welcome to chapter 41 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.
Fenner’s eyes snapped open to soft ceiling-light and the crisp scent of dried herbs. The curtains barely moved, despite the window being cracked open. The room was exactly as he’d left it the last time he’d woken here. The folded towels remained stacked in perfect thirds, the chair hadn’t moved so much as a millimeter, and even the small crack in the floorboard next to the bed looked rather deliberate.
He swallowed against the dryness in his throat. On the nightstand lay a folded slip of paper.
Deliveries can’t wait. Don’t leave. I’ll be back. -Grant.
Fenner stared at the note. Then he crumpled it in his fist, swung his legs right off the bed and stood.
Time to leave.
His bare feet met the floor with a faint tap.
Out in the hallway, the quiet continued. No humming pipes. No distant footsteps. No shop creaking as it breathed around him. The front door opened smoothly, as if the hinges had been oiled just a moment ago and no passage of time had ever touched the door.
The morning light outside was buttery and warm, the cobbled path in front of Grant’s porch was free of leaves. The hedges had been clipped so neatly the corners looked sharp enough to cut, and the flowers by the fence were tilted at the exact same angle, like they’d been caught mid-curtsy.
Fenner blinked and took a few steps forward until suddenly, a bell chimed. With the first note, the flowers cracked open, all of them at the same time, the same angle, the same colours. Beyond Grant’s garden, the town unfolded in a similar pattern.
Rows of pale-coloured houses with each door painted one of five pastel colours, alternating with pleasing regularity, plopped into view. From somewhere unseen, the birds began to sing. Exactly on the beat of the town’s distant clock tower.
Fenner turned in place slowly, grimacing.
The air had a texture he couldn’t name, like it had been filtered too many times. It was clean, yes. Crisp, most definitely. But also empty.
There was not a single trace of dust or soil. No wood or grass smell. Not even the faint perfume of the flowerbeds, now all in perfect, glossy bloom.
When he reached the end of the small garden path, another bell chimed. A row of shutters opened down the street, left to right, perfectly timed, like dominoes painted in sage green and buttery white. As he passed the first house, a woman stepped out onto her stoop. It was a picture his childhood had him best prepared for: glittery dress, a pointy hat, brightly coloured cloak, thick glasses, a star-shaped stick, and oddly transparent looking shoes.
Clearly, a fairy-godmother-witch-magic person-immortal.
She tapped the watering can and Fenner watched it float upwards, emptying itself into the flower box already in full bloom.
“Lovely morning, isn’t it?” she said, smiling a little too wide for his liking.
“Sure,” Fenner muttered, and kept walking.
At the next house, a broom swept a few steps with precise little strokes. The man watching it had the same smile and the same nod as the lady from earlier.
“Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely.” Fenner said dryly. “Perfect for a stroll through hell, I suppose.”
At the next corner, a cafe stood with its sign flipped to Open. A small round table had been set outside, one teacup, one pastry, a flower in the middle of the table, a pretty vase, but no chair by the table, and no person to enjoy the breakfast.
He stepped up to the door, half-expecting it to creak or squeak like all café doors did after some time of usage, but it swung open on silent hinges, just like Grant’s door had.
Fenner wasn’t sure what to make of that. Did that mean no one ever came here? Was the food bad? The coffee bitter? He looked around, but the inside of the place was beautiful and the scent of the pastries and coffee just absolutely out of this world. The counters were spotless, shelves filled with gleaming jars lined the walls, and the chairs were tucked in at identical angles. A wall of teacups, all hung precisely with the same distance to each other, seemed to be the centerpiece of the café.
The woman behind the counter looked up.
“Welcome. Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
Fenner wanted to scream but he opted for something more civil. “Yeah, uh. Thanks. Do you have… coffee?”
“We do.”
“Is it real?”
She blinked. Slowly. “Of course? What else would it be?”
He got one To Go.
To say that he was surprised when the woman knew what that meant was an understatement.
Back outside, a trio of children walked by, identical schoolbags on their backs, same cloak swirling around their ankles, same pointy hats, and they waved in unison: “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
Before he could say anything, the clock tower chimed and with it, curtains flicked in windows, and birds took off in unison from rooftops.
The same pattern. The same movements.
“Where the fuck am I?” Fenner muttered, horrified.
Sure, with all the magic around him and Grant’s house not far off, he must be in some sort of magic town but…
What the actual fuck??? What was this place??
He thought of the Four Fourty-Four and his heart gave a hard thump.
He missed the creaky floorboards that rearranged themselves overnight, the screaming dresser cupboard, Little Sir Menace who fought everything and everyone it deemed worthy or unworthy, he missed being attacked by cupboards and the groceries, gods, he missed the damn grocery store, too.
He missed the way his shower started singing when he took too long or wasted water, he missed how his bed sheets would bite his toes, the struggle with the broom, Lord Stranglewood, that damn phone booth which was always in the way.
He missed the shop.
It’s chaotic, messy magic. The way it loomed around him like an unruly dog that refused to heel. Always too loud, too fast, too much. But at least it was. Here, though, nothing moved unless it was told to. Nothing seemed to happen unless it was scheduled.
Fenner sipped the coffee. It was perfect.
Not good. Not bad. Just perfect.
Which was awful.
The temperature sat stubbornly between hot and warm. It was neither bitter nor sweet. It felt good on his tongue but after a sip, the memory of it was gone too. And so was the taste.
Here a moment, gone the next.
Just like everything in this godforsaken place.
Down the street, another bell chimed. At once, the bakery across the plaza flipped its sign from closed to open. The window filled up, loaves of bread gleamed with golden crusts, some pastries, a few steaming bags, but the steam didn’t curl.
It just existed like it had been summoned into place.
And no one entered the bakery. No one exited either.
Fenner stepped closer, just to see if the pastries moved, if they settled or slid, if they steamed at different rates, if one fell over under its own flaky weight.
But no, nothing. They looked almost printed. Crafted, even. Like the display meals in Japanese restaurants.
He backed away.
Further down, a child stood at a street corner, holding a balloon. The string was wrapped tightly around one fist, her other hand tucked behind her back. Her posture was perfect. Her hair was in twin braids so identical, it looked like someone had mirrored one half of her skull. A red carriage blinked into existence beside her. No sound, no light, no puff of air.
The girl climbed inside without a word and the balloon vanished the moment she did.
Fenner shivered. He passed a bookstore next. A plaque in the window above the door, read: We offer only clean narratives. Endings assured. Through the window, rows of books stacked themselves on command. He saw one float down into the hands of a young man, who opened it, nodded once, and then let it drift back to a shelf.
Fenner’s fingers twitched toward the handle but he stopped himself before he could touch it. Instead of going in, he opted to continue walking. He passed a tailor’s shop where robes stitched themselves, hovered for a few seconds, before finally folding themselves into neat cubes.
The next time the street parted, Fenner turned into a small alley. He craved a flaw, a crack, a crease—anything—in this city’s perfect seams. But the damn alley was clean too. A little hedge at the end trimmed into a perfect cube. A floating lantern swaying gently with no breeze. The stones underfoot were all the same size. Same shade. Same placement.
No cracks, splints, tiny stones, nothing.
Fenner paused, heart rising. Maybe this was hell. Maybe this was it. Maybe they had whisked him away after he had told them that he wanted to go back home. Maybe tomorrow, he’d be watching a broom sweep the stairs, greeting people with the same sentence over and over, drinking perfect coffee with no taste, walking a perfect street with not cracks.
If this was magic…
No wonder Orrin had gone rogue.
He took a slow breath, looked around.
Surely, there must be a way to get back home. The Four Fourty-Four had been in so many places, there had been so many nights were Orrin had been down in the shop…
If they could find it accidentally, Fenner could find it for sure.
He glanced down the alley again, hoping maybe—just maybe—the hedge would wilt a little. Or maybe disappear and make room for a crude little shop. Or that the lantern might bounce towards him, showing him the way.
But nothing.
Everything was perfect.
Fenner winced. He’d never thought of ever missing that grocery store, but here he was, wishing for it to pop up around the corner. At the end of the street, however, something did pop up.
A tall figure appeared, ripping him out of his jumbled thoughts. The long coat shimmered like spun glass, their hands were clasped behind their back, and a clipboard hovered beside them.
Fenner swallowed. That looked… perfectly problematic.
He took a slow step back. Then another. And bumped directly into someone.
“Apologies,” came the voice from behind him.
He turned, heart stumbling.
It was the figure.
His head whipped back to the spot it had been at before, but it had vanished. And apparantly, it was now right behind him. Well… had been right behind him.
Since he was looking at it right now it was more like… in front of him.
Somewhat.
“You’re the Forty-Fourth,” they said.
Fenner’s mouth went dry. “Excuse me?”
“You’re the one Grant petitioned for,” the figure continued. “A risk profile of 6.7. The magic-to-success ratio was—”
“I didn’t ask for numbers.”
“No,” the figure said with a condescending smile. “You asked for Orrin, right? I have heard the Harbinger talk about it. It’s a problem.”
Fenner stiffened. “There’s no problem. I want to go home.”
“Home?” The courier blinked, slowly. “The Four Fourty-Four is not home. It’s awful. Dirty. Dangerous. Orrin is not a keeper. He’s a hoarder. He collects wild things and forgets the damage they do when they’re not being watched. Grant still thinks he can be brought back. That Orrin can still fit in. That they can get back what was taken from them. But Grant…” The figure’s gaze flicked toward the sky, where even the clouds had the same distance between each other. “He’s a relic, you know. Like Orrin. Like that shop. Do you know how many favours Grant used to be owed? He could have had it all. But now? He’s got no successors. Nothing he can call in. No favours left. A business no one needs anymore. With clean magic, you don’t need places like Orrin’s shop. And without places like that, the demand shrinks. And without a demand, no more duty.”
The figure stepped closer, voice low. “So let me give you a piece of advice, Forty-Four. If a door disappears, there’s usually a reason for that. Let it stay closed.”
Then they were gone. Leaving Fenner not only cold and confused but genuinely worried. He didn’t even realize he’d crumpled the coffee cup in his hand until a few perfect drops hit his wrist. But even then the beverage didn’t spill on the ground or his clothes. It just hovered. As if too polite to make a mess.
Fenner stared down at the floating drops of coffee. They hovered between his hand and the cobbled alley, suspended in that same perfect limbo as everything else in this place. He shook his hand, and only then did the droplets vanish with a polite fshht, as if quietly embarrassed for having drawn attention at all.
“You’re kidding me,” Fenner muttered. He let the cup fall but it disappeared before it hit the ground. No bounce. No splatter.
Fenner felt a heat rise in his chest, a pulse of something messy and unwanted. He turned in a slow circle, fists clenched, ready to scream at a hedge or tackle a lantern if that’s what it took to get a reaction. But instead—
“I told you to stay in the bedroom,” said a voice behind him.
Fenner spun. Grant stood at the mouth of the alley, arms folded, expression unreadable.
“And I told you I wanted to go home.”
“You can’t.”
“Why?”
Grant didn’t answer. Fenner waved an arm at the alley. “This place is wrong. Do you see it? Do you feel it? The light doesn’t change. The wind doesn’t blow. The coffee doesn’t even go cold.”
Grant’s jaw ticked but Fenner kept going.
“The flowers bloom on a schedule, everyone speaks like they’ve been programmed, the birds fly off the roof twice a day or whatever the pattern here is, and there’s not a single fucking crack in the stonework!” His voice rose, broke. “I would kill to trip over that damn living room carpet in the shop again. I would even thank the cupboard for biting me.”
Grant let out a slow exhale and rubbed at his face. “It’s safer here.”
Fenner’s hands dropped to his sides. “Safe?” he whispered. “What the fuck do you mean with ‘safe’? What exactly do you call safe here? This is empty. It’s dead. Magic isn’t supposed to be dead. It’s supposed to cackle, to crack, to spark, to scare the shit out of you at breakfast, it’s supposed to make you laugh and scream at the same time, it’s supposed to try get its own way, it needs to—”
Grant was in front of him a second later, pressing a hand over Fenner’s mouth.
“Magic is supposed to be clean. It’s supposed to be efficient. You use magic to-”
Fenner bit into his thumb, causing Grant to yank his hand away.
“Bullshit!”
His hands trembled.
He was that angry.
“You’re just as awful as this place. Just as empty and dead. I’m starting to understand why Orrin was so mad at me. He really tried to give me real magic, he—”
“He killed someone for it.”
“He wouldn’t have if I would have listened.”
Grant shook his head.
“You misunderstand. Orrin is dangerous. He hunts immortals, traps them in his paintings and—”
“Maybe I misunderstand. But you don’t understand at all.”
This time, Grant laughed. “Oh, alright. The little human has an idea, doesn’t it? Tell me then.”
“He. It’s he. I’m not a thing.”
Grant looked at him. And for a moment, the tiredness in his face collapsed into something harder. Like a seam pulled too tight, threatening to split.
“I’m trying to protect you—”
“No, you’re trying to contain me. Like everything else here.”
Grant opened his mouth. Shut it again. His shoulders pulled taut. Fenner didn’t let up.
“You think I don’t get it, but I do. This place works like a spell that never ends. No smudges. No pushback. No consequences. Just results.” He jabbed a finger toward the street. “You think that’s safety? Where is the success and the reward if everything is always right and perfect? What is safety when you are not able to see a problem?”
“Orrin is a problem. Which is why—” Grant paused briefly, his voice came low. “You don’t know what it was like before.”
Fenner scoffed. “And you don’t seem to remember what it was supposed to be.”
Grant turned sharply, as if to leave, but Fenner grabbed his sleeve.
“Why did you pick me?” he asked.
Grant didn’t turn.
“Forty-four cycles. Forty-four tries. Why did you use up your favours for me? Why was I the one being thrown into your people’s mess?”
Still silence. When Fenner didn’t expect any sort of reaction anymore, Grant suddenly turned around.
“Because you laughed,” he said quietly. “The first time you saw magic—real magic—you laughed. You toddled all around my shop, hands on everything, sticky little fingers snatching trinkets and books, tears from laughter when the broom danced and the fruit tried to bite your ankle. You watched me with sheer wonder when I sculpted Little Sir Menace. And when I held it out to you, you gave him a little kiss on the helmet, where he has a small dent even to this day, and I just knew it had to be you.”
Fenner’s breath caught but Grant wasn’t done talking.
“I thought, maybe you’d last longer because you didn’t want to change it. Because you were so much like Orrin when he was a boy. I thought if anyone can stop him from slipping away, it’s you. So I brought him the clay knight, so Osselinn knew where to bring you.”
Fenner stood still. The alley around them was too clean to contain this kind of confession. Too quiet for truths like this.
“You used him to find me?” Fenner asked softly. “Little Sir Menace?”
Grant’s jaw clenched. “Osselinn can’t track humans. Not unless they’ve been marked. But she can track vessels. Vessels always leave a trace.”
Fenner’s throat closed.
“You marked me like a package.”
“I marked you like a last chance.” Grant snapped.
“For what?”
Grant hesitated. “To… anchor him,” he said at last. “To remind him that the way he sees magic can still belong to someone who wants it, who loves it for what it was.”
“Then why didn’t you go and tell him? Why didn’t you just waltz in there and sit him down for a talk and—”
“I did go.” Grant’s voice broke. “I went. I begged. I stayed until the shop spit me out so hard I couldn’t stand up for three days. I brought things. I pleaded with him. I left notes. He never answered. Orrin doesn’t want me anymore.”
Fenner stared at him, stunned.
“I am too polished,” Grant said bitterly. “Too many years of compromise. Too many scheduled routes. He looks at me and doesn’t see a friend or lover. He sees a mirror of everything he hates.”
“I’m human. In case you forgot.”
“That’s why you’re perfect. Humans are messy. They love recklessly. They bond with everything. A book, a plant, an animal, an old blanket. They are hoarders, like Orrin. You seemed perfect to keep him company. So he wouldn’t be alone. He was always afraid of being alone.”
Fenner’s chest ached. He wanted to scream, or cry, or maybe both.
“Then why can’t I go back home? Why won’t you let me?And— And Little Sir Menace, I don’t remember him. And… toddled? Like… was I a baby? I don’t remember anything.”
Grant didn’t speak at first. His gaze dropped to the ground, to the too-clean cobblestones that didn’t allow for scuff marks or stains.
“Yes,” he said eventually.
“Yes?”
“Yes, you were younger. Not a baby, but… small. Messy. Loud. I don’t think you knew what you were laughing at most of the time, but you laughed anyway.”
Fenner shook his head. “But I don’t remember any of it.”
“You weren’t supposed to,” Grant said. “But it changed you. You thought different than other humans. Believed in magic. Looked for what others couldn’t see.”
Fenner swallowed.
“You tried to tell people about the broom that danced. The knight who stood guard at your dreams. The shadows that whispered lullabies. The other humans didn’t seem to be able to deal with you that well,” Grant continued. “Your teachers called you distracted. Your friends thought you were making things up. At some point, even your parents stopped asking what you were thinking. You were always somewhere else they couldn’t go.”
Fenner looked down at his hands. “They thought I was just… weird.”
“Is that so?” Grant asked gently. “They seemed to be fine with stars in the sky, the way poetry feels, and how hope makes you feel warm even outside in the cold. How odd to judge a child for their words.”
Fenner’s breath hitched.
“They kept trying to shape you into something digestible,” Grant said. “But whimsy doesn’t make sense to people who’ve never let themselves wonder. And you—” his gaze softened, “you wondered. Constantly. Loudly. With so much joy for the little things. You asked what if. You looked at shadows and expected them to smile back.”
“I used to get in trouble for staring out the window,” Fenner said, voice hoarse. “For doodling things that didn’t exist. For getting caught reading fairy tales in science class.”
“You were trying to find a way back,” Grant said. “And eventually, you knew exactly where to go so Osselinn could find you when I lost sight of you.”
Fenner blinked.
“I thought I was broken,” Fenner whispered.
“You’re not,” Grant said. “You’re just star-shaped in a world that prefers triangles. And I’m a triangle myself. I didn’t recognise you at first. Completely misunderstood who and what you are. But eventually, in that town on your first errand, my memories came back.”
He looked at Fenner for a good minute. “You’re like Orrin, back in our younger years. Full of wonder and whimsy, of adventure, and the endless ability to love the little things the most. That’s why I picked you.”
Fenner blinked fast, trying to keep his voice steady. “That bakery job was the first place I felt quiet enough to think. And even then, I still felt like I was waiting. Like I’d forgotten something.”
“You had.” Grant’s voice turned gentler, quieter. “And I need you to forget again. To turn around, walk around the corner, and despite my task to bring you back to my house, I need you to walk somewhere, and find your way back. Before I forget again.”
Fenner froze. “Forget what?”
This time, Grant didn’t look tired from the injuries he had sustained. He looked in pain.
“That you’re my last chance to get Orrin back. I need you to go home and find him where I left him all those years ago. Just until… until I know what to do. How to reach him. Who to pay to… to fix it. To clean it up. Whatever happened.”
Fenner stared at him, heart in his throat, immediately understanding the situation in a way only a human could understand.
He looked at Grant, a man who had been told, for so long, to keep his edges clean and his steps in line. And then he thought of Orrin, who had been told the same, but who had burned everything that tried to shape him. Refused to fit, refused to comply, refused to let go.
And neither of them was willing to move toward the other.
Fenner took a step back, eyes still on Grant, but thoughts running wild.
This was it. The thing that had followed him throughout his entire life. The one issue he had dealt with while growing up. The problem not even most humans overcame, no matter how hard they tried.
Love that had nowhere to go.
This may just be me, but I'm now finding it hard not to see Orrin and Grant as two irreconcilable halves of a whole.
'Love that had nowhere to go.' Also, I had a bad feeling about Grant from early on 🧐