the town that sleeps in pieces

– Some houses breathe. Others hold their breath.

The seaside town slept in fragments. Lights flickered in windows; their glow swallowed by the heavy dark of the labyrinthine streets. Cobblestone pathways wound like veins through the town, their edges softened by the creeping tendrils of purple-flowered willows. The air carried the faint, briny scent of the ocean, mingling with the sweetness of poppies that swayed in unseen fields.

The lamplighter moved through the streets with practiced ease, his long pole tapping against the cobblestones as he went. He paused at each lantern, lighting the candles within their glass casings. The flames flared briefly, casting golden pools on the ground, but they never lasted long. One by one, they sputtered and died, as if the town itself resisted the light.

At the edge of the street, where the cobblestones gave way to a winding staircase that led down to the shore, a shop quivered with a faint creak.

The lamplighter hesitated, his pole hovering mid-air. He hadn’t seen this shop before, though he’d walked these streets every night for years. And surely, on his earlier rounds, it hadn’t been there either.

He lowered his pole, fingers tightening around the worn wood as he took a careful step forward. His boots made little sounds against the cobblestones, the hush of the night pressing in around him.

The shop, hunched at the edge of the winding staircase, seemed to breathe—a slow, sighing creak in the wooden beams, a faint shudder in its frame as though it were settling into place.

The lamplighter blinked once, deliberately slow, and in that brief moment of darkness, a whisper of doubt curled in his chest. If he closed his eyes too long, would the shop vanish?

He took another step, then another, moving toward it steadily.

The shop’s windows were dark, but the door, slightly ajar, revealed a sliver of something within—lamplight, but softer, deeper, as if the glow had weight.

The lamplighter hesitated at the threshold, his pulse steady but thick in his throat. He had seen many strange things in his years walking the night, but this—this was different. He reached out, fingers almost brushing the edge of the door. It creaked open, though his hand had never touched it.

Inside, the shelves were alive with movement—books shifting, trinkets rearranging themselves, as if the shop were preparing for a guest. A small brass bell above the door gave a single, odd chime as he crossed the threshold, his boots clicking softly against the wooden floor.

“Oh my,” came a voice from the shadows.

Orrin stood by the counter, his hands resting on an open ledger. His smile was faint, almost apologetic. “Always where you shouldn’t be, doing things you shouldn’t do, aren’t you?”

The lamplighter frowned, glancing back at the door. “I don’t recall this shop being here.”

“It wasn’t,” Orrin said simply. “Not until just now.”

Outside, the wind picked up, carrying the low, mournful creak of the old fishing boats moored in the harbor, their hulls shifting uneasily in the dark, and somewhere in the distance, a candle went out.

The lamplighter shivered.

Orrin watched him with the patience of someone who already knew what would happen next.

The shop exhaled around them—shelves settling, lanterns swaying on unseen drafts. A book slid neatly into place. A silver pocket watch, previously closed, clicked open with a delicate snap, announcing that it was now 4:44AM.

The air smelled of aged paper, sea salt, and something faintly metallic, like the bittersweet anger of a storm one ran away from.

Orrin turned a page in his ledger with slow, deliberate care. “Strange, isn’t it?” he mused. “How some storms follow, no matter how far you run?”

The lamplighter’s jaw tightened.

Orrin turned another page in his ledger, his fingers steady, unhurried. “It’s lovely to finally see you give instead of take, Grendel. But bringing light to a place that prefers the dark?” he mused, not looking up. “Always doing the opposite of what’s best, aren’t you?”

A soft thud broke the hush. A book had fallen from one of the restless shelves, landing at the lamplighter’s feet as if it had chosen him. Its cover was worn smooth, its spine absent of a title. The shop, alive in its quiet, seemed to be watching. Waiting.

He did not move to pick it up and the shopkeeper did not look up from his ledger, but his smile remained, small and knowing.

His pulse quickened.

Orrin, still focused on his ledger, sighed as if the outcome had already been decided. “You should pick it up,” he said. “It doesn’t like waiting.”

Grendel exhaled sharply through his nose. “I don’t like this.” A book without a title. A shop that wasn’t here until it was. A shopkeeper who looked at him like he was already the end of a story he didn’t know.

Orrin’s smile was faint, almost sympathetic. “You were never meant to.” He turned another few pages in his ledger, his smile unwavering, but the soft tremor in his hands betrayed him. After a while, Orrin finally lifted his gaze, his expression unreadable. “You should pick it up, Grendel.”

At the sound of his name, the air seemed to shift. The glow of the lanterns deepened, their flickering flames stretching longer, thinner, like reaching fingers. A floorboard creaked, though neither of them had moved.

And outside, another candle went out. Grendel heard it, felt it, even. The way the fire grew weak, the quivers and shivers before the cold night devoured it… but he didn’t move. He merely tightened his hand around the pole, aching to revive the flames in spite of their odds.

He gripped his pole tighter. "And if I don’t?"

Orrin merely tilted his head, his expression caught between amusement and something quieter.

“Some things, Grendel,” he said. “Don’t like to be left waiting.”

A shadow passed over the lanterns, dimming their glow. Grendel glanced up, but there was nothing—only the steady flicker of light, stretching strange and long, bending where it shouldn’t. The shop exhaled again, wood creaking beneath unseen weight.

Grendel swallowed.

He crouched slowly, reaching for the book. The leather was smooth, worn by years—by hands that had held it before his. As his fingers brushed the cover, a chill ran up his spine.

The lanterns flickered, their glow paling as if something unseen had leaned too close. The shop itself seemed to brace, its silence thickening.

His breath hitched. His fingers curled against the book’s cover.

“You know,” Orrin murmured, glancing at the pages in front of him. “It doesn’t like being ignored either.”

Grendel’s pulse thundered in his ears. The book was cold against his palm, colder than it had any right to be, and he could swear he felt something beneath his fingertips—a pulse, faint and waiting.

He exhaled and, with reluctant resolve, opened the book but the pages were blank.

Grendel stared, throat tight.

Just when he was about to look away, to perhaps give a comment full of teeth and nails, did the pages quiver. In slow, creeping strokes, letters formed, precise but weighted, unfurling like the slow bloom of something inevitable.

You were hands that should never have touched me.

Grendel’s breath caught in his throat. He stared, transfixed, his grip tightening on the book— not to keep it, but as if holding it any looser might let it turn on him. His fingers twitched, itching to let go.

Orrin barely glanced up. “You act as if you weren’t the one who set this in motion,” he said.

Grendel’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t start anything,” he said, his voice low, though it trembled faintly. He didn’t look up, couldn’t tear his eyes from the page. The words seemed to pulse, to throb with a rhythm that matched the pounding in his chest.

“Didn’t you?” Orrin’s tone was light, almost teasing, but there was an edge to it, a sharpness that cut through the air.

The lanterns flickered again; their light wavering as though caught in a draft. Shadows stretched and twisted, dancing along the walls in shapes that almost resembled figures—almost, but not quite. Grendel’s skin prickled, the sensation of being watched intensifying. He could feel the weight of the shop’s gaze, heavy and expectant, pressing down on him.

He turned the page, though every instinct screamed at him to close the book, to throw it aside, to run. The next page was blank, but only for a moment. The same slow, deliberate strokes began to form, the ink spreading like a stain.

You treated me like a corpse and now you wonder why I rotted.

Grendel’s hand twitched, the urge to slam the book shut nearly overwhelming but he couldn’t move. It was as if the book had rooted itself in his hands.

“What is this?” he demanded, his voice rough, though it lacked the force he intended. He finally looked up at Orrin, who still sat behind his ledger, his expression unreadable.

Orrin’s smile was faint, almost sad. “A warning, at best,” he said simply. “A promise, if you are unlucky.”

The air grew colder, the lanterns dimming further. The shadows on the walls seemed to shift, their movements more deliberate now.

Grendel’s heart raced, his breath coming in shallow bursts. He turned another page, his movements jerky, almost involuntary.

This time, the words appeared faster, as though the book had grown impatient.

I was not lost, but you made certain I was never found.

Grendel’s throat tightened. He shook his head, a denial forming on his lips, but the words wouldn’t come. His hands trembled, the book growing heavier in his grip, its cold seeping into his skin, into his bones.

“I don’t want this,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Orrin’s gaze softened, but there was no pity in it. Only understanding. “It doesn’t matter what you want,” he said.

The lanterns flickered one last time, their light guttering like a dying breath.

Grendel’s hands trembled as he turned the page again, the motion almost desperate.

The final words were waiting for him, bold and unyielding, etched into the page with a violence that made his stomach churn.

My turn.

The book fell from his hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud. The lanterns went out, plunging the shop into darkness. Grendel stumbled back, his chest heaving, his mind reeling.

He could feel it now— something solid, something that loomed over him, vast and shapeless and alive, the heat of its breath, the cold of its touch. It was everywhere and nowhere, inside him and around him.

“No,” Grendel choked out, his voice breaking. “No, you can’t— I didn’t—”

But it could. And it did. He felt it the way claws etched into bones felt like, the little warmth of his life spilling out, and the quiet of his lungs. The last thing he heard was the shopkeeper’s voice, soft and final, bleeding into his last moment.

“I warned you,” Orrin mumbled, “some things don’t like to be left waiting.”

The shop fell silent, the air thick and heavy, as if it was holding its breath.

Orrin stood motionless for a moment, his ledger still open on the counter, the faintest tremor in his hands betraying the calm on his face. Then, with a sigh, he stepped around the counter and bent to pick up the lamplighter’s pole where it had fallen. The wood was smooth and worn, still warm from Grendel’s grip.

Orrin turned it over in his hands, his expression unreadable, before setting it gently against the wall.

Outside, the streets were darker than they had been before, the remaining candles in their lamplights flickering weakly, as if they were afraid of the shadows that now stretched longer and deeper than they should. The air was colder, sharper, carrying with it the faint scent of something burnt and bitter.

From now on, Orrin knew, the town would sleep in pieces; its veins never quite lit but its heart never fully dark.

Behind him, a soft clatter broke the silence.

Orrin turned to see Little Sir Menace, the tiny clay knight, wobbling out from a precarious stack of upside-down books. The little figure’s lance was chipped, his shield dented, and his helmet slightly askew, as though he’d been in the midst of a battle before the shop had opened, freezing the poor thing in minutes and moments.

Little Sir Menace blinked up at Orrin, his hollow sockets unreadable, tilting his head curiously, as if to ask what had happened.

Orrin chuckled softly, bending to scoop up the little knight. “Not your fight, little one,” he said, brushing a bit of dust from the knight’s helmet. “Though I suppose you’ve been busy enough with your own battles tonight.” He set the knight on the counter, where the tiny figure promptly sat down, looking both proud and exhausted.

The shop was quiet again, the shadows settling back into their corners, the air still and heavy once more. Orrin glanced at the book lying on the floor, its pages clean and its cover smooth; ready to find a new owner.

With a flick of his wrist, Orrin moved the book to a shelf where it shivered, its pages rustling excitedly as if in agreement to a voice Orrin couldn’t hear.

He glanced at the lamplighter’s pole, shaking his head.

“One story finished,” he murmured. “And another begun.”

---

---