quiet little horrors

The past never stays where it belongs

Orrin weaved through the narrow aisles of the cramped shop, brushing past shelves that seemed to lean in, equally curious about the new place the shop would soon settle into. As he reached the counter, he paused to look at his reflection in a nearby mirror, surprised to see the figure smile despite him not having moved a muscle.

He raised a brow.

His reflection held his gaze –as one would expect it to do—, the corners of its mouth curling just slightly, as if enjoying a private joke.

“May I help you somehow?”

Orrin’s voice barely stirred the stillness of the shop. His reflection, however, did not answer. It only watched. He lifted a hand, half-expecting the reflection to disobey again, yet somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to touch the glass.

Suddenly, the whisper of a breeze curled against his skin, freezing him in his tracks.

His reflection had not moved, yet he could feel it—exhaled air, faint and certain, as though someone stood just beyond the mirror’s glass, waiting for him to reach out just enough.

Behind him, a quiet but distinct clink rang out. Orrin knew it was Little Sir Menace, however, the mirror didn’t show him. He lowered his hand.

“Alright,” he muttered, more to himself than anything else. “Let’s not turn this into an incident.”

Again, his reflection did not reply. But for the briefest moment, just before he turned away, he could have sworn the smile widened, curving like a crescent moon, but in all the wrong ways.

Orrin exhaled, shaking off the lingering unease, and turned away from the mirror. For a while, he watched the shop shift and change. Next to him, a new wall took the place of a shelf, the painting of Illo and Beau securely decorating it, the paint still fresh from last night’s work.

He brushed his fingers lightly over the frame.

The shop did not grant things so easily, not without cost. But this… this had been his own doing. A touch of something deeper, something older. The kind of magic one was not meant to use. A drop of wax slid from the painted candle onto the frame, causing Orrin to frown.

That… was not supposed to happen.

However, before he could investiagte, the air around him changed.

On the counter, Little Sir Menace’s clinking noises vanished, as did the entire atmosphere of the shop; all its personality, its moods, its whispers and shadows –all of it fell silent instantly.

He turned his head towards the counter.

A figure stood among the shelves, where no door had opened, where no bell had rung. Cloaked in deep, starless black, its form seemed to waver at the edges, like ink bleeding into water. Its face was obscured beneath a heavy hood, but Orrin did not need to see its face to know what it was.

“Orrin.”

The voice did not echo, did not strain against the quiet. It simply existed the same way the figure did. It stood still as a statue, its robes pooling at its feet like liquid shadow.

Orrin’s fingers twitched against the frame of the painting, and he let out a slow, measured sigh. “They deserved a happy ending.”

The figure did not move, yet the sensation of being watched grew sharper. “A happy moment,” it corrected.

A soft crackling came from the painting. The fire inside it wavered, as if caught in an unseen breeze. For a fraction of a second, the warmth on Illo and Beau’s faces dimmed. Orrin instantly turned around to fully face the figure.

“Leave them alone.”

The figure did not react to the lingering threat, at least not in any way a person would. It did not startle, did not shift its weight, did not even seem to breathe. It simply stood there, watching.

Then, in the space between one blink and the next, it was closer. Not by much—just a step, just enough for Orrin to know it had moved without seeing it happen. The distance between them had thinned, like air pulled too tight, and the scent of something cold and hollow crept into Orrin’s lungs. The figure tilted its head slightly, and though its face was hidden, he could feel the smile beneath the hood.

“They are not alone.” The voice was gentle. Soft, even, like a whisper curling at the edges of a threat. “They have each other, don’t they? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Orrin’s fingers curled into his palms. “That’s not what I meant, and you know that.”

The figure’s hood tipped just slightly. A drop of wax fell again and the fire inside the painting sputtered. Behind him, something shifted in the brushstrokes, something nearly imperceptible—a shadow at the edges of the frame, a shape that had not been there before.

The figure took another step.

This time, Orrin saw it move, though how it moved was another matter entirely. It did not walk. It did not glide. It was simply farther into his space than before. Orrin clenched his jaw.

“If you lay a single finger on them—”

“Oh, Orrin.” One of its sleeves lifted, and a hand—if it could be called that—emerged from the folds of fabric. It was long-fingered and pale, but not like flesh. It was something more like porcelain, smooth and without flaw, as if sculpted from a material too perfect to be real, even for his own kind. The fingers flexed, slow and deliberate, before it lifted its hand just slightly, as though about to brush against his cheek. But it did not touch. It simply lingered.

“You misunderstand.”

He felt another smile. A thin, curling thing, stretching too wide beneath the hood, pressing against the veil as if it might burrow its way through.

“We are not unkind, Orrin.” The voice remained gentle, patient, as if speaking to a child. “We understand pity. We understand longing and regret. We understand why you did this.” A pause. “But understanding does not mean forgiving.”

The words settled like cold metal between Orrin’s ribs. He did not move, but his pulse pounded in his ears. Behind him, the painting crackled again. The edges of the canvas darkened, as if touched by something invisible.

“We will not touch them,” the figure murmured, voice threading into something darker, something more final. “You will.”

At that, Orrin choked on his breath. “No.”

The figure did not argue, did not insist. It only stood, calm and waiting.

“Please. They are happy. They don’t harm anyone. It doesn’t change much either. Maybe one person will not find their person, but they can find someone else. Lots of people do. Humankind is used to miss out on things, let chances pass by, ignore opportunities. Leave them be, please.”

Another drop of wax. Another flicker of firelight. The fire in the painting dimmed further. The warmth in Illo and Beau’s faces drained by the smallest degree.

Orrin’s chest tightened. “I will not touch them. I won’t take this moment from them.”

The figure’s fingers flexed again.

“Very well.” the figure said, its voice both a comfort and a threat.

Something shifted again. Instantly, Orrin’s gaze flickered to the painting behind him. The figures of Illo and Beau were still locked in their embrace, but the edges of their smiles were now frayed.

“No. Please—just let it be. They deserve this.”

The figure remained silent for a heartbeat, then, with a strange, almost tender tilt of its head, it spoke again.

“Why would you care? Grendel did not want to be sucked into the book he stole and sold off, causing it to lose its dearest owner. Pete was a little greedy—like humans are—but did you try to protect him? No. And poor little Lisette… did you do anything to help her? No. She could have become one of our kind, one of our own. Perhaps even more like you; something like me. But you let the fire claim her. So why would you intervene with Illo and Beau? Beau, who carelessly gave up his life over a mere inconvenience and Illo, who failed to see that it was a chance and not a punishment.”

Its words hovered in the air like a thick mist, smothering him. The figure’s hand twitched; just a flicker of movement, really, but it felt like the softest brush against his skin, colder than ice. Orrin’s heart stuttered, and a sick feeling twisted in his stomach. “These were all different. Grendel and Pete had no remorse. Lisette had only a sliver of will an—”

The figure took another slow step forward, its porcelain hand stretching out again, however, not toward him, but toward the painting.

“By pulling time apart, you have pulled them out of it.” The figure’s words were a soft caress, but the way they etched into his chest would most certainly leave a scar on Orrin’s chest. “You’ve trapped them, Orrin.”

The fire in the painting wavered again, the embrace of Illo and Beau draining, as if the very memory of their joy was beginning to fall apart.

“Certainly.” The figure continued. “It’s a happy place to be trapped in… one’s lover’s arms. However, there are rules, Orrin. We can not trap humankind. We can guide them to the water, but they have to drink it themselves. And more often than not, they reach for the glass only when it is empty, or perhaps, because it is empty. A full glass… they do not seem to see that. Always lacking something, never satisfied. Nothing is ever enough.”

Orrin’s pulse quickened, his eyes darting from the painting back to the figure. “Not all of them. There were two recently. Augustine. And a young man. Some are content with what they have. Thankful, even. And Illo and Beau, maybe I… acted too fast. I should have given them space, minded my own business, I hold the deepest regrets for… for this. But I saw it as a gift. Nothing more.”

The figure’s voice softened, coaxing, as though trying to comfort him in a twisted way. “Gifts are freely given, without condition.”

The wax dripped again, heavier this time, and the painting cracked with a sound like shattering glass. The warmth on Illo and Beau’s faces vanished entirely, as did their smiles.

“Please no. I can fix it. Please. Let me fix it.”, Orrin begged. “I can’t undo it. But I’ll… I’ll just—”

“Silence.” The figure’s voice was no longer soft. It cut through the room, sharp and commanding. “Our magic is nothing you can simply arrange as you please. It can’t be adjusted or unwound. You can’t reverse it or flatten it.” the figure droned; its voice filled with dark finality.

Within the painting, the fire crept out of its fireplace, eagerly tearing its way towards Illo and Beau. Orrin, struggling to move, watched in quiet horror as the nook burned away, devouring the happy moment he had granted both of them.

His fingers clenched around the frame. “No,” Orrin whispered, his voice fierce but he couldn’t hide the thin tremor of desperation beneath it. “Not like this.”

His hand shot out, palm facing the painting, and the world seemed to slow. Time, the fire, everything around him—all of it stilled. The flames in the painting halted, frozen mid-scorch, their orange tongues suspended in the air like glass before they crawled back into the fireplace. The warmth returned to Illo and Beau’s faces, and so did their smiles. Lastly, it was the room that settled itself back into place; from the cushioned seats all the way to the snacks and tea on the small table.

Orrin tightened his grip on the frame, panting from exhaustion, his heart racing in his chest. “You will leave them alone.”

The figure did not flinch, it merely tilted its head slightly, a motion that seemed more an observation than a response.

“You have not learned a thing,” it said, its voice like silk, but with an edge of something much darker, “you have no idea how the pieces you move might twist, how the strings you pull might break. You pull at the fabric of what is, and in doing so, you risk tearing the whole thing apart. You are not human, Orrin. You know when to let things go. When to move on. When to look away. Why look back? Why ponder and linger? What heart is prompting you when there is none?”

Orrin turned to face the figure. His hands trembled, but not with fear. Rather than that, it was a fierce determination; the kind a guardian would feel, perhaps. Or someone like Grant. It surprised him, to be honest. Especially because humankind… well, they weren’t his favourite clients. This was a punishment, after all. His sentence during probation.

“I don’t care what the cost is.” The words escaped him before he could stop them. “They deserve this.”

“You have taken what should not have been taken. An eternal moment is not yours to offer, Orrin. What you have done… what you have given away… someone has to pay for it. And if it is not them, then it will be you.”

Its voice was not gentle, but Orrin didn’t care. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath came quicker, sharper, but he did not flinch. Instead, his gaze locked onto the figure. “I’m not afraid of your price. They will have this. They will keep their moment.”

The figure did not respond at first. For a long moment, it simply watched him. And then, finally, it spoke—its voice almost pitying.

“Very well.”

For a fleeting second, Orrin thought it might be over, that he had won. But the figure had not finished.

“As you wish, Orrin. They will remain. But for your defiance... for gifting away an eternal moment...” The figure’s tone shifted, becoming darker, almost... satisfied. “I will collect.”

Orrin's stomach turned as a coldness crept into his bones, a wave of disorienting weakness overtaking him. The figure stepped back into the shadows, and Orrin could feel something tearing at him. Not like a pull or a burn.

It was a gnawing, a loss that built in layers.

The figure’s voice cut through the haze that began to cloud Orrin’s thoughts.

“You have given to them what you should never have. And in return, I will take from you. Two lifetimes will be drained. Twice what you thought you had.”

Orrin gasped as his vision blurred. The world around him tilted, the shop’s walls seeming to pulse with a steady rhythm of his fading power. His breath came in short, shallow gasps. From somewhere, he heard a frantic clink clink clink, the sound of tiny boots thudding and stomping, but no matter how hard Orrin tried to move and look for Little Sir Menace, his body wouldn’t obey.

He staggered, fell to his knees, his hands pressing against the cold floor.

“What… what have you done?” he whispered, his voice barely a rasp as the weight of hunger and thirst—things he hadn’t felt in centuries—crashed down on him all at once. The hunger gnawed at his insides and the thirst strangled his throat, leaving him weak.

“I matched your immortality to the faint semblance of human emotion you showed me. Doesn’t that fit you much better, dear Orrin?”

The amusement in the voice sent shivers down his spine. It was like silk, soft and caring, but between the words, something else lingered. A twisted joy in seeing what was happening to Orrin.

A whisper of clothing ruffled next to him and a cold hand tilted his face a little to the left, giving Orrin no choice but to look up at the hooded figure as it watched him tremble on the floor.

“Isn’t it nice…”, it said sweetly. “To finally have found your place?”

And then, with one last dark chuckle, the figure was gone.

Orrin collapsed, gasping for breath, his vision fading to black as the pain slammed into him with brutal force. He groaned in agony.

His eyes darted around, but the shop remained silent still; inactive, numb, as if it had been put to sleep involuntarily. Little Sir Menace was nowhere to be heard, and all that was around him seemed blurry and foggy. Orrin’s chest heaved with the effort to breathe, but the air felt too thin.

Every inch of his body ached with a hunger so deep, so unfamiliar, that it threatened to swallow him whole. His throat burned, dry and parched, but he could no longer even summon the strength to cry out for water. His fingers twitched, but they were stiff, as if his own body had betrayed him.

His heart stuttered painfully in his chest.

“Please,” Orrin rasped, his voice trembling as the words barely escaped his lips. “Please… let me fix this.”

But there was no answer. No response. Just the maddening silence and the unyielding pain.

Trembling from the pain and the cold, Orrin’s eyes drifted shut, the room spinning around him. For a moment, he felt as though he might slip into unconsciousness, but just as the darkness threatened to claim him entirely, a pair of arms pulled him off the floor.

The sensation was jarring.

His heart thudded painfully in his chest, each beat like a hammer striking his ribs. But the hands that gripped him were firm and warm.

“Orrin?” The voice was low, familiar, with a rough edge to it. “What the hell did you do?”

Orrin’s eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus on the face before him.

Grant.

Grant was taller than Orrin, far bulkier too—muscles built from hundreds of years of heavy labor and endless deliveries. His broad shoulders towered over Orrin and his arms were wrapped around his torso, easily supporting him despite his own weight. Grant’s rugged features were set in a look of concerned frustration, his brow furrowed as he carefully steadied Orrin against him.

But even as Grant’s hands held him steady, Orrin could barely focus.

As Orrin drifted away again, Grant’s eyes flicked quickly to the painting of Illo and Beau, the only thing in the shop with an essence to it; worse of all, Orrin’s essence.

He sighed, knowing fully well that this was not a delivery item from his branch or any other branch of that matter. His gaze softened, but there was an undercurrent of frustration in it. “You should have known better,” he muttered. “Immortality’s not something you just hand out, not to anyone. And certainly not to two people who’ve already been given the time they were meant to have.”

“T—…” Orrin’s voice cracked, his throat burning as the words never made it out. Grant seemed to understand either way, at least in some sense.

He sighed deeply, his hand moving to Orrin’s forehead as he wiped away the sweat that had begun to bead on his skin. “I get it,” he murmured. “I do.“

Grant’s eyes softened as Orrin’s face paled further. Without a word, Grant reached into his pockets, pulling out a small flask.

“Drink,” Grant ordered softly, his hand steadying Orrin’s jaw. “It won’t fix everything, but it’s a start.”

Orrin managed a weak nod, his hands still trembling as they gripped the flask.

Little Sir Menace, standing a little away, finally made his presence known again. The tiny knight approached cautiously, his small feet clicking against the floor as he eyed Grant.

Grant, in return, gave the little thing a smile. “He’ll be alright. I’ll make sure of it. But do not run through the vastness of places like that again, little one. Your place is here. We can’t have you get lost, or worse, devoured.”

Grant eyed Little Sir Menace a little while longer; for the briefest of heartbeats.

Surely, he remembered bringing the little thing here. He remembered picking it up at its former place, too. Carrying it all the way in a small box, wondering where to bring it for the best possible chances, but the way it had shadows stitched and sown all over it… that was not quite right, was it?

His breath hitched slightly as he felt Orrin’s weight shift in his arms. Orrin's body seemed to slump further, his head lolling against Grant’s chest as the liquid took its effect and he caught Orrin before he fully collapsed. The shop around them felt heavier now, the air thick with tension and the odd sensation of something watching—waiting; but not in a patient way, more like, ready to snap. Like a string pulled too tight.

“Damn it, Orrin…” Grant muttered under his breath. “You and this godforsaken thing of a shop.”

Grant shifted his grip, cradling Orrin with more care. He felt the weight of the shop’s strange aura—the resistance that seemed to pulse beneath his feet like a reluctant sigh.

Most certainly, the shop wasn’t going to make this easy for him.

As an immortal, Grant knew all too well how stubborn it could be. But he also knew that when it came to Orrin, the shop’s peculiar heart could be swayed. It wasn’t a simple matter, though. Not for something as personal as this.

His eyes narrowed and, taking a deep breath, the edges of his power stirred.

“Orrin,” Grant murmured softly, his fingers pressing against the fabric of the shop's atmosphere. “I’m getting you upstairs.”

The shop resisted, of course. Its walls quivered, trembled as if sensing the intrusion, but Grant’s magic pushed against it firmly, not allowing it to make a decision on its own. He could feel the familiar, stubborn pulse of its sentience, but he didn’t back down. And soon enough, slowly, the shop’s walls groaned, granting him access to the stairway that led to Orrin’s private apartment above the shop.

Grant made his way toward the stairs, his muscles protesting at the unnatural weight of Orrin’s limp form in his arms. But there was no choice—he needed to get him upstairs and using magic on Orrin and the shop simultaneously was simply something impossible. He was not that powerful.

Behind him, the pat pat pat of little clay boots followed him up the stairs and he couldn’t help but smile. There was something steadfast in the way the little knight moved, as though he’d already decided his place in this unfolding story.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Grant didn’t hesitate. The door to Orrin’s apartment opened with a soft groan, and Grant carefully moved inside. At the far end of the small apartment, Grant spotted a bed in a slightly rounded nook, overlooking a small garden. Now upstairs, his magic fading from the shop, Grant used it to get Orrin to bed.

As he pulled a chair towards the bed, a quiet, unsettling sense crept up; as if the shop was holding its breath by Orrin’s bedside, perhaps even blaming Grant for the state of its keeper.

Would fit the wretched thing… but then again, it was a smart one. It certainly knew that Grant did mean no harm, otherwise he wouldn’t even have gotten close to Orrin in the first place.

Shaking his head at himself, Grant chuckled. “You two need not to worry. He’ll get back to it in no time.”

Little Sir Menace, who had climbed onto the bedside table, rested his lance against a book, his hollow eyes fixed on Orrin’s sleeping form. Grant leaned back in the chair beside the bed, his gaze lingering on Orrin’s face—paler than it should be, but peaceful now.

His lips quirked into something almost fond. “You really don't need a heart to know what matters, do you?” he murmured. “I don’t know if I should pity you for that or applaud you.”

Little Sir Menace shifted slightly, his small hands gripping the edge of the book he had perched upon. Grant sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze drifting to the window. “Must be such an inconvenience to suffer something you gave away… having your heart come back and haunt you… the quietest, little horror…”

Grant shook his head again.

He just couldn’t fathom it.

From all things available, Orrin –the Orrin— had to go and come upon his heart.

Why would anyone even care? Humankind was a greedy, cruel kind. Barely one of them had a heart.

It wasn’t their job to give them one. And it wasn’t Orrin’s job to pity the few who might have shreds of one.

His job was to do what needed to be done. To give what was deserved. To offer what was an option. To take what wasn’t theirs.

Or more like... taking more than being willing to give.

Never giving enough.

Just shred and slivers; scraps, really.

Grant exhaled slowly, watching the steady rise and fall of Orrin’s chest.

After a while, somewhere between the quiet in the apartment and the passing of the night, Grant found himself wondering—if you gave enough, if you held on despite the cost—did that, in the end, make you more than what you started as? Or just…

…less of what you were supposed to be?

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