Orrin said softly, his voice carrying through the quiet. His tone was neutral, measured—he always made it sound like he was in charge. It was easier that way.

“This better not be another set of teapots, Grant. You know that the current set doesn’t get along with any others. I don’t have the space to store them apart from each other.” Orrin joked, though there was a tiredness that had long settled into his bones.

Grant grunted, reached into its long cloak and placed a box on the counter. Not even a box; a parcel, really. “Not teapots, no. Something more... alive this time.”

Orrin didn’t miss the lack of sharpness in Grant’s eyes, a rare glimpse of the softness the man kept hidden. Curiosity piqued, and Orrin stepped closer, peering at the box Grant had placed on the counter, his hands unusually gentle as they set it down.

“What's this?” Orrin asked, his voice low, though a flicker of concern already gnawed at the edge of his thoughts.

Grant didn’t answer right away. His fingers lingered on the edges of the box, hesitant. “It came in... late.“

Orrin tilted his head, but he didn’t press. Grant’s shoulders shifted, unease creeping into his usual gruff posture. He took a step back as Orrin gently opened the box. The contents inside weren’t much at first glance: a jumble of rough cloth, broken string, and crumpled parchment. But at the very center of it all was a small clay figure, not taller than a loaf of bread, with simple armor and a tiny lance clutched in its hand.

The knight’s eyes were barely two dark holes, empty and searching, and its details, its armor, were still unfinished. It was shaking, its tiny legs unable to steady itself. The details—what few there were—had not yet been shaped or smoothed out, as though the sculptor had stopped mid-breath.

Grant was silent, his face unreadable as Orrin gently lifted the knight from the box. The tiny figure's legs wobbled under the weight, but it didn’t seem to mind—or perhaps it couldn’t mind. It was as though it had no sense of where it was going, no understanding of the world it was thrust into.

“Is it... supposed to be like this?” Orrin asked, his voice soft, almost to himself.

Grant didn’t answer right away, his gaze lingering on the little knight, a tightness around his mouth betraying the conflict swirling in his mind.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “No.“

Orrin frowned, turning the knight in his hands. He could feel the pulse of unfinished magic running through its clay limbs, the remnants of an abandoned idea.

The shop was already stirring, as though it recognized the arrival of the lost thing. Its mood shifted, the air thickening, the shadows deepening around them.

“This isn't just some trinket,” Orrin murmured, almost to himself. He glanced up at Grant, whose eyes were softer than usual, not just in their look, but in the way they followed the figure’s trembling form.

“I think.” Orrin continued slowly, his fingers brushing the edges of the knight’s unfinished armor.

“Settle down,” Orrin coaxed softly, reaching out a hand to soothe the little creature. He knew it didn’t understand yet, but in time, it would.

All of a sudden, the lantern closest to him, stretched downward. Its light wavered like a dim pulse, and its strings lengthened, reaching toward the knight with a strange, almost hungry intensity.

“Oh, but absolutely not,” Orrin murmured, his fingers snapping in the air, sending a small pulse of magic toward the lantern. It recoiled, the string jerking back as if shocked. With a huff, the lantern settled back into its place, its light dimming slightly.

Meanwhile, the shelves began to shift again. One particular shelf, which had held a row of maps, now displayed nothing but empty spaces. Another shelf reappeared where there had once been none, bringing with it a stack of forgotten books.

Grant raised a brow, giving Orrin a long, questioning look.

“I’ll deal with that later,” Orrin said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Thank you for bringing the knight. I’m sure it’ll feel better in no time.”

“That’s my job,” Grant said, his voice gruff, but the hint of something softer behind it. “It’s what Grant’s Grand Deliveries does. Deliver.”

Orrin smiled faintly, his fingers still lightly caressing the knight’s unfinished form. The little figure’s body had stilled in his palm, but its eyes—those dark, hollowed sockets—never stopped searching. Orrin knew the feeling well.

He gently set the knight down on the counter, watching the tiny clay legs give a soft, reluctant wobble before finding their shaky footing.

The shelves, restless as ever, shifted again. One shelf near the back of the shop creaked louder than the rest, and from the corner of Orrin’s eye, he saw a painting slip from its place, replaced by a window that hadn’t been there before.

A subtle pressure hung in the air now, something Orrin could feel but couldn’t fully place. A pull, deep from the very heart of the shop.

He looked up at Grant, whose brows were furrowed.

“I suppose it’s time for you to leave.” Orrin said quietly.

His gaze shifted toward the new window, his shoulders subtly stiffening as he caught a silhouette moving behind the glass. The little clay knight remained still, its eyes dark, still searching, its tiny body barely steadying itself.

Grant, who had already taken a step back, adjusted his cloak and gave Orrin a small nod before turning toward his door, ready to leave the shop to its own devices.

Well. And to Orrin.

“Best of luck.” Grant said, and then he and his door were gone.

Orrin turned his attention back to the window. A frame of old, curling wood, with edges that seemed to crumble into nothingness, it was safe to say that it was not one of the usual window’s that appeared here and there. This one was special.

The air grew colder, darker, as the window slowly creaked open, shadows spilling into the room like an uninvited guest. It wasn’t the typical spill of shadow, as if the night had simply come to the shop’s doorstep. No, this was something else. This was deliberate.

Orrin stood up straighter, watching the darkness creep forward. His heart didn’t race—he had long since learned to trust his senses in the shop—but there was a heavy, pulling feeling in the air, like the very weight of the shadows had a form, a presence that was aware of its own movements.

With a soft murmur, Orrin snapped his fingers again, but this time, it wasn’t magic he called upon. It was the shop. His voice was barely a whisper but for now, it didn’t need to be more. “Come now, don’t be rude.”

The shadows paused, hovering just at the threshold of the room. Their edges flickered, pulsed, as if sensing the atmosphere change. And then, with an almost reluctant sigh, they stopped.

Slowly, cautiously, Orrin turned back to the counter, his eyes never leaving the growing darkness. His fingers brushed the knight’s shoulders again, grounding both himself and the little figure in the soft warmth of the shop. He’d seen the shadows do this before—once, in a much darker time.

But this time, they had come to greet the lost thing.

“No wonder you ended up here,” Orrin muttered, watching the knight tremble. He scooped him up again, his eyes still on the new window, his fingers curling around the little knight in an almost protective way.

The knight, now sitting still against Orrin’s chest, almost seemed like it would forget itself any second. Its tiny hands grasped its lance with a sense of determination, though it certainly had no real understanding of what it was doing.

“Little Sir Menace,” Orrin said softly, the name slipping out before he could stop it. The knight didn’t react, but somehow, the name seemed to settle over it like a blanket.

Orrin smirked, finally letting the warmth of his affection for the creature show through.

The shop seemed to settle too, the lanterns swinging lazily as if in agreement, the shelves finally at ease, and the teapot’ steam fading, leaving the counter looking oddly bare.

The knight and its darkness were quite the muddle, but perhaps that was exactly what the shop needed—a little bit of a mess.

---

---