Table 21½

– Not a full seat, but enough space for what’s left.

Orrin had barely stepped outside the shop when Little Sir Menace wriggled free of his gentle hold. It landed on the cobblestones with a determined thud, aiming its lance at the first thing that dared to move – in this case a twirling leaf.

Little Sir Menace lunged, missed, and would have tumbled into the river straight ahead when Orrin wouldn’t have grabbed the little thing in time. With a chuckle, he carefully set it back down on the street but immediately, it wobbled towards its next chosen opponent. Before Little Sir Menace could wage war on the passing pigeon, Orrin sighed and scooped the war-wager up into his arms.

Turning around, he glanced at the shop.

None of its lanterns were flickering, the sign wasn’t showing any letters, and the shop’s window was gone too, leaving just the door and a husk of bricks and wood.

Orrin took the hint.

It was rare, but sometimes the Four Fourty-Four decided it needed a day to itself.

“I’ll be back later.”, he told the shop and to his surprise, one of the lanterns flickered briefly in response. Smiling, Orrin tucked a hand into his coat pocket, using the other to secure Little Sir Menace against his chest.

Of course, he could just bring the little war-wager inside and walk the town by himself, but perhaps being outside, seeing some more than the shop’s walls and the occasional odd place would be beneficial for the little knight. So, he set out, Little Sir Menace tucked under one arm like an extraordinarily strongminded loaf of bread.

The streets here were unfamiliar—cobbled, winding, lined with crooked windows that seemed to blink at him in the low light. He didn’t have a destination, not really, but that was often how the best places found him.

Orrin walked without hurry, letting the uneven rhythm of his steps match the city’s quiet pulse. He passed a dusty shopfront, its window crowded with peculiar objects: a collection of mismatched teacups, books stacked precariously on a shelf, an assortment of empty boxes labelled “nothing for no one”, and a stack of postcards featuring cities no one remembered.

He paused only briefly, his gaze lingering on the old wooden shop sign that creaked in the wind: Things, obviously.

Orrin couldn’t help but smile, his eyes once again resting on the postcards. He’d run out of those just last night, handing the last one to no one in particular.

Little Sir Menace shifted in his arm, twitching as if to launch into a full-on assault against the creaking sign.

“I’ll come and get some later,” he mumbled to himself, moving onward. The streets stretched out in a labyrinth of twisting alleys and narrow lanes, the cobbles uneven beneath his boots. He passed a small bakery, where loaves of bread sat in the window. A peculiar smell drifted from within—a mix of sweet pastry and something else, something faintly metallic but he ignored it.

Sometimes, going with time demanded little to no judgment. Besides, he wasn’t really anyone who could judge at all, given that two customers hadn’t managed to leave the shop alive.

He glanced down at Little Sir Menace. “The loafs there are as big as you. Just missing the attitude.”

The little knight stiffened, the edges of its sockets slightly darker now. Orrin chuckled, noticing where Little Sir Menace’ attention had gathered. Behind the loafs stood a shelf with smaller baked goods, a few of them shaped like little dragons.

“I’ll take one of the dragons,” he said as he slipped into the shop. Inside, the baker—a round, rosy-cheeked man—smiled at them as they entered.

“Fresh out of the oven,” he grinned as he prepared the order.

After a quick exchange, Orrin handed the small treat to Little Sir Menace, who perched firmly in his hold. It reached for the baked good with tiny, grabby hands, its lance impatiently discarded into one of Orrin’s many pockets.

Despite its usual clumsiness, Little Sir Menace gripped the dragon-shaped pastry with surprising delicacy. It tilted its head, eyeing the intricate sugar icing that outlined tiny scales along the crust, a soft puff of steam still rising from the fresh dough.

“Careful now, don’t burn your mouth.” Orrin muttered, watching the little knight gnaw at the pastry’s tail. He had to admit, it was a bizarre but oddly endearing sight.

The baker watched them with a soft chuckle, his round face creased with amusement. “Not quite the victory it was expecting, eh?” he asked, his thick fingers wiping flour from his apron as he leaned against the counter. Orrin shook his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Little Sir Menace took another bite, larger this time, perhaps a little too large because as it began chewing, its tiny body began clinking faintly, as if struggling with the task it had set itself up for.

The baker’s eyes twinkled. “He’s a determined little fellow,” he said. “Haven't seen the likes of him around here before. New to town?”

“Something like that,” Orrin said with a shrug, though he didn’t offer any further explanation. “We’re just passing through.”

“Ah,” the baker nodded, his smile softening. “Bit of a peculiar town, this one. But wouldn’t leave it for the heart of it. Just my kind of place, you know.”, he said with a wink Orrin understood too well for his own liking.

The baker glanced at Little Sir Menace, who was now trying to gnaw its way through the dragon's head. The baker chuckled. “Some folk think it’s the city that never sleeps, but I reckon it’s the kind of place that only wakes up when it feels like it.”

Orrin smiled faintly. “Sounds lovely.”

The baker gave a knowing nod, then slid another pastry across the counter. “On the house.”

“Thank you,” Orrin said, taking the small pastry, its warmth soothing against his hand. Little Sir Menace immediately latched onto it as well, still clutching its dragon but distracted by the new prize in Orrin’s hands.

As Orrin left the bakery, Little Sir Menace shifted, trying to balance its haul of pastries, but with little success. It wobbled on Orrin’s arm, then directed a quiet, forceful shove against his chest, as if asking for a larger battleground.

“Do you need me to carry something for you? How about you finish up your dragon snack and for the time being, I’ll hold on to the other pastry?”

Little Sir Menace settled itself again, clearly ignoring Orrin. Shaking his head, Orrin smiled and went on, occasionally glancing at the little knight and its haul, just in case it needed a hand. As he continued down the winding street, the cobblestones clicking beneath his boots in a rhythm that seemed to echo off the crooked buildings, the small knight twisted this way and that, trying to find a more comfortable grip, but the pastry, much like the knight itself, didn’t quite fit in the grand scheme of things.

Orrin had to bite back a chuckle as Little Sir Menace tried to balance its loot, the pastries nearly toppling each time the knight gave an eager wiggle.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help with that?” Orrin said, his voice light, though there was a touch of amusement in his tone. Little Sir Menace ignored him.

They passed a small square with a fountain, the stone figures surrounding it weathered but somehow still regal in their worn beauty. The water that trickled from the fountain wasn’t clear, but iridescent, as though it held something more than mere water.

A couple of figures strolled past them, their silhouettes tall and shifting. Orrin gave them a quick nod, but they didn’t seem to notice him. They moved with a kind of fluidity that felt more like a shadow passing through, slipping from one moment into another without a sound.

As he continued down the winding path, the buildings seemed to grow stranger, more curious—windows that opened to reveal entire gardens inside, doors that were nothing more than painted illusions, and statues that seemed to shift subtly when his back was turned.

A gust of wind curled through the street, carrying the scent of something strange—faintly sweet, with a ghost of spice and something old, like pages of an unwritten book. It led him to a narrow passage, no wider than his body, where an iron sign hung from a vine-choked post.

The Dandelion.

Inside, Orrin found a small café, nestled in the bones of an old townhouse, its door crooked in a way that suggested it had been nudged one too many times. The light was dim, but the café was stirring in its own peculiar way.

A few patrons sat at mismatched tables, their figures half-lost in shadow, as if they weren’t entirely there. A skeletal barista stood behind the counter, methodically polishing a cup that had no discernible dust on it. From its hipbone, a single dark rose bloomed, petals rustling as if sighing at the effort, almost taking away from the beauty of the moss, the mushrooms, and the other flowers growing all over it, filling the hollow spaces and winding around brittle bones.

Behind it, the walls were lined with shelves crammed full of oddities: jars of dried flowers, neatly bound books that looked as though they’d never been touched, and an assortment of rusted coins nestled into wooden cracks.

As Orrin approached the counter, the skeleton's gaze turned toward him, a soft glow sparking in its hollow eye sockets. Little Sir Menace shifted in his arms, its tiny hands holding on to its pastries.

The skeleton looked at Little Sir Menace, its eye sockets flickering briefly. “A handful, that one, isn’t it?” it remarked, almost amused.

Orrin couldn’t help but smile. “Dearly. Keeps me on my toes.”

The skeleton set down the cup it had been polishing, the faintest crackle of leaves in the air as its gaze turned back to Orrin. “What would you like to drink?“

Orrin glanced at the jars filling the cramped shelves behind the counter. Jasmine, vermouth, blackroot, all sorts of sage and thyme, lavender and wisteria, rosehip…

“That’s quite the selection you have here. I haven’t seen an offer for vermouth and blackroot since… oh my, I can barely remember the time.”

The skeleton’s smile—if it could be called that—was faint but warm. “There is nothing I do not have on hand.”

Orrin let his eyes wander. The longer he looked, the bigger the wall seemed to get, adding shelf after shelf stuffed with jars. Poppy, oleander, hemlock, pristlethine root… not exactly common tastes but it did prove the skeleton’s point.

“A cup of rosehip please.” Orrin finally mumbled. “And perhaps something sweet for the little one, something that goes well with its pastries. I’m afraid it will not let go of these anytime soon.”

The skeleton gave a subtle nod, its movements smooth and deliberate as it reached for a jar on a nearby shelf. Once again, Orrin could hear the faintest rustle of leaves as the skeleton’s bony fingers brushed against the glass. It lowered the jar with surprising gentleness, its hollow eye sockets focusing intently on the contents—syrupy lemon slices.

It placed a few slices into a small mug before its hand moved lower, plucking the rose from its hipbone. It dropped the petals into a second, slightly larger mug, the sound of rustling leaves ever so present. Orrin glanced at the rose petals in the mug, stunningly baffled by the notion that rosehip had referred to the rose winding around the skeleton’s hipbone and not the buds stored in jars behind it.

As it prepared the teas, the skeleton occasionally glanced at the both of them in a way Orrin usually glanced at his own customers—knowing; but in a way where things were fixed rather than left open.

“There is something about this place that makes you forget where you’ve been,” the skeleton mused as it worked, its voice trailing off. When it looked at them again, it pointed at a table in a far corner.

“Table twenty-one and a half, if you don’t mind. Twenty-two is a little too picky, and twenty-one is having a bit of a crisis. I think you fit in between wonderfully.”

Orrin smiled again, accepting the directions. At the table, he set down Little Sir Menace, who instantly explored the new domain edge to edge. The little war-wager’s boots pitter-pattered across the wood, its gaze flicking between the various oddities around the table—an abandoned sugar bowl, a stack of napkins, and the cracks in the old wood that had clearly seen many years of use.

Orrin couldn’t help but chuckle softly, watching Little Sir Menace’s investigation with fond amusement.

As they waited for their teas, his gaze drifted to the shelves behind the counter again. Most of them had disappeared, leaving the wall to look the way it had when they had first arrived. However, one jar stood out to him.

It was long, almost as wide as a bucket, and inside, there were thick black stems twisting and curling to each side of the glass, as if eager to get out at once.

“Midnight Orchids.” The skeleton said as it set down their orders. “Very captivating, aren’t they? One of the most withered distractions to come by.”

Orrin blinked, momentarily taken aback by surprise. In a swift motion, the barista carefully placed the taller mug with the rosehip on the table. Orrin reached for it, letting the warmth seep into his fingers. “They are. May I buy some? In their time, they were stunning.”

The skeleton tilted its head slightly, its hollow eyes glimmering with a strange, knowing light. “Of course. Letting one thing go means welcoming another thing. I’d be most delighted.” it remarked as it placed the smaller mug on the table. Immediately, Little Sir Menace toddled towards it, its focus now entirely consumed by the task of fishing for the syrupy lemons but never quite reaching the bottom of the mug.

“Some battles are never quite won,” it said with a faint smile as the little knight stabbed its lance into the mug, impaling one slice and then another, but struggling to pull the weight of them upwards. “But I suppose…”, the skeleton continued as it watched multiple fruitless efforts of the little knight, “…one can try.”

Orrin’s gaze drifted back to the mismatched tables, the strange figures sitting at them, their faces half-lost in shadow. He wondered who they were, and if they were trying too.

“Perhaps.” He replied absentmindedly but after a brief rustling of leaves, they were alone at the table once more. Orrin took a sip, not startled by the sudden shift in the air. It felt as if the entire café had inhaled, held its breath, and then exhaled all at once, leaving the world around them even more still than before.

Little Sir Menace, meanwhile, had finally managed to dislodge one of the lemon slices from the bottom of the mug, holding it triumphantly in its tiny hands. It peered at Orrin, clearly pleased with itself, before looking back at the remaining fruit still taunting it from the bottom of its tea.

Orrin chuckled softly, watching the little knight.

The next time the skeleton returned, Orrin had finished his tea and Little Sir Menace sat triumphantly next to its mug; syrup all over him, its pastries scattered around it, crumbs occasionally buried under pieces of the lemon peels it had hollowed out. The tea, however, it hadn’t touched at all.

The soft rustle of a paper bag later, Orrin was a few coins poorer. He let the wrapped remains of the orchids disappear in one of his many pockets before he reached for a few napkins on the table. As he began handling the little big mess, he watched Little Sir Menace slowly munch away at its last lemon slice, utterly content in its own little world.

The skeleton didn't say anything at first, but Orrin noticed the slight tilt of its head, as if considering the scene with quiet amusement. “A fitting outcome. Some victories are meant to be fleeting, at the very least.”

Orrin merely nodded.

When he had finished cleaning the mess, he took a couple more napkins to wipe down the little knight. It protested as eagerly as it had caused the mess, but after a while, Orrin had managed.

“Well, I think that’s enough of a break for us," Orrin said, standing up slowly, stretching a little. "We should probably get moving before the day escapes us entirely.”

He reached down, gently scooping Little Sir Menace back into his arms. The little knight settled against his chest, its tiny hands impatiently making a grabbing motion towards the remains of the dragon pastry, the hollow sockets alight with absolute urgency.

Orrin picked up the pastry and handed it to Little Sir Menace who hugged the leftovers like a dear friend before he took a rather aggressive bite straight into one of the dragon’s ears.

“Thank you for the tea,” Orrin said, turning to the skeleton. He put down a few more coins, the dim things settling quietly into the cracks of the wood behind the counter as if that’s where they had always belonged.

The skeleton gave a slow nod, its expression unreadable. “It’s been a quiet pleasure,” it replied softly. Orrin gave a final smile, stepping toward the door, Little Sir Menace tucked close to him.

As he passed through the doorframe, the door fell shut behind him, but what surprised him more was the way the street had changed. It was wider now, fitting an entire row of dimly lit houses, a few gardens, and right across from the Dandelion, Orrin spotted his own shop, lanterns flickering impatiently, as if berating him for taking way too long.

Smiling, he strode towards it. “Missed me, I suppose?”, he teased, causing the shop to briefly vanish its door.

Orrin merely smirked. “My my... I guess I’ll give your gift to someone else then.”

Instantly, the door was back. It opened so fast that it almost hit the house next to it, but the fenced gate jumped aside in time, creaking in indignation. “I apologize. Someone just enjoys gifts a lot.”

He put a coin on top of the fenced gate of the neighbouring house before entering the Four Fourty-Four.

The familiar shelves and boxes, counters and tables were gone and so were the labyrinthine, narrow aisles. Instead, there now was a spacious room, a crackling fireplace, a well-used sofa, some cushioned chairs, and a small side table with an offering of cookies and hot chocolate.

Little Sir Menace squirmed out of Orrin’s arms and immediately began a determined investigation of the offering on the small side table. The cookies, shaped like miniature horses and shields, disappeared into its tiny hands, crumbs scattering in every direction as it made quick work of its new foe.

Orrin shook his head, a quiet laugh escaping him as he walked further into the room. The door behind him locked with a soft click and the street outside the window vanished briefly before nothing in particular took its place; some snow, some grass, edgesof a frosty ocean, a wild garden, pines and jagged rocks.

He crouched down by the fireplace and pulled the Midnight Orchids out of his pockets. Most of them, he gently handed to the fire, observing as it devoured the rare treat. One however, he kept.

As the fire crackled, its flames twisting and curling around the orchids, Orrin sat back, letting the warmth seep into his bones. The glow from the hearth danced across the walls, casting fleeting shadows that seemed to breathe with a life of their own.

One of the shadows on the wall shifted. It grew longer, its edges softening.

Orrin sighed. The postcards. He’d completely forgotten about them.

“I know you would’ve preferred the postcards. But maybe you’ll enjoy this as well. It’s almost the same; old, barely anyone cares about it anymore.” Without another word, he held out the last Midnight Orchid.

The shadow crept forward, curling around the twisted stem. With a soft, disappointed sigh, it melted back into the wall, leaving Orrin’s hand empty and the room just a little colder than before.

Orrin only chuckled under his breath and leaned back into the cushions of the couch. “Not that I expected you to be satisfied. But this is a little dramatic, even for you.”

It was as the skeleton had said, after all:

Some battles are never quite won. One can only try.

---

---