the place that exists only once

Through the apartment above the shop, down the stone steps in Orrin’s small kitchen, Orrin tended to his patchwork of deep green and soft colors.

It had a smattering of lavender in one corner and some poppies that barely caught the last bit of light in another. There was a situation with the long grass but the way it swayed in patterns that didn’t make sense wasn’t too unusual. The scent of rain that wasn’t there, however… well, that was new.

Overall, Orrin’s garden was a quiet place.

Of course it was—because what else would it be when it came to Orrin and his shop—however, it had it’s… spots.

Nooks and corners, where it stretched in small, winding patches, more scattered than orderly, as though it had grown according to its own whims, much like the shop it belonged to. There were cracks at the far end, where a particularly stubborn lemon tree grew beside the garden’s stone wall. Its fruit seemed a little too pale, but the air always smelled sweeter here, even when it shouldn’t have.

And in the middle of it all, somewhere between the stubborn lemon tree and the long-grass-situation, Orrin knelt, hands coated in soil, tending to a few plants.

The garden was quiet save for the rustle of grass and plants, as well as the gentle ripple of water of the small river that wound its way through his garden. It had no clear beginning and no defined end, fading in and out of existence as if it were not entirely sure where it wanted to go. Usually, it made barely a noise, even less than the pitter patter of rain, but today, things seemed a little different. The water moved quick, with a noisy presence quite odd for its usual behaviour, as if it was in a rush for something.

As he trimmed back a rogue sprig of lavender, Orrin turned to check on Little Sir Menace, who was hopping from stone to stone in the shallow part of the river. His lance glinted in the soft, fading light, though the sunshine clung to him a little too closely, almost as if it was clawing at the seams, where threads of darkness kept the little knight together.

For a while, Orrin worked quietly, occasionally glancing at the small clay thing to keep track of it. Cutting back herbs, pulling carrots and roots out of the soil, watering the more peculiar things like skeleton flowers and star-moss; all the while listening to the energetic pat pat pat from Little Sir Menace as he hopped and stomped his way across the stones in the river.

Amid a set of particularly angry sounding pat pat pat’s, there was a creak, faint at first, like the groan of a door in an old house left too long by itself.

Orrin stood up straight, his hand still gripping a cluster of carrots as he turned toward the river. At first, he thought it was just the wind playing tricks, but when his eyes landed on Little Sir Menace, a sharp breath caught in his chest. The little knight had stopped hopping on the stones was now standing perfectly still.

The creaking noise grew louder, and before Orrin could move, a boat began to form around the knight, its wooden edges gradually taking shape in the misty air, as if the river itself was crafting it out of its own water. The boat drifted, carried by the current, but the moment its sides fully materialized, Little Sir Menace let out a soft, panicked squeak, his hollow sockets widening.

“No, no, no…” Orrin muttered under his breath, the carrots still clutched in his hand. He didn’t think, just moved. Orrin took two swift steps, nearly stumbling over his own feet, but his eyes never left the boat. His feet carried him over the damp ground, and before he could stop to consider it, he was on the boat’s edge, slipping into the eerie, shifting vessel as Little Sir Menace scrambled toward him. The knight’s tiny clay hands found their place in Orrin’s cloak, gripping it as hard as he could. Once Orrin sat down, the water beneath them shifted, and Little Sir Menace scrambled into Orrin’s arms.

“Easy, little one,” Orrin murmured, holding him close with one arm, the other still full of produce, as the boat continued its quiet, unforeseen drift. Supposedly, the river that seemed to lead nowhere, had changed its mind. Today, it was going somewhere.

The boat rocked gently, the soft swish of water brushing against the wooden hull as the current pulled them further into the mist but even if he tried, there was no point in getting off the boat anymore. The garden had vanished around them the moment his feet had left the soil.

Orrin’s gaze lingered on the shifting edges of the river before they focused on the lanterns hanging on either side of the boat. He’d seen that craftsmanship before; the way the iron wrought around the flickering wisps of light like a snake about to devour its prey. And the wisps themselves—well, they were not quite a flame, not really light at all, but they still casted enough of it to soften the fog around them.

Little Sir Menace shifted in his arms, his hollow eyes scanning the mist, his tiny frame stiff with unease. It was odd in itself… seeing Little Sir Menace, who was always up and on for a battle, suddenly too scared to even raise his little lance.

Probably, Orrin thought, not the best sign. Not at all.

His world was always strange given his duty, but this was different. This wasn’t the dark whimsy of Four Fourty-Four or the peculiar hauntings of what the shop had offered shelter to. This wasn’t the weight of the in-between or the heaviness of the liminal spaces they settled in night for night. This was worse. Like the feeling when you know you’re not supposed to be somewhere, but you’re already too far gone to turn back.

Orrin’s heart quickened just thinking about it. He leaned forward slightly, careful not to disturb Little Sir Menace, whose fingers had now curled more tightly into Orrin’s chest. As the boat rocked ahead, the mist gradually thickened. But somewhere in the far distance, Orrin spotted something. As they drew closer to whatever it was, he squinted his eyes, wondering if he was seeing a flicker of light there or if that was just the mist playing tricks on him.

However, there, coming closer steadily, something pulsed, lighting their surroundings bit by bit. Soon, Orrin was able to see bits of the water, a faint hint of nearby shores to his left and right, but when his gaze went back to the little light, it blinked out, leaving them in near-complete darkness.

The boat jerked, leaving Orrin disoriented for a moment, his hand with the produce clumsily feeling for a better grip on the wood of the boat. In the end, he dropped the carrots. Not like they were of any use right now anyway…

He settled himself a bit steadier into the boat, pulling Little Sir Menace tighter against his chest, and kept his gaze ahead, trying to pierce through the darkness. When the lanterns on either side of the boat finally brightened, Orrin almost wished for the darkness to return.

There, not far away from them, there was a figure.

Tall, elongated, featureless… It loomed in the fog, and as the boat drifted closer, Orrin could feel something cold and unsettling, but oddly... wrong. Or perhaps… simply not right. Because not right was not always the same as wrong. Yet, he couldn’t really judge it accurately. At least not now.

Little Sir Menace pressed harder into Orrin’s chest; hard enough to surely leave its little marks in the skin underneath the shirt, above the cut the collector had left with its words two nights ago. But Orrin didn’t flinch. Instead, he wrapped his arm tighter around the little thing, allowing it to grasp at his shirt even harder.

The figure ahead shifted—its form folding in on itself like smoke caught in a breeze. It was there, and yet it wasn’t. No shape, no face, no recognizable form. Just the sensation of being watched by something that wasn’t meant to be seen. Before Orrin could process the sight, the boat jerked again, and the mist parted just enough for him to make out more figures on a distant shore. But even that didn’t feel right. They were outlines rather than figures, shifting, flickering, as though they hadn’t quite made up their mind.

As he sat and watched, the boat picked up speed, almost as if it had decided it had no time to waste. The figures became more distinct—tall, thin, with long limbs and bodies that rippled at the edges, like reflections on a broken surface, before they folded in on themselves to something else entirely. They looked human enough at a distance, but up close, they wouldn’t hold.

Suddenly, as the first silhouettes bled into the fog, their lines blurring and fading, Orrin’s skin prickled. His mind raced, not quite ready to make sense of what he was seeing, but instinct told him that whatever this place was, it was not a place he wanted to be at.

This was… this place… those figures… they were…

Vendors.

“Oh no,” he whispered under his breath, though the words felt pointless even as they left his lips. Little Sir Menace stirred in his arms, his body going taut, but his small hands didn’t loosen their grip. The boat glided onward, and soon, the figures at the river’s edge came into clearer view, their faces unreadable, their bodies blurring at the edges, unable to hold themselves together.

Little Sir Menace clung to him desperately, his small form trembling against Orrin's chest. In the silence, Orrin could hear the soft crumble-grinding-like noise of the knight’s movements. His arm tightened around Little Sir Menace, pulling him closer.

“It’s alright, little knight. I’m not going to lose sight of you.”, Orrin mumbled. The boat crept closer, inch by inch, as the shore took shape through the haze. The figures—if you could even call them figures—were gathering. Orrin’s eyes darted between them, but they never truly stayed in focus. Each time he tried to settle on one, it became something else—something different. A long, gaunt arm would shift to a thin tendril, stretching far too far for a body to bear. Their faces would bleed into one another, morphing into shapes that didn’t belong to anything.

Little Sir Menace, still pressed tightly against Orrin, let out a low, panicked hum. His tiny hands had tightened so much that Orrin could feel the bruising pressure against his ribs. As the boat finally settled itself into the sand, the figures began to shift again, their forms weaving in and out of existence like unfinished thoughts. One of them raised its arm toward them, its motion smooth yet jerky.

“Welcome,” came a voice, or something resembling it. The sound was distant, muffled, but it still pierced through the stillness. It was a voice that had no body, no origin, just a feeling. Orrin’s hand instinctively tightened around Little Sir Menace, pulling him closer still as the boat came to an impossibly gentle halt at the river's edge.

“I dare say I do not feel welcome at all. I’d rather not be whisked away by a stray boat, taken from my own garden, in my own quiet space.”

The figure closest to him, the one whose form was half-translucent, lifted its face—or what passed for a face—toward him. It extended its hand, its long fingers almost touching the edge of the boat. Orrin’s eyes narrowed, causing the figure to hesitate. The edges of its form blurred, flickering in and out of focus. The voice returned—not distant now, but close.

“You stepped onto the boat. You were not whisked away.”

Orrin held the figure’s gaze with unwavering certainty. “You sent a boat into my realm, whisking one of mine away, you best believe I will retrieve what was taken from me.”

The figure’s outstretched fingers trembled, flickering at the edges, as if caught between being and not being, too fragile to hold onto form. Its form swirled like smoke, constantly moving, but not in a way that made sense. Orrin could almost see the attempt, the struggle to remain whole, to hold some semblance of substance in the face of his presence. The voice, now more of an impression than sound, buzzed in the air around them like static, yet unwilling to remain static for too long.

“This is not your place to command.”

Orrin’s lips curved into the barest of smiles, a humorless, sharp thing, the unease and worry, the fear and his racing thoughts forgotten. “You misunderstand,” Orrin said, his voice low but unwavering. “I am not commanding you. I am protecting what is mine.”

“He’s not yours. He’s borrowed. Temporary.”

Orrin’s eyes darkened. “And for that time, be it a week, a month, or ten lifetimes of temporary and borrowed, he is mine. My responsibility to take care of. A ware of my shop. Something to be offered to someone someday sometime. When, how, and who—that is his decision alone. And until he made this decision, he is mine to keep safe and sheltered.”

The figure recoiled before it split into fragments—faces and limbs, blurring together, only to snap back into something else. And then, it did something that surprised Orrin. It bowed—or at least, it made the gesture of it.

It wasn’t a proper bow, not by any stretch, but a resemblance was there. As the figure faded into nothingness, the others watched, still shifting and flickering in the distance. With a small, steady breath, Orrin looked down on Little Sir Menace, his fingers gently brushing against the little knight’s tiny form. He was still pressed close, though his grip had loosened slightly.

“See, nothing to worry about. You’ll be quite alright with me.”

Orrin stepped forward, his boots touching the damp stone of the shore as the mist curled away from him. The shifting figures at the shore did not follow, but their presence lingered—watching, perhaps even preying on a moment that was yet to come.

The ground beneath them was uneven, dark stone cobbled together in strange, almost haphazard patterns but it wasn’t much of a challenge, just odd.

Carefully, Orrin sat Little Sir Menace down on the ground before he remembered the carrots and root vegetables on the boat, however, when he turned around, the boat and the river were gone. Orrin sighed, choosing to ignore the matter.

“Let’s have a look, what do you think? You don’t strike me as someone who turns down a little adventure?”

At that, Little Sir Menace puffed out his chest, his tiny lance pointed at the path ahead. Chuckling, Orrin watched as he toddled ahead, conquering one uneven dark stone after the other. The steps were uneven, some worn down as if they had been climbed a thousand times over, others jagged and sharp like they had never been touched. The path split and wove in unpredictable directions—some stairs led upward to nowhere, others down into mist so thick it swallowed whatever lay below.

The deeper they walked, the more it became clear that this was not a simple path, but a maze of winding staircases and crumbling plateaus, twisting upon themselves in impossible ways. And through it all, the streetlamps to either side towered over them, almost as if they were watching as well. They were thin and spindly, their metal frames twisting like reaching hands, holding lanterns that flickered with an unsteady, dim light.

The glow was not warm but something else entirely—something softer, as if it wasn’t quite meant to illuminate, but rather, to suggest light rather than fully give it. It barely touched the stone, barely revealed the way forward, as if the path itself was only half-formed.

Orrin looked around, torn between suspicion and curiosity. What an adventure indeed.

He had never seen such a place, let alone heard of it—both things meaning quite something. After all, he was the one to be at home in liminal spaces, in the nooks and crannies of the in-between; the perhaps here’s and certainly there’s.

A staircase ahead of them split into three—one path curling sharply to the left, another winding high into the dark, and the third simply vanishing mid-air, ending abruptly in nothing. Orrin hummed in mild amusement. “I don’t think we are equipped to take the third one, Little Sir Menace, no need to fast-pace towards that one. Pick another one.”

Little Sir Menace tilted his head, then lifted his lance and pointed—not to any of the staircases, but just beyond them, to a small path wedged between the second and third staircase. Orrin followed the little knight’s pointing lance, his gaze settling on the narrow path. It was the sort of thing one might overlook if they weren’t paying attention—wedged between grander, more obvious routes, as if it had never meant to be found. The lamplight above it flickered uncertainly, certainly unsure if it wanted to illuminate the path at all.

“Well spotted,” Orrin murmured, stepping forward. The passage was tight, the walls pressed a little too close for his liking, and to either side, they were jagged and quite uninviting overall. Orrin ducked slightly, shifting his shoulders so as not to catch his coat on the rough edges of the stone. The deeper they walked, the quieter everything became. Which, too, wasn’t the best of signs, but for the sake of Little Sir Menace and his slowly recovering attitude, he let it slide.

Then, just as suddenly as the walls had closed in, they fell away.

Orrin straightened as the path opened onto a wide plateau, the ground beneath them shifting from damp cobblestone to something smoother, older. The sky overhead—if it could be called a sky—was vast and deep, an endless stretch of morning and night. At the edge of a small stone step leading up to the plateau, stood a sign. It was old, and the letters were worn by time and weather, however the words remained clear:

Nothing to see.

Little Sir Menace shifted beside him and toddled up the small stone step. Once he stopped underneath the sign, he titled his head upwards—as if trying to get a better look— and pointed at it with his lance. Orrin huffed a small breath of amusement, though the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. The little knight remained still, his hollow gaze fixed on the words above, as if waiting for them to change, for the sign to admit its lie, but nothing happened.

Little Sir Menace gave it a thorough jab with his lance, but the sign remained unbothered.

Nothing happened with Nothing to see.

If anything, there was even less to see now… if that was even possible. But Orrin assumed that a moment ago, the plateau had at least been a little more defined; a little more not-nothing, though still far away from something.

The little knight stomped his foot, then turned sharply on his heel and marched forward—straight past the sign. Orrin let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “I suppose you made a decision.”

Little Sir Menace did not bother to reply. His little clay boots tapped against the smooth stone as he toddled forward in a manner that well suited a small busybody made of cracked clay like him. Orrin followed at an easy pace, his boots making no sound. As they walked, the space around them remained wholly unbothered by them. The nothingness was peculiar, even for someone like Orrin, who dealt with odd and peculiar all the time. He couldn’t quite place a finger on it, but supposedly, the entire thing was too bright, too quiet, too neat.

Nothingness was dark and heavy, it was pieces and fragments, rubble, cowering bodies, and wretched cries. Nothing was a choker; one that rarely let go without someone else prying it off.

This was… not it.

Orrin frowned. The longer they walked, the more he noticed it.

And then—Tap.

The sound barely existed, but Orrin had caught it immediately. And so had Little Sir Menace. Orrin turned slightly, scanning the space behind them. The nothingness remained unchanged—pristine, untouched, as if their steps had never passed through it.

Little Sir Menace gave a sharp jab to a particularly empty patch of space. There was nothing there, until—Tap.

This time, it came from ahead.

Orrin had barely turned again when a stall blinked into being—half-real, its wooden frame stitched together with hesitation. Behind the counter, a figure flickered into shape. It was both there and not, shifting like something caught between two choices. Little Sir Menace—with all the speed the little thing could muster—wobbled towards the stall, lifting his lance toward the flickering figure behind it. The figure hesitated shortly, only to nod and vanish. It had barely gone, when two paper slips appeared on the counter. Orrin let out a slow breath.

“Well,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Looks like you got its attention.”

He took a slow step forward to read what the paper slips said, only to raise both brows as high as they could possibly go. Next to him, Little Sir Menace jumped up and down, stabbing and jabbing at the stall, as if hoping that the stall would shrink or one of the papers would drop if he’d cause just enough of a fuss. He gave a cracked huff—silent, but unmistakably full of attitude—and stabbed the counter once again.

Blinking once, then twice, Orrin read the lines out loud: “nosy much?”

Orrin looked around.

Little Sir Menace, unimpressed as usual, struck the counter again. This time, the wood rang hollow. Orrin caught a movement at the edges of his vision. Another stall, just beyond this one, slipped into place.

Then another.

And another.

A hush passed over the space, not silence, but something even less. Then, just at the edge of it—

Tap.

A single footstep.

Orrin turned. Only to find himself right in front of a particularly tall figure. One that flickered and bled, as if it, too, was not sure what it wanted to be: something or nothing.

“Welcome.” A voice said from afar, although he could feel that it had come from right in front of him. “Welcome to the place that exists only once: The Market of Almosts.”

Little Sir Menace froze, Orrin, on the other hand, remained still. The figure in front of him did not quite stand, rather… it persisted, shifting at the edges like ink in water.

“Only once, you say?” Orrin mused. The figure did not reply immediately, but something in the space around them responded instead. The stalls—the ones that had appeared just moments ago—quivered slightly at the edges.

Finally, the figure inclined its head.

Little Sir Menace, apparently deciding that negotiations were not progressing at the speed he preferred, gave a particularly aggressive jab to the air between them. The motion, stubborn and tiny as it was, sent a ripple through the space. Orrin watched as the flickering figure's edges bled a little more before stabilizing again.

“And what does one do,” he asked, “at the Market of Almosts in a place that exists only once?”

The stalls shuddered again. Not collapsing, not forming, but... deciding. The figure let the silence linger, as if considering its own answer.

Orrin waited.

Little Sir Menace did not. He gave another solid jab.

“You bargain with what you almost had.”

The figure, unbothered about the way Orrin straightened just a little too much, tilted its head tilted towards Little Sir Menace. “I have selected this little thing.”

“I doubt he wants anything but thank you for the offer.”

The voice almost sounded amused. “You misunderstand,” the figure said, its voice slipping into something almost like a sigh, as if it were trying to soothe some unspoken frustration. “Not everything that comes here wants to want something. But they all have to pay. They all offer something.”

Orrin’s eyes narrowed slightly; their usual color darkened by a thought he didn’t speak. He stepped forward, between Little Sir Menace and the figure, his boots silent against the smooth stone.

“And if someone does not want to offer something?” Orrin asked, his voice carefully measured. “What becomes of that bargain?”

The figure’s form flickered.

“If someone does not wish to offer,” the figure said, its voice now faint, “they are left with nothing. It does not matter to me, that is their almost, is it not? I offered them to offer something. They did not. I did.”

“That doesn’t sound fair to me.”

Little Sir Menace’s lance jabbed at the air again, this time sharper. Orrin watched him before his gaze trailed back to the figure, carefully studying the way its form seemed to bleed and reassemble with each passing second. He wasn’t quite sure what game this figure was playing, but Orrin knew enough about the balance between bargains and debts to understand the tension of the moment.

"So," Orrin murmured, stepping closer, “supposedly, you are talking about me coming here not wanting something, but having to pick anyway? Which only works if you assume that I am offering Little Sir Menace, since you have quite clearly stated that I misunderstood when I told you that Little Sir Menace does not want anything.”

The figure inclined its head, its presence thickening, as if it were more solid than it had been before. “Precisely,” it said.

“What if I don’t want to choose because I much rather keep Little Sir Menace?”

“I can give you another one.”

A faint ripple travelled through the surrounding stalls, the ones that had appeared, then blinked out, leaving nothing behind but the silence that stretched between them. Orrin looked down at Little Sir Menace, whose hollow sockets were wide and locked on the figure. The knight’s lance lowered slightly; his stance still defensive but with a hint of curiosity.

“And why can you not simply take one of the other ones?”

The figure’s form shifted again. There was something unsettlingly patient in the way it held itself, as though this conversation had played out countless times, each one moving towards the same conclusion.

“I cannot simply take another,” it replied, its voice soft but final. “That is not how it works in the Market of Almosts.” It paused, as if considering how much to reveal. “The offering is tied to the one who almost was, not to the things that are.”

Little Sir Menace’s tiny, cracked frame, still hovering between aggression and curiosity, seemed to sense the shift in the conversation. His stance remained firm, but his hollow sockets darted from Orrin to the figure and back again, his confusion palpable.

“Correct me if I am wrong, but he very much is.”

“The Market does not take what is already here,” it explained slowly, each word deliberate. “It takes that which has not come into being but almost did. The thing that was meant to be but never arrived. The promise of something, not the thing itself.”

Orrin’s eyes narrowed as a realization tugged at the edges of his mind. “And Little Sir Menace,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to the small knight who was now tapping the ground impatiently with the tip of his lance, “is one of those 'almosts'? A thing that never was, but could have been?”

The figure’s gaze, if it could be called that, deepened. “Indeed. He is an unfinished thing. Not nothing, but not something either. An almost.”

Orrin swallowed, his chest tightening with an odd mixture of feelings.

“So, you offer me a choice, but,” he said, his gaze unwavering as he looked back at the figure. “but either way, if I choose nothing or something, I lose Little Sir Menace?”

“You do not lose something that is only almost.”

“But he is. Very much so.”

The figure’s form rippled again, but this time, it looked dissatisfied. Orrin exhaled slowly, his gaze returning to Little Sir Menace. This would get him nowhere but in trouble.

For a while, Orrin watched the figure and Little Sir Menace, both rather not much interested in one another, but the more moments passed, the thicker the figure seemed to become. The flickering gradually became less, too. A clear sign that it was drawing on something, perhaps even on Little Sir Menace. Surely, the little thing couldn’t feed the figure forever… would it break? There were no shadows here he could stitch him with…

“Fine.” Orrin finally said, his voice low. “In return, for giving him to you, I want to know what he was missing to be something rather than just an almost.”

The figure did not immediately respond. It simply stood there, as if waiting for something to fall into place. Then, with a soft exhale, it answered.

“Little Sir Menace lacks a shadow. There is no such thing as only light, or only shadow. Without one, the other cannot exist. He should have never been brought to you. He is an unfinished thing, suspended in between, where he cannot touch either side. He should have been brought here. To me.”

Orrin glanced down at Little Sir Menace, whose hollow eyes were wide with uncertainty, his tiny, cracked hands gripping Orrin’s cloak tightly. He knelt, brushing his hand gently across Little Sir Menace’s back, whose sockets turned upwards toward Orrin, pleading and confused, as if he had suddenly understood the conversation.

“Will you be very angry with me?” Orrin muttered; his voice thick with an emotion he couldn't name. A subtle pang of guilt crept through him, but there was fear, too. Fear for what would happen to Little Sir Menace in a place like this. With figures like this.

The figure, observing them, drifted closer, its formless hands twitching as if wanting to reach for Little Sir Menace, to claim the unfinished thing. Little Sir Menace’s small body shivered, his hollow sockets shifting rapidly. A low, almost inaudible whimper escaped him, and he clung harder to Orrin’s cloak, his small form trembling as he tried to retreat from the figure.

Which was… well…

Orrin straightened slowly. The figure stilled, its form rippling, its gaze—if it had one—shifting back to Orrin, ready to receive his bargain.

“Is that all he misses?”

“Yes. Which makes him mine to claim. Mine to keep.”

Orrin’s hand tightened into a fist at his side. He was no stranger to tension, but the quiet panic building inside him, the fear that Little Sir Menace might truly be lost to this strange transaction…

He moved before the figure could react. Without hesitation, Orrin reached for the figure, his hand closing around the void-like substance of its form. For a moment, the figure seemed to whisk away—its form bleeding away from his grip. Orrin pressed harder, and in a swift, almost brutal motion, he squeezed the figure, his force compressing the flickering presence into something more solid. A faint crackling sound filled the air as the figure struggled, but Orrin didn’t pay it any mind. The figure's form bent and twisted, trying to escape from his grip.

“Stop—stop!” the figure gasped, its voice a fractured whisper. But Orrin ignored it.

He pushed the figure’s distorted mass closer to the small knight, holding it tightly in place until, with an almost imperceptible shift, he tore at it, bringing one piece of the figure close against Little Sir Menace’s form. He pressed it into the knight’s biggest crack, forcing the piece of the figure inside despite its desperate tries to escape back to its body.

Through all of it, Little Sir Menace stood still, his tiny hands clutched tightly into Orrin’s cloak.

Finally, the piece clung to him, coiling and wrapping itself into the cracked clay as if it had always belonged there. For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. The figure, now a faint wisp of what it had been, hung in the air like a discarded husk, completely still.

Orrin’s breath was steady when he gave Little Sir Menace, who still hadn’t moved, a gentle pat. Orrin stepped back slightly, taking in the still form of the husk-like figure behind him, now deflated and silent, but still watching them. There was this slight tension around it—almost a threat.

Certainly, ‘almost’ enough to remain within the bounds of its own market.

“Looks like you misjudged the situation. Little Sir Menace has a perfectly fine shadow, don’t you think? You on the other hand… is that almost anger? I suppose, you are in the right place then. It’s The Market of Almosts, after all, right?”

The figure’s voice, when it came, was strained and thin. “You dare… mock the Market?” it rasped, its tone cracking. Orrin stood tall to his full size; his eyes locked on the shifting remnants of the figure.

“I would not call it mocking. I simply corrected a misinterpretation on your side.” he replied with a cold calmness, his voice slicing through the tense silence. “Little Sir Menace was brought to me. And for now, that is where he will remain.”

For a brief moment, Orrin felt the ground beneath him shift, like the very essence of the Market itself resented his presence, but he didn’t flinch.

“You cannot own what is almost.” it muttered, voice dripping with disdain. A ripple of unease passed through the vast space, the market’s stalls flickering in and out of existence like fading memories, their distant murmurs growing faint as the figure began to dissolve. But just as it seemed to disappear entirely, a final, chilling whisper reached Orrin’s ears: “You cannot keep him.”

And with that, the market went silent.

Orrin exhaled slowly, his gaze never leaving the place where the figure had been. His chest tightened for a moment. In one swift motion, Orrin bend down and picked the little knight up, cradling him against his chest. He would not remove his hands from the little thing; not here, not until they were home.

“Let’s go, Little Sir Menace,” Orrin said quietly. “This place isn't for us.”

Little Sir Menace blinked up at Orrin, his hollow sockets still wide.

Orrin’s grip on him tightened just a fraction. He took a slow, steady step forward, his boots making a soft sound against the shifting ground, the light around them flickering as though hesitant to follow.

“You know,” he began, his words laced with thoughtfulness, “I am not sure if you ever think about this... or if you ever wondered why you are with me now and not with the one who made you.” He hesitated for a moment, glancing down at the knight’s cracked form. “But I am quite certain that the one who created you never intended to not finish you.”

Little Sir Menace remained still in Orrin’s arms, his hollow eyes fixed on Orrin’s face. His tiny clay hands gripped Orrin’s cloak tighter, as if understanding the weight of the conversation even if he couldn’t fully comprehend it. Orrin's eyes softened as he looked at him, his fingers brushing gently over the knight’s armor.

“You weren’t an almost,” Orrin continued. “You have eyes, and a mouth, a face, a helmet, and a lance. Boots, armor, a shield...” He traced his hand lightly over the helmet, tipping it slightly back to give him a little more vision of his surroundings. “You have not a single rough edge, not a lone stubborn spike in your clay. There wasn’t a single crack when you arrived. You were in a box full of paper, too. A sturdy box, meant to safekeep you.”

He paused, his fingers lingering at the base of Little Sir Menace’s helmet. “Someone put a great deal of work into you,” Orrin added. “You’re not their almost. You were their everything.” He shifted again, lifting the knight slightly, his gaze distant as if picturing the maker who had once cared for this small, unfinished piece of art. “And until I have been proven wrong about my assumption, this place will have seen the last of you.”

Little Sir Menace’s gaze didn’t give any sort of reaction away; he wasn’t even sure if the little thing understood at all, but Orrin could feel a subtle shift in his tiny clay body.

“They will come back to you, little one,” Orrin said, his voice gentler now, almost a promise. “Someone put you into place, they cared so deeply for you. There is so much heart in you. So much curiosity, so much attitude, pride, and joy... and mischief, of course.” Orrin’s eyes darkened for a moment, but his voice remained calm. “They loved you a great deal.”

For a fleeting second, he held Little Sir Menace a little tighter. “And we will wait patiently for them to return to you in their own time,” Orrin whispered, his gaze lowering as he gave the tiny knight one final, reassuring pat. He shifted slightly, turning his gaze towards the edge of the plateau, thinking.

“I know that they did.” he continued quietly. “There’s something I’ve noticed in my years in duty to the shop. Not just with you, but with everything I’ve ever taken in and given shelter. There comes a time… when they have poured so much of themselves into something, so much of their energy and care… Fire doesn’t burn forever, you know?” He paused, giving the little knight a soft smile. “It’s like… they create, and they create, and they think they must keep going. But sometimes... sometimes, what they need most is just a moment to step away. A chance to breathe.”

Orrin shifted again, lowering himself to sit on the ground, still cradling Little Sir Menace in his lap. His fingers traced the knight’s armor absently. Even unfinished as he was, Orrin could see what a piece of work he would be one day. Stunning, if not beyond breathtaking.

“You know, when someone builds something so beautiful, so intricate, with all the love they have, they often reach a point where they burn out. They’re tired, or sick, or they just need a break. And they feel like if they stop, if they step away, everything will fall apart. Like they failed you or abandoned you. Or that they weren’t enough.”

He gave a gentle chuckle, more to himself than to Little Sir Menace. “It’s okay for them to take a break, but they don’ always know that. Their art doesn’t hate them for it. It doesn’t grow angry or resentful when they need to pause. It doesn’t judge them for needing a breath. It waits. Patiently. As patiently as you wait for the one who made you. And there is me and the likes of me, too, you know. We give you –and others like you—a home until their creators are ready to continue. We keep them company. Just like I will keep you company.”

Orrin leaned back slightly, gazing at the sky above them. There were clouds now. Perhaps the rest would follow soon. He wouldn’t mind a bit of moon and night, a bit of creaking trees in a crisp breeze.

“There’s something beautiful in that,” he said softly, his voice now carrying a sense of peace. “That even when we’re tired, when we think we’ve given everything, the things we love, they’re still there. They’re not going anywhere. Not really. Not until we’re ready for one or the other outcome.”

There was something other than smooth stone now, too. Almost grass, but not quite yet. He gently placed Little Sir Menace beside him, still within arm’s reach—just in case.

“Everyone needs a break,” Orrin murmured, half to himself. “The heart. The mind. The ears and eyes. The legs and hands. Especially minds and hands that create. Sometimes, the best thing to do is step away and give it some room. That’s not failure. That’s—”

Orrin, eyes watching the not-quite-clouds, chuckled. “You could say, that’s almost success.”

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