the bones of the quiet

– The things that never speak are the ones that stay with you.

Orrin stepped outside and took in tonight’s surroundings with a sigh.

Once again, the shop had chosen an odd place. The rooftop had been quite the stretch already, but this…?

Taking a few more steps, he followed a small trail out into the open, boots crunching over brittle leaves and dirt. A few steps later, Orrin turned, only to spot a desolate greenhouse towering over him, its glass panels long shattered, and its metal frame swallowed by creeping vines and skeletal remains of hanging pots.

Mist curled through the broken glass panes like a thing half-alive, obscuring the metal staircase and most of the broken roof. Beyond the ruin, there was nothing but an endless sprawl of darkness, as if the world had forgotten this place existed. And in the midst of rubble and decay, stood his little, odd shop.

Orrin shook his head, clicking his tongue.

“Really now? This is where you’ve brought us?” He glanced back at the shop’s crooked doorframe and the dimly flickering lantern underneath the shop’s sign. “Bit off-track, aren’t we? Don’t imagine anyone’s coming through here.”

The shop didn’t respond. It never did.

Not in words, at least.

A small grunt pulled his attention to the side, where Little Sir Menace stood knee-deep in tangled roots, jabbing its tiny clay lance into anything in reach. Once again, the little thing seemed to be on a campaign of its own.

It stood determinedly, its stubby arms tense with exaggerated effort as it drove the weapon into roots, bark and dirt, an almost imperceptible growl escaping its little mouth.

Orrin raised an eyebrow, amused. “Declaring war on the underbrush tonight? What happened to your eternal crisis about the tea pot? Did it finally settle down high enough to avoid you?”

Little Sir Menace, very clearly not paying him any mind, toddled toward another twisted vine, already preparing for its next strike. Before it could waddle too far, Orrin scooped it up with practiced ease.

The little knight wriggled in protest, shaking its tiny fists.

“Oh no, we are not straying from our path,” Orrin chuckled, tucking the little thing under his arm like a feral toddler. “At least not tonight.”

Little Sir Menace let out a tiny, indignant huff, but settled against Orrin’s body, as if deeming the hug and warmth of the shopkeeper valuable enough to momentarily pause its war-waging.

Orrin gave the shop one last look and sighed. “Well, I hope you know what you’re doing,” he muttered to it. “Not that you listen to me anyway.”

With a quiet sigh, he followed the path back inside the Four Forty-Four, leaving the wind to weave through the hollow remains of the greenhouse around them.

The moment Orrin stepped over the threshold; the air changed.

The damp chill of the ruined greenhouse melted away, replaced by the warm scent of old parchment, candle wax, and something sweet—perhaps caramel, though the shop had never stocked anything of the sort. The wooden floor creaked under his boots, and the shop exhaled softly as it welcomed him back. Shelves that had been still a moment ago subtly rearranged, shuffling their contents, while a nearby lantern dimmed and brightened, blinking groggily from the brief wait.

Little Sir Menace perked up at once and the moment Orrin loosened his grip, it was off again, toddling across the floor on determined little feet.

Orrin sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I begin to think Grant was tired of your attitude and brought you here solely for that reason, little war-wager.”

Little Sir Menace, of course, didn’t listen. Instead, it focused on the broom in the corner, swishing idly on its own, sweeping dust that didn’t exist. As if sensing a challenger, Little Sir Menace squared its little shoulders and quickened its wobbly steps.

The broom, unbothered, swept faster, causing the tiny knight to skid to a stop, quickly reconsidering his approach. However, the reconsideration was a brief thing; a fleeting breath, if at all, before it jabbed at the broom’s bristles with its lance, but missed by a mile since the broom had changed its spot in time.

Orrin leaned against the counter, watching as the little knight tried another tactic. It climbed up a low shelf to gain higher ground but before he could attempt an aerial attack, a paper bird unfolded itself from a pile of loose parchment and took flight, fluttering in a slow, lazy arc above the knight’s head.

Little Sir Menace froze, its hollow sockets instantly locking onto the new target.

“Uh-oh,” Orrin murmured, just as the little knight redirected its battle plans and flung himself off the shelf, aiming for the unsuspecting bird.

A soft rustle. A clumsy mid-air swipe. A very unimpressed paper bird, tilting just enough to dodge him, and the moment had passed.

Orrin winced as Little Sir Menace landed in a pile of lantern strings, which immediately began shifting, as if delighted by the unexpected guest. The strings coiled and uncoiled, tugging playfully at its little arms.

The knight flailed, entirely tangled.

Orrin smirked. “That’s what you get from straying paths, Little Sir Menace. What now, mh? Need a hand?”

The shop chuckled. Not in words, of course. But in the subtle flicker of its lanterns, in the amused rustle of parchment and shifting shelves, and in the quiet way the broom resumed its sweeping, wholly unbothered by its would-be opponent’s self-inflicted demise.

Orrin shook his head, walking over to pluck Little Sir Menace from the tangled mess. “You’re quite the handful, aren’t you? I truly wonder what sort of person will take you home one day. They will be the most—”

But as he spoke, the air in the shop shifted again.

Something, somewhere, had changed.

A new presence, just at the edge of arrival.

Someone was coming.

The lanterns flickered—not playfully, not amused this time— but with a quiet knowing. A hush settled over the shelves, the parchment ceased its rustling, and even the broom stilled, its bristles pausing mid-sweep.

Orrin straightened.

At first, there was only the sound of slow, uncertain footsteps. The door had not opened. No bell had chimed. And yet, the presence was there, threading into the shop like a loose stitch pulled into place.

Orrin set Little Sir Menace down and gestured at it to remain in the chosen spot before he turned a few corners, leaning himself against the shelf by the entrance, curious who’d found them here.

After a first glance, however, his curiosity vanished instantly. With a soundless sigh, Orrin tilted his head, his eyes resting on the intruder.

He wasn’t meant to judge; not this way, at least, but he couldn’t help himself.

By the entryway, a cab driver lingered; shoulders stiff, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

He was tall but not imposing—broad in a way that suggested years of sitting too long in a car seat. His uniform was rumpled, the faint scent of stale coffee and old leather clinging to him like the ghost of a long shift.

He was nervous, but only in the way of someone who stepped into something beyond understanding. The rest of him seemed… bitter like salt and vinegar, a burn more than a presence.

Orrin sighed. “Dearest Pete.”, he mumbled but would not be heard. “What a pity.”

He let the silence stretch as the shop welcomed the man. Shelves shifted, windows became empty paintings, books disappeared, leaving gaps that refused to be filled. Orrin looked around, momentarily stunned by the scarce options of things available for Pete.

Not that such a customer was unheard of. But they were rare.

Orrin sighed in silence one more time before he took off his cloak, rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and willed himself behind the counter, where he acted as if he’d been there the entire time.

“I didn’t expect company tonight. Welcome to the Four Fourty-Four, Pete.”

The cab driver didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked around the shop—at the lanterns still swaying on unseen currents, at the shelves lined with nothing in particular, and at things that had no business being here altogether, until his gaze finally rested on Orrin.

Eventually, Pete cleared his throat.

“Uh… what is this place?”

A question Orrin had heard before, spoken in different voices, different lifetimes, and different situations.

He tilted his head, offering him a small smile.

“The better question,” Orrin replied, “is what brought you here.”

The silence of the shop stretched long enough that Orrin thought, just for a moment, the man might turn on his heel and leave. After a while, Orrin straightened a little more.

“So?”

As he spoke, the shop adjusted itself again.

A single lantern dimmed, casting the space into deeper shadow, as if it had been watching too closely and suddenly thought better of it. Somewhere near the back, a book tumbled from a shelf with a muffled thud, though when Pete turned his head slightly toward the sound, there was nothing there.

Orrin watched as a flicker of unease crossed Pete’s face. Sure enough, he wasn’t a man easily spooked—Orrin could tell that much. But he was unsettled.

Pete scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. “Listen, I don’t know what kind of place this is, but I just stopped for a break. Pulled over for a minute between calls, stretched my legs, and then—” He gestured vaguely at the shop, as if the explanation might reveal itself.

Orrin raised a brow. “You stopped between calls and ventured into a desolate greenhouse to take a break? But well, suit yourself.”

Pete clicked his tongue, turning slightly to the door behind him. However, something kept him rooted where he stood.

Orrin watched him with waning interest.

There were always tells, little signs in the way a person held themselves, in the way their eyes moved when they realized they had stepped out of the familiar and into something else entirely. But Pete wasn’t panicking or worried, there was little to no curiosity, barely even a hint of interest. He wasn’t asking questions; let alone the right ones. He was still standing all over himself, stubbornly pretending.

Orrin sighed, nodding his head toward the shelves. “Well. You might as well look around, I suppose.”

The lanterns flickered again, the air shifted, and in the space between one breath and the next, something appeared on the counter in front of Orrin—a map, edges curling slightly with age, inked with paths that twisted and turned in ways that weren’t quite natural.

Orrin’s expression didn’t change. Pete, however, stiffened, visibly unsure if it had been there the entire time or if it had truly just appeared out of nowhere. Despite the unease, his gaze dropped to the map, his brow furrowing. “What’s that?”

Orrin exhaled through his nose. “The polite way of the shop to tell you that there is no reason for you to look at what it has to offer. But one can never have enough maps, isn’t that right? So many paths to explore… It’s always nice to have a little guidance.”

For the first time, Pete’s face darkened—not with fear, but with something more bitter, more defensive. A quiet, simmering resentment that bordered on nothing but arrogance.

His lip curled slightly. “Yeah? And who decides that?”

Orrin didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Because the shop had already known.

And it had already made its offer.

Pete let out a slow breath, nostrils flaring as he rolled his shoulders, as if trying to shake something off. His gaze flicked back to the map, eyes narrowing slightly. “And if I don’t want it?”

Orrin shrugged. “Then you don’t take it.”

The answer came easily, and that seemed to irk Pete more than anything else. He scoffed again, a humorless little sound, but didn’t move. The map remained in front of Pete, its curling edges crisp yet worn, the inked paths twisting ever so slightly when one wasn’t looking too closely.

Orrin leaned his elbows against the counter, chin resting lightly on his knuckles. “Not much of a risk, really. It’s a map. Not a contract. It doesn’t bite.” He paused briefly. “Well. This one doesn’t...”

Pete’s frown deepened; suspicion clear in his eyes. His fingers twitched at his sides, hands still buried deep in his jacket pockets, but he made no move toward the map. Instead, he turned away from the counter entirely. His attention landed on the shelves, on the flickering lanterns, on the strange sense of something shifting just beyond his periphery.

The shopkeeper had told him not to look around. But maybe that was the real trick. Maybe it was all some elaborate scheme, some little act to get him to take the most useless shit instead of something more valuable.

His jaw tightened.

Nah. He wasn’t some wide-eyed fool.

He didn’t take the routes people told him to take. There was more to gain from picking their routes for them; cashing more than he’d get from their own route of choice.

“Nice try”, Pete scoffed, and walked past the counter.

Orrin didn’t move to stop him. He only sighed.

Someone who wasn’t Pete would have felt it more than heard it; would have noticed the weight of it settling like a final warning.

But Pete couldn’t hear it.

Orrin watched as his thoughts drifted. Tonight, it didn’t feel like a shop filled with lost and unfinished things. It felt like a place that had decided what would be lost and remain unfinished for Pete.

The man’s footsteps were quiet against the wood as he moved deeper into the shop, eyes skimming over the few items lining the shelves. Suddenly, Pete stopped in front of a shelf.

Nestled between boxes and baskets, an ornate coin jar sat on a stack of books. The gold lining along its edges gleamed as if freshly applied, and it was filled to the brim with coins that didn’t belong to any known currency. Their surfaces shifted subtly between different designs—faces, places, things half-familiar yet impossible to name.

The moment Pete laid eyes on it, something in him itched.

This was worth something. More than a map would ever get him.

Instantly, Pete reached for it, but Orrin’s voice cut through the silence.

“This is not yours to take, Pete. This is the same easy, unearned wealth you chase by taking longer routes and squeezing extra fares from your customers. The shop has given you an offer. You may look around and ask about things you see, but you should not reach for anything that was not offered to you.”

Pete’s fingers hovered over the jar, his jaw tightening at Orrin’s words.

Easy, unearned wealth.

As if the shopkeeper knew him. As if he had the right to judge him.

Pete curled his fingers around the jar, lifting it from the books. It was heavier than it looked, solid and cool in his hands. The coins inside shifted, the metallic sound… odd. Not quite like real money. Still, there were a lot of coins in this jar and the weight of it in his hands was satisfying.

“What, you gonna stop me?” Pete asked, raising a brow at Orrin.

Orrin sighed and rolled his sleeves down. “It wouldn’t change anything if I did, I’m afraid.”

Pete smirked at the way Orrin distanced himself. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Without hesitation, he loosened the jar’s lid. The moment the seal broke, the coins inside stirred. They poured out, not clinking, not falling, but spilling, slithering over his hands and arms. Pete jerked back, but it was already too late.

Shadowy tendrils coiled around his wrists, slithered beneath his sleeves, wrapped around his shoulders, his throat, until they forced his mouth to open, pouring the mass of coins directly down his throat.

Pete choked.

The weight of the coins filled his mouth, his throat, his lungs—too heavy, too much, pressing down, pressing in. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t stop it. His fingers scrambled against his neck, digging, clawing, but there was nothing to grasp, nothing to pull away. Just the endless flood of metal; spilling, sinking, claiming.

A terrible heat spread through his chest, molten and cold, like the weight of every unrightful fare, every decision he had disregarded.

His thoughts grew sluggish as he choked and gagged, eyes watering and vision blurring. Through the blur, he saw Orrin standing behind the counter, expression unreadable.

Not surprised.

Not alarmed.

Only watching.

As Pete’s knees buckled and the coins lodged tightly in his throat, Orrin stepped around the counter, and walked up to where Pete had slumped to the ground.

Little Sir Menace toddled up to him, curiously watching as the shadowy tendrils retreated back into the jar; the coins gathering inside as if nothing had happened at all.

“Told him so.” Orrin said, shaking his head. “Should have taken the map. Then you’d have left alive; perhaps even found a better path than the one you were walking… A little guidance is always nice to have… What a pity, indeed, that this never was your choice to begin with. Just a matter of debts finally collected.”

Orrin watched as Little Sir Menace rummaged around in Pete’s jacket, his body fading slowly as it was customary when such a thing happened. It looked up at Orrin, the hollow sockets almost excited. Orrin knelt, holding out his palm for the little thing to show him what got it so excited.

“What you got there, little one?”

Something light dropped into his palm, something cold; a set of car keys.

Orrin let out a quiet, thoughtful mhmhm.

“I suppose… we can allow it to stay. Perhaps someone might need it. What good thinking, Little Sir Menace.”

With that, he snapped his fingers, moving Pete’s car keys onto a shelf in the far back, right next to where Grendel’s lamplighter pole had settled itself.

Orrin wiped off his hands, letting the last remnants of Pete fade into the bones of the quiet. Certainly a place, Pete should have looked for in life, a chance he should have taken when it had been offered.

He glanced at the now empty map; the squiggles and lines of Pete’s choices and chances either erased, faded, or crossed out.

A little guidance, Orrin thought to himself, was always nice. What a pity that the man had been all sharp squiggles and rough spikes, but very little quiet places and gentle marks.

“What a pity indeed…”

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