Seven Eyes and a Smile
And Everything Within Reach
welcome to chapter 27 of the 4:44 series ‘Quiet Little Journeys’. There’ll be 44 chapters in total. To navigate to chapter 1, click here. At the end of this chapter, you can directly navigate to the previous or the next chapter.
Up in the attic, the floor was gone.
In its place stretched something that looked like fog and glass at the same time, but wasn’t.
Orrin, seated in his usual chair, sipped his tea. On his lap, Little Sir Menace slept curled into the crook of his coat, clay fingers still faintly gripping a ribbon of scrap cloth. A painting near the fireplace hissed, but Orrin silenced it with a snap of his fingers, eyes trained on the ground, watching Fenner’s every move.
He leaned back, one arm draped over the armrest, eyes calm but sharp. Below, Fenner shuffled down the street.
Awkward. Curious. And entirely oblivious.
Just as he should be.
The surface of the floor rippled once, and Orrin exhaled as the image tilted, now showing Grant, halfway into the lie why he needed to go now.
Orrin smiled at that.
Stay gone. Leave the boy alone, he thought, fidgeting with his paint brush. Another painting acted up and with a snap, Orrin silenced this one, too.
“Dear me. If you all get any more difficult, I’ll wipe away your mouths.”
Orrin twirled the brush between his fingers. The bristles glimmered faintly, dipped in no paint but still wet with intention. He glanced down again, to the fog-glass floor, where Fenner now stepped over the threshold of the crooked shop.
The bell above the door rang too slowly, the sound warped like stretched wax.
“They better leave the boy be. Giving him that awful sound… I suppose I’ll have to pay them a visit very soon.”
A small snore escaped Little Sir Menace. The knight shifted slightly in his sleep, the fabric scrap tangled around his fingers slowly sliding downward. Orrin brushed it back in place, careful not to wake his little one.
From a corner canvas, a voice sneered. “Everyone will feel who he belongs to. Of course they will show hostility.”
Orrin didn’t bother to turn his head to the noise, he merely snapped his fingers again, eyes locked on the scenery below. When the cat shifted, finding a new spot to sit in, the world reoriented around its gaze, tilted slightly upward now, at an impossible angle, giving way to more details about the shop Fenner had entered.
Shelves spiraled instead of standing. Lanterns dangled from strings that were clearly cut, but refused to fall. A counter stretched the length of the shop, narrow and bowed, and the shopkeeper—tall and thin—had a neck so twisted it looked like someone had gently wrung out their spine and left it to settle wrong. His smile was too small for his face, and his hands had far too many knuckles.
From above, Orrin’s eye twitched. He better not dare.
“Uhm… hello. Sorry to…uhm…intrude. I am running errands and wondered…wondered if you have what I’m looking for. Please?”
It was awfully clear that Fenner was not comfortable.
Orrin sighed. “He has to learn…” he mumbled to himself, glancing down at Little Sir Menace. Below, the shopkeeper hesitated, even ignored the poor boy and Orrin felt his spine straighten. When a few moments had passed and Fenner began to awkwardly shift from left foot to the right foot, Orrin shook his head.
“Handle it.” He whispered, and instantly, the image in the fog changed again. He watched the sight settled within the fog, showing just how the cat strolled into view, only to sit right behind Fenner, all seven eyes red now, glaring at the shopkeeper.
The change was immediate.
The shopkeeper’s body didn’t flinch—not visibly. But something deeper inside him coiled. As if the bones beneath his skin had suddenly remembered how breakable they were.
“My apologies,” the shopkeeper croaked at last, voice crackling like dry leaves. He bowed his head, and the twist in his neck popped. “I’m afraid I needed a bit to adjust to your language. It’s been a while since a human has entered my shop.”
Fenner blinked. “Oh. Uh. No worries. I’m sorry. I don’t think I speak your language.”
The shopkeeper’s breath hitched. “May I know what the young Sir is looking for?” He turned sharply, motioning to the back of the shop where the shelves twitched in utter fear. “I’m sure I will have whatever you may need.”
The cat, still sitting behind Fenner, all seven eyes fixed on the shopkeeper, sorted itself out—back to where it had perched itself before—and of course, unnoticed to Fenner.
The shopkeeper’s hands twitched. Just slightly. As if resisting the urge to wring themselves into a different shape as he waited. The moment the cat turned away, the man’s spine seemed to reassemble itself with a slow series of quiet cracks. Fenner, still entirely unaware of the silent tension, unfolded the list from his coat pocket.
“Uh… right. I need some… rain that didn’t scream while falling. Cloud bark. Ashes of a bad thought. And, uh…” He squinted. “Glass soup?”
The shopkeeper didn’t ask questions. He bowed again—lower this time, almost reverently—and gestured to the shelves behind him. “Of course. All attainable. Give me just a moment, young Sir.”
While the shopkeeper rummaged in the shelves, Fenner looked around, taking in the rest of the store. It looked quite different to the Four-Fourty-Four—it felt smaller, albeit stretched a little too much. Like the space had been pulled thin in places and bunched up in others.
Fenner’s gaze followed a shelf that bent upward into the ceiling without warning. At the top sat a single jar.
“Is this one… crying?” Fenner asked, eyes still on the jar underneath the ceiling.
“Only habitually,” the shopkeeper said quickly. “No actual noise. Very well-mannered.”
A small plant in a teacup sneezed.
“Bless you,” Fenner murmured instinctively.
The plant shivered and grew a single new leaf. Orrin, watching through the cat’s sharpened eyes, sipped his tea and tilted his head. “Isn’t he adorable. So very polite.”
The paintings didn’t dare speak.
The shopkeeper returned then, arms full of small, cloth-wrapped packages. He set them on the counter.
Fenner stepped closer. “And… that’s the things I am looking for? That’s the things Orrin needs for Little Sir Menace? They don’t look special at all.”
The shopkeeper’s eyes darting briefly to the cat, then the ceiling—as if even mentioning the name might have the roof come down immediately.
“It’s certainly what he was looking for. I assure you.” the shopkeeper said, very, very softly. “Whatever piece he’s planning to create, it will be just lovely. Marvelous, even.”
“I like art,” Fenner replied cheerfully, completely missing the tension in the other man’s voice. And from his chair in the attic, Orrin chuckled. “Oh, my dear boy. You are art.”
The shopkeeper carefully settled each package in a bag, securing them tightly inside. Fenner, in the meantime, fumbled with his pockets. “I’m sorry. Give me a moment, I was sure I packed the coin bag.”
“Coin bag?”
Fenner nodded. “Yes. For payment.”
The shopkeeper stiffened. “Oh no. Don’t worry. It was an… …. …. honor,” he said. “To serve him.”
“Who?” Fenner asked, cocking his head.
The shopkeeper’s mouth opened. But no sound came. Instead, his eyes widened briefly. Pain flickered behind them.
In the attic, Orrin traced a small spiral into the air with his brush—almost playfully, like a doodling child. Little Sir Menace snuffled in his lap, rolling slightly with a soft clink.
“You may keep your tongue,” Orrin said softly, knowing the shopkeeper would hear. “But it would be wise to stop dancing on the edge, don’t you think?”
The floor beneath the shopkeeper’s feet cracked but did not break. Fenner, seemingly feeling a little uncomfortable again, reached for the bag with the needed items inside.
“Uhm… thank you? Are you sure I can just go? I really don’t need to pay?”
The shopkeeper merely nodded. Fenner gave him a sheepish smile. “Thanks. You’re really nice, you know? Little intense. But nice.”
He turned and left. The moment the door shut behind him, the cat slipped after him.
And the shopkeeper?
He collapsed behind the counter, breath gone, hands shaking, throat full with a scream that never came.
In the attic, Orrin leaned back in his chair, watching over Fenner’s way around town. How the people crossing his path straightened, bowed, and greeted politely—much to the boys confusion. But adorably so.
Somewhere in the distance, a clocktower chimed thirteen. Rude.
“Well,” Fenner mumbled, adjusting the bag over his shoulder, “that wasn’t horrifying at all.”
As if summoned by the sarcasm, the cat from earlier appeared beside right in front of him. One moment there was nothing, and the next, there it was. All seven eyes blinked in sequence, and then again out of sync, like a riddle no one wanted to solve.
Fenner sighed and crouched down. “You know. I don’t know your problem with me, but I’m actually really good with animals.”
The cat tilted its head, rubbing its head against Fenner’s outstretched hand. When Fenner got back up, it walked a tight little circle around his legs and brushed its flank against his shin. One of its eyes—the top left—blinked slower than the others, almost fondly.
Fenner blinked back, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t think I get to keep you, buddy. Sorry…”
Either the cat didn’t understand or it didn’t care, because when he continued his way, the little thing followed suit, keeping pace.
Fenner sighed again. “Did I say ‘yes’ without knowing that I did? Like Grant said? I sure hope not. I don’t think you’ll like the shop I work at. It’s never in the same place, you know. And I don’t think I’ve seen any mice there. Or birds.”
Still, it kept following him.
“You know. I’m almost sure that you’re someone’s cat. First of all, you’ve got seven eyes. Your fur doesn’t seem dirty. And you look extremely expensive.”
Up in the attic, Orrin smirked. “Of course it does.” He chuckled to himself. “It’s exquisite art. Hand painted.”
But of course, the boy would never know.
Down in the street, through the fog-glass, Orrin watched as the cat flicked its tail in what might have been agreement. Fenner and the cat passed a barber’s pole that whispered insults as they walked by, but when it sensed Orrin’s magic with Fenner, it switched to compliments immediately.
“Nice boots. Love the hair. What a pretty jacket.”
Fenner stammered a confused thank you and hurried down the street a little more, eager to get away from the barber’s pole. The street dipped slightly ahead, like the town itself had sighed. He followed the curve as lanterns blinked open in the growing twilight, some casting shadows that didn’t match the people walking past.
One shadow yawned with the wrong number of teeth.
“I wonder how I’ll get back… Orrin didn’t tell me.”
A cluster of children playing hopscotch suddenly froze as he passed. One girl, pale and wide-eyed, dropped her chalk. Another gave a small bow. Fenner turned in place, but the children had already disappeared.
“Okay, what is going on with this town?”
Behind him, the cat sat and calmly began grooming one of its paws.
“Is this like a magic town thing? Do people always act weird? Or is it because I’m not magic? Are they trying not to scare me? They do scare me with that.”
The cat paused mid-lick, one of its seven eyes blinking slowly in apparent sympathy. Or boredom. Maybe both.
Fenner frowned. “You could at least meow.”
The cat did not.
Instead, it rose again and trotted forward, across the cobblestones that no longer muttered politics. A pair of streetlamps swayed overhead. One bowed low enough that its light pooled across Fenner’s shoulders like a shawl. He ducked instinctively, mumbling a ‘sorry, so sorry’ before quickening his pace.
They passed a bakery that sold nothing. The sign out front read ‘My Bad’.
Up in the attic, Orrin reclined slightly, one leg crossing over the other. His eyes glittered in the half-light.
“I’d have hated for Fenner to try these awful pastries. Good thing they are so careful.”
The paintings still didn’t speak, but some exchanged terrified glances. The fog-glass adjusted again, subtly rotating as the cat paused atop a crumbling stone post, eyes watching. Fenner stood just beneath it now, scanning the way ahead.
The street in front of him twisted slightly. Not in the way roads normally curve, but like someone had leaned on a drawing and smudged it sideways. It folded around an alley that hadn’t been there two seconds ago and beyond it, where the view widened, the familiar, warped angles of his shop—the Four Fourty-Four—were just a few turns away now.
Fenner, of course, saw none of this. His attention was drawn to a fountain shaped like an enormous hourglass, whose contents dripped up instead of down. Around it, a bunch of older people circled back and forth, whispering under their breath. When they saw Fenner, they stopped, dipped their heads, and hurried away.
Fenner watched until the last one was out of view. “I guess they really don’t like humans much, do they?” he muttered to no one in particular. Things began to feel a little lonely, if he was going to be honest with himself.
The cat, still perched on the crumbling stone post, tilted its head—as if it had heard the thought rather than the words. Then it dropped down without a sound, brushing lightly past Fenner’s legs.
Fenner offered it a loopsided smile. “At least you’re still here.”
The cat didn’t respond, but it stayed close.
And Orrin? Orrin stared at the fading fog, tea cup empty, and head full. He’d make him keep the cat. To feel less lonely.
He vanished his brush—the one he had kept out to undo the cat once Fenner returned—but now he couldn’t do so anymore. With a snap of his fingers, he got rid of his other tools scattered across the table, cradled Little Sir Menace—who was still asleep—against his chest, and after one last glance at the stabilizing floor, Orrin gave a sheepish smile.
“Come on home, silly boy.”
In the meantime, Fenner passed a window with curtains made entirely of teeth. They clattered when he walked by, making him frown and quickening his pace again. It was getting darker now, and he just really didn’t know where he was going.
What if the shop would move on without him? Would he be stranded here? Would Orrin come look for him? Technically… he had to, right? After all, he was carrying the things Orrin needed for Little Sir Menace.
Maybe he should go back to where he landed. Fenner stopped at the thought, checking the path behind him. It seemed a little darker, but otherwise normal.
Doable.
Looking around, he spotted a street sign that read ‘Don’t’. It rotated slowly, jumping into his view when he looked around, creeping closer the longer Fenner ignored it.
At one point, it was right in front of him, almost touching his nose.
Fenner’s eyebrow twitched. “I get it! Gods!” he hissed, walked around it, and stomped down the path, continuing on ahead rather than going back. The cat trailed at his heel. One of its eyes swiveled independently to watch the sign until it shrank behind them.
The street narrowed now, not in a natural way but like a throat tightening. The buildings leaned in, windows shut, shutters clamped, doors sealed. A lamppost flickered overhead, sputtered once, then decided it wasn’t brave enough and went dark.
Fenner glanced around and pulled the bag of supplies tighter against his side. “Okay. Okay, fine. This is creepy.”
Slowly, his heart picked up a pace, threatening to bounce out of his throat any moment. The darker it got, the more he felt like the street was narrowing for him, and not because that was what it was supposed to do.
He slowed a little, trying to breathe quieter, trying not to flinch when a shutter creaked or a doorknob twitched. The cat stayed close, brushing his ankle once more. The stones realigned under Fenner’s feet, smoothing slightly. It felt awful, thank you very much.
Turning around, Fenner stared at the darkness behind him.
“I’m fine. This is fine.”
He turned again.
No one behind him still. But the cat sat down straighter than before.
And then.
A voice.
Right behind him.
Fenner jumped.
He turned fast enough to nearly lose his footing, but the moment he spun around, a steady hand caught his elbow. He looked up, staring into a familiar face.
Orrin.
“Fancy meeting you here, silly boy.” He said, smiling. He was as calm and polished as ever. Coat neat. Expression unreadable but kind. One arm curled protectively around a sleeping Little Sir Menace, the other helping steady Fenner as if he hadn’t just scared the soul out of him.
Fenner blinked. “How did you—where did you come from?”
“I came to walk you home,” Orrin said gently, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Fenner looked around. “But—But how—“
Orrin nodded at the cat to his feet. “And I see you made a friend. How lovely. Do you intend to keep it?”
Fenner glanced down, still stammering. “I—I, it just—It kind of tagged along.”
Orrin gave a quiet hum, the kind people often mistook for amusement when it was simply tolerance of something minorly inconvenient. But Fenner—of course—wouldn’t know that.
“Well, then,” he said, as the cat weaved between Fenner’s ankles. “Perhaps it simply knows where it belongs.”
Fenner crouched briefly to scratch behind one of its ears, then straightened again, still catching his breath from the surprise. “I was just about to turn around,” he admitted. “Didn’t really know where I was going.”
“You were doing perfectly well,” Orrin said. “And you made excellent time.”
Fenner glanced back over his shoulder at the deepening street behind him — darker now, denser, as if it had closed its throat behind them. He shivered.
“You weren’t scared?” he asked, squinting into the gloom. “Coming out all the way to here… in the dark? Alone?”
Orrin chuckled, low and light, shaking his head as he adjusted Little Sir Menace slightly against his chest. “Of course not.” Because I’m the worst one could meet in the dark, but Orrin didn’t say that out loud.
Instead, he smiled and took the bag from Fenner. “Let me help you with that. You had a long day. Was it fun?”
Fenner made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “If by fun you mean terrifying, confusing, and mildly insulting—then yes. A blast.”
Orrin smiled, slipping the strap of the bag over his shoulder with graceful ease. “That sounds about right.”
The cat padded a few feet ahead, tail held high like a tiny banner, its seven eyes glowing dimmer now—less sharp, more shadow. The town around them seemed to sigh, releasing some long-held tension. Doors that had sealed tight loosened their hinges. Windows creaked open. A few lanterns blinked sleepily back on, not to see, but to witness.
“I think,” Fenner said slowly, “this town hates me.”
“It doesn’t,” Orrin replied easily. “It just doesn’t know what to do with you yet.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
I'm so keen to learn some more about Orrin
Magically bizarre, twisty, and playful. I like it!