until you're not

Fenner had been an attendant at Four Fourty-Four for exactly thirteen hours now (which is a polite way to say that he had made tea once), and in that time, he had already been nearly strangled by a lantern (two, if he counted the ivy plant currently going through an existential crisis), hunted by a teapot, and aggressively challenged to at least a hundred duels by a tiny clay knight.

He had come to terms with the fact that this shop was out to kill him.

What he had not expected was that it would even apply to a simple task like ‘preparing breakfast’.

“Stay. Down.” Fenner muttered, pressing one hand over the wobbly eggs in the basket. The moment he turned his back, one of them hopped out, rolling purposefully toward the edge of the kitchen counter. A tiny clatter followed. Then another. Then—

Clink. Clink—

Orrin looked up from his newspaper, his coffee long cold—mostly because Little Sir Menace had taken to prodding and poking it with its lance, the liquid inside blood red rather than black.

“I can make breakfast. I have done so before as well.”

Fenner shot him a glare.

“Oh? Is that so? Please enlighten me then why I even have to be here?” Fenner snatched one of the eggs just as it made a daring leap for the floor. He barely caught it in time, clutching it tightly like it was a live grenade.

“This place needs an exorcism. Or Mary Poppins. Or both.”

Orrin turned a page of his newspaper with complete disinterest. “Maybe they’re a little more spirited today. Nothing Mary would bother leaving her cottage for.”

“Spirited?” Fenner echoed as one of the other eggs he was holding slipped through his fingers and started rolling toward the sink. Before he could reach for it, a tiny blur shot past him.

Clink.

Little Sir Menace stood atop the counter, lance pointed at the offending egg, his stance radiating righteous fury. With dramatic flair, he tapped its shell, as if issuing a formal challenge.

Fenner groaned. “Oh, for the love of—don’t provoke it—”

But it was too late. The egg trembled for a moment, then wobbled upright on its own. A hairline crack split down the centre, and something inside shifted. Fenner took a slow step back.

“Orrin.”

“Yes?”

“I think the egg just—there’s something inside.”

“Mmh. Yes.” Orrin took a sip of the coffee-leftovers, absolutely unfazed. “Of course.”

Fenner turned, wide-eyed. “Of course?”

Orrin waved a lazy hand. “They don’t all hatch into something when offended. But it’s best to be careful and not to upset them. I dropped one once and I suppose its friend held a grudge on me over it… That was an exciting week.”

Fenner slowly raised his hands in surrender. “Right. Sure. Obviously.” He turned on his heels just as the ivy plant hanging from the ceiling let out a long, rattling sigh. The vines curled inward, twisting around themselves in sharp, jerky movements, before they suddenly snapped outward, reaching—grasping—as if searching for something it had lost.

A deep, rustling shudder ran through its length.

“Who am I?” the whisper wasn’t spoken aloud, but it scraped through the air, brittle as dry leaves, curling at the edges of Fenner’s mind.

He froze.

“…Nope. Fuck no.”

The ivy lurched, slamming a vine against the wooden beam with enough force to rattle the nearby lanterns.

Orrin barely looked up. “Would you be a little more considerate, please? There’s no need to make it more upset. Sometimes, life is hard.”

Fenner turned sharply. “It’s a plant!” He jabbed a finger upward. “Or so I assumed! Why is it speaking!? What is its godforsaken problem! All it does is hang around! Don’t think I forgot how it tried to kill me because I bumped into a vine! What is wrong with this place?”

At his words, the ivy coiled and uncoiled its vines. Its leaves turned inward again, and for a single, dreadful moment, it seemed to be weaving itself into a shape.

A hand.

Or something like one.

Its vines shuddered apart before it could fully form, collapsing back into aimless tangles.

“I had a name,” the whisper scratched again. “Didn’t I? I had a—” The plant twisted violently, wrenching itself back toward the ceiling. “No. No, no, no.”

It curled inward, shrinking into a tight, writhing mass. Sobbing.

Fenner took a step back, bumping into the counter. “Oh, fantastic. Love that.”

Orrin plopped a sugar cube into his coffee with a quiet splash. “It’ll pass. It does this sometimes. It’s hard, you know. One moment, you’re the beloved pride of someone, and the next second, you’re left in an empty place, the person you love most gone, the one who respected you, raised you, took care of you. It’s a terrible thing for a human to experience. Why would it be any different for a plant.”

Fenner just stared. “What.”

“Mm.” Orrin nodded, stirring his drink. “It has bad days. But that’s alright. Healing can be messy.”

The vines gave one last, pitiful tremor before falling still, the rustling fading into an eerie hush. Fenner let out a slow breath, muscles still tense. “Yeah. Well. I’m having a bad day too, and I’m not out here performing some creepy plant séance about it.”

Orrin finally looked up, giving him a flat, unreadable stare. “No need to be shy. Go ahead. If you need anything; better lightning, darker clothes… let me know.”

Fenner groaned into his hands. “I hate it here.”

Orrin hummed into his cup. “You’ll get used to it.”

For a while, the silence lingered. Orrin watched as Fenner mumbled and grumbled as he tried to keep the eggs in place, simultaneously avoiding the ivy vines who had seemingly switched from sadness to anger.

He sighed, setting his cup down with a quiet clink. He stepped toward the ivy, and with a practiced motion, Orrin reached up and let the vines coil around his arm. “Come along, then,” he murmured, patting the mass of tangled leaves. “It’ll be okay. Humans love plants. We’ll find you a new home. And until then, you can roam my apartment, the garden, and the shop as much as you please. You’ll be alright, little one.”

Fenner watched in open horror. “You’re— You’re talking to it?”

Orrin raised an eyebrow. “I’m talking to you, too, am I not?”

“It’s a plant!”

Orrin chuckled. “I think you need a moment to yourself anyway, Fenner. Don’t worry about it.”

“I need several moments.”

“Yes, well,” Orrin said, still amused, “you can have them.”

Something clinked against the table.

Little Sir Menace stood at the edge of Fenner’s abandoned plate, lance raised in challenge.

“Can you leave me alone for one damn minute! I haven’t done anything to you.”

The tiny knight stomped a foot, rattling the silverware.

Orrin picked him up by the back of his helmet.

“You too,” he said, settling the little knight right next to the mass of curled vines on his arm. Little Sir Menace kicked indignantly but was, as always, weightless in Orrin’s grip.

Fenner ran a hand down his face. “Great. Fine. Take them both.” He gestured vaguely. “Go have your creepy little shop moments. I’ll just—… I’ll stay here. Recover. Pretend none of this happened.”

Orrin, already halfway to the stairs, shot him an amused glance over his shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”

Fenner groaned.

Little Sir Menace continued to wriggle, valiantly attempting to stab the air, as if offended that his duel had been so rudely interrupted, but to no avail—Orrin took them both downstairs, leaving Fenner alone in the kitchen, the old wood creaking under his steps.

He set the little clay knight down first, giving Little Sir Menace a moment to shake off his resentment. The knight planted his lance firmly into the counter with a defiant clink, and Orrin nodded approvingly. “I know. You needed a moment, too, remember? Let Fenner have his.” With that, he placed the ivy beside Little Sir Menace.

Its vines unfurled slowly, stretching like tired limbs after a long night.

Orrin glanced around the shop, spotting the grandfather clock in a corner by the door instead of by the counter where it belonged. Then again… the payphone booth was still there, lingering, perhaps even haunting. There simply was no space right now. He ran a hand over the counter, smoothing the dust from a forgotten corner.

He could, perhaps, contact Grant about it. Ask him to remove some of the objects… find them a different shopkeeper. But he hadn’t spoken to Grant since… well. Since the night where he had gifted forever to Beau and Illo.

His eyes immediately searched the walls, but the painting of the two young men was nowhere to be seen.

A heavy, expectant silence filled the space as the clock ticked, its second hand slicing through the air with sharp precision. And then, just as it always did, the moment arrived.

4:44.

The doors of the shop creaked open as the shelves and walls arranged themselves. The wooden floor now had a thick, dusty carpet, most of the tables where gone, replaced with small baskets and crates, and the maze of shelves and aisles had given up most of its space for greenery and… plastic bags filled with broken ceramics.

Orrin blinked.

He stood for a moment, before moving towards the wares, but just when he was about to reach them, they disappeared. And then, just as the clock’s chimes faded, the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoed from the entrance.

With a small curse, he brought himself behind the counter in time, his jaw tightening when the bags with the broken ceramics plopped back to where they had been before, clearly avoiding him.

A knock echoed through the shop, rattling the little doorbell above the door.

“It’s open.” Orrin called quietly, wondering when the last time had been when a customer had knocked before entering.

From the threshold, a woman stepped inside. She wasn’t particularly tall, five-feet-something-or-other, her posture graceful, as if the world quietly let her be; just as it was customary with those who had experienced too much in too little time, far more than they ever let on.

Orrin’s smiled, bowing slightly. “Welcome to the Four Fourty-Four, Almie.”

The woman paused, her dark eyes flicking to him from under her hood. For a moment it looked like she would turn on her heels and walk out, but the door closed softly behind her, creating an odd moment of silence between them.

Orrin’s smile widened. “I know. It’s rather uncomfortable when a stranger addresses you with your name. But I am no stranger to you.”

“I haven’t been here in a while. I’m sorry. I came to this little corner store when I was younger.”

Orrin straightened. A corner store? Was that what the shop had settled itself in for tonight?

“It’s an odd time to visit one.”

Almie smiled. “I guess so.”

She walked closer to the counter, her fingertips brushing a few of the smaller shelves, now offering sweets Orrin knew were from a time almost two decades ago. She stopped in front of a small cigarette pack. The label was bleached out by the sun, as if someone had forgotten it by the side of a lake in a summer long ago, but the name—Chocolate Cigarettes—still stood strongly, as if it refused to be forgotten.

“Where you looking for that?” Orrin asked, eyeing her quietly.

Her lips twitched upward into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Not really,” she replied, a little too quickly, as though the lie had slipped out before she could catch it. As she moved away, the shelves seemed to part just a little, creating space for her, drawing things closer toward her presence, offering her bruises-to-go rather than the occasional linger of a smile.

She paused again, this time in front of a small paper plate filled with chocolate and cookies, two mugs with washed out colors lingering at each side. She lifted one up and Orrin tensed, watching as the sheer presence of the mug seemed to draw out the last bit of color from her eyes.

“You know, I’m not entirely sure how I ended up here,” Almie said, glancing back over her shoulder at him. “I wasn’t even planning on coming in, but…” She trailed off, shrugging. “I’m not even sure why I came back to this place in general. It changed a lot.”

Orrin didn’t answer immediately. There was something in her words, something beneath the surface of her voice that suggested a past long buried but not survived.

Orrin cleared his throat softly, breaking the silence that had stretched between them. “Well, you are here now. I could help you look for something, if you came in to get something. A treat, perhaps? Or a soda? A newspaper?”

A corner store, Orrin thought as he spoke. From all things, it had to be a corner store! What was he supposed to give to her? Eggs with a grudge? Coffee stabbed to the point it had started bleeding? The existential crisis ivy?

Almie’s fingers hovered over the mugs, as if tracing invisible cracks.

“I remember coming here when I was fourteen. That’s a long time ago. Twenty years. Mum and dad had broken up and mum was moving out with me and my brother. They were arguing all day, so I ran here. Down the hill, to the right, down a smaller hill, up to the left of the church, and right next to the field with the sole, small tower of a long-forgotten castle… well, there was always this little corner store. I wanted to get chocolate cigarettes, but they were sold out.”

She paused, and for a brief moment, Orrin could see the flicker of something painful cross her face. “My little brother liked them too.”

The words hung in the air, and Orrin felt a knot tighten in his chest. He didn’t know why—perhaps it was the way she spoke, or the sadness buried in her tone—but it struck a chord deep inside him. This wasn’t just any visit. She wasn’t simply lost in time. It was the other way round: time had lost her.

“Fourteen, you say?” Orrin asked, his voice gentle. “That’s a difficult age, full of decisions that never seem clear and always too big.”

Almie nodded, her eyes distant. She didn’t look at him when she spoke again, but her voice was steady, though tinged with sorrow. “Cigarettes aren’t for children, you know. I wonder why they made them this way back in the 90s.”

The shop pulled the shelves just a little closer to her, almost as if it wanted to hug her.

After a while, she moved along, closer to the counter, but not close enough for the shop to offer the final item.

A few steps later, she paused again.

“They don’t sell chocolate cigarettes anymore.”

Orrin nodded. “Because cigarettes aren’t for children.”

Almie’s lips curved in a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah. But I promised him back them to buy him some. If I ever see him again… well, I won’t have any for him then.”

She let out a soft breath, one that felt like it was meant to escape from somewhere deep within her chest. The kind of breath you let out after carrying something for far too long and not realizing how heavy it was until you finally had the chance to get rid of it.

Orrin watched as she traced the edge of a small porcelain cup, worn at the rim from countless hands that had held it over the years. There was something in the way she lingered over the object, as though the touch was familiar, but the memory that clung to it was a little out of reach.

“I suppose… I can buy him real cigarettes. He’s 32 now. And I know that he smokes,” Almie continued, her fingers brushing the cup as she spoke. “Funny how, when I was fourteen, I thought I was already ready for everything. Ready to be older. Done with being a child. Raising my own children now… well, turns out I never really was a child. Just the eldest. The eldest girl at that.” She chuckled.

Orrin’s gaze softened, the weight of her words settling between them. There was so much in those small moments—the wanting to be older, to be away.

“I never got to say goodbye to him,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Not really. I didn’t know then, but... I was gone before I even knew I was leaving.”

The shop gave a little hum, like a sigh, as though acknowledging her struggle, but offering no answers.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all of this,” she said softly, almost apologetically. “It’s like... like trying to pick up pieces of a puzzle I lost years ago. I don’t know if I’m even meant to put it back together.”

She moved along again, away from the lower shelves and towards the higher ones in a darker corner.

Orrin merely watched her.

“We share certain people in our lives. And all I hear is how I abandoned him after everything fell apart, how he asks about me. How he aways shrugs it off when they offer him my number. How every little lie makes it my fault. How it is always me, the other child, and never our parents. But… But it was either me leaving at 16, working in a new city, you know, going away temporarily, or… well… or going away, you know. Forever.”

Orrin’s eyes softened, and he nodded slowly.

Almie didn’t look at him, her fingers brushing against the dusty bottles and trinkets on the high shelves, as if she were searching for something that might never be found. The air between them felt heavier now, as though her words had filled the space, making everything too thick, too close. But Orrin didn’t speak, allowing the quiet to settle.

Her words had a finality to them—no matter how much she wished for another outcome; it was clear that her departure from her family wasn’t something she could undo. She was still carrying that burden of the past, even though time had swept her away from it, pulled her into a new life.

By the looks of how her eyes had barely any light left, how her smile never quite reached her, and how her heart seemed to beat with too much force and too little warmth, the new life had been one with lots of jagged rocks and too steep cliffs.

“I was a child, too, wasn’t I?” Almie continued, her voice quieter this time, like a confession. “It was either them or me, not him or me. Either I stayed and kept sinking, or I fought for something different, even if it meant leaving everything behind. But I would have come back for him.” She paused, her hands coming to rest on a glass bottle that caught the light for a moment. “But when I came back at 18, he was gone. Never at home when I visited, never picking up calls, never responding to messages… so I left. And now it’s my fault, after all. As always.”

Orrin shifted slightly. He had no answers for her, no comforting words. But sometimes, silence could say more than words ever could.

“Now he’s out there, and I’m out here, and neither of us know what happened in between. Maybe he doesn’t even care anymore. Maybe he’s learned to forget me.” She laughed, but it was more of a stifled breath. “And maybe that’s for the better...”

“Is it?”

The shop’s shelves creaked, almost like a sigh, as if scolding him for the audacity to even ask.

When Almie turned to face him, the sadness was still there but mixed with something else—a faint glimmer of the girl she once was. The fourteen-year-old who had run down that hill, taken all the turns, rounded all the corners, determined and lost, wanting something simple.

“Sometimes I want him to have the guts and reach out. And other times, I am scared that he will. Most times, however,… I miss him terribly. Seemingly everyone has their built-in-bestie, you know. The sibling they fought with all childhood. The one they pointed fingers at to not get scolded alone, even if they didn’t do anything. I’m an elder sister, until I’m not. There’s no little brother I can be an elder sister to. There’s no adult who knew me all my life. No one I look at and see myself in.”

Orrin met her gaze, his expression somber but kind. “If he left first, then I suppose all you can do is wait.”

“Maybe I am just very tired of hearing that. Everyone says so. He will come around eventually. It wasn’t your fault. He doesn’t know why he isn’t talking to you. He doesn’t mean it bad. He doesn’t hate you. He’s just having to work through things. I’m so tired of it.”

Orrin chuckled. “Until you’re not.”

Almie swallowed, her hands still on the shelves. She glanced at the counter, where a small envelope rested between an odd-looking ivy plant and a small clay figure with hollow sockets.

“Are you selling them?”

Orrin shook his head. “Just took them for a change of scenery. I think the letter is for you, though.”

Almie’s gaze flickered to the envelope, the edges worn and delicate as though it had been handled many times before. She took a slow step toward it, her fingers hovering over the paper like she was afraid to touch it, as if it might burn her or unravel something she wasn’t ready to face.

“It’s what I am afraid of, you know. To one day get a letter or a message. I’ve thought about how it might be to see him again, to talk to him.” she murmured softly, almost to herself. Her eyes flickered to Orrin, who watched her with a steady, almost knowing gaze. “I’ve imagined it a thousand times, rehearsed it in my head until it’s all I know.” She let out a quiet laugh, the sound brittle. “I don’t think it’ll ever feel comfortable. Even if he did reach out, what would I say? What would we even talk about? It’s like trying to fill a hole with something that’s never going to fit.”

Orrin’s eyes softened. “Maybe you don’t have to fill the hole. Maybe it’s just about letting it be empty for a while. That’s an option too.”

She met his gaze, her expression a mixture of doubt and a flicker of something like understanding. “Do I… do I have to open this letter?”

Orrin shrugged. “I don’t think you could. Even if you wanted to.” He said, his tone unbothered. “Letters don’t always travel in straight lines. Maybe one day, he’ll write it. Maybe one day, you’ll read it.”

Almie’s fingers twitched, almost involuntarily. “I don’t think I ever want to. Or… maybe I want to. I guess. I’d… at least once, you know. To get to say goodbye. If he didn’t reach out in… well, in forever…why would he at all.” She reached for the envelope.

The paper was delicate under her fingertips, like it could crumble with just the wrong amount of pressure. She ran her thumb along the edge, the ink faded, and the edges of the paper curled ever so slightly.

“He had the most terrible handwriting, you know. Just like my daughters. It’s impossible to read anything when they put their pens to paper.”

She turned the envelope over in her hand. The seal was unbroken, yet it felt as though it had been waiting here for much longer than she could account for—waiting not for her to open it, but for the right moment. The right version of herself to be ready for whatever was written within.

Almie sighed. She glanced down at the letter again. The handwriting on the outside felt hauntingly familiar, and yet it wasn’t. There was a tenderness to it, as if whoever wrote it had left a part of themselves in the words—like a conversation that hadn’t yet happened, a reunion yet to come.

“I hate that I miss him. I hope I haunt him the way he haunts me, and then I feel bad for wishing that on him… I hate that I can’t seem to forget about him like he seems to have about me. Is it that easy for little siblings? To just… to just…”

“Partly.” Orrin said. “Mostly because an elder daughter rarely remains a child. Sooner or later, they are turned into a third parent, a small adult. The always fine-one, the responsible one, the one with the good grades and the longer list of chores. The one to know her things, to do her things, to let others do funnier things because someone has to help run the show. The one who helps with homework, the one who takes them to friends, the one who watches them when the parents are out.”

Almie lingered for a moment, her hand brushing over Little Sir Menace’s small, unfinished form on the counter. The tiny clay knight seemed to stare back at her with his hollow sockets. It felt like an odd kind of reminder—a sense that, sometimes, the things that felt most unfinished were the ones that held the most potential for what could still be.

“It’s not fair.” she whispered, more to herself than to Orrin.

Orrin gave a small nod. “It isn’t. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have a little hope.”

Almie tensed. Quietly so, softer than someone else would have tensed, as if she felt guilty for straightening up at the words. “I don’t want hope. Just makes it worse. Wishing, wondering, thinking. It’s running on a loop. ‘Maybe today’, ‘maybe tomorrow’, ‘maybe for my birthday’, maybe for Christmas’.”

“Hope can be a strange thing," Orrin said, his voice quiet, as if carefully choosing each word. “It isn’t pretty. More often than not, it tears open your wounds as it pleases. Out of nowhere, like it’s been bored while you struggled to put yourself back together. Hope aches and it gnaws. It’s a terrible thing, really. But the thing with hope is, it doesn’t mean it bad. It’s genuinely holding on for you. It knows you can’t anymore, so it takes over. It’s just stubborn enough to wait with you, until it is clear that there is nothing left to wait for… and I suppose that for you, there is still someday and somehow.”

Almie let out a breath, long and slow. “I don’t know. It feels like I’m stuck in the same place, just circling around, waiting for something that might never come. And it’s exhausting.” Her fingers tightened around the envelope as if they were afraid to let go, as though the letter was the last thread tethering her to something she could still hold on to. “And what if that peace means accepting that he might never come around? That he might never care enough to reach out? What if peace is just… letting go?”

Orrin’s gaze softened further, and for a moment, he didn’t seem like a shopkeeper at all. Rather than that, he was an adult Almie would have deserved in her life. Someone, who let her be a child; a hurt child, a lonely child, a scared child, a child that wanted a simple thing, nothing more.

A little girl who quickly had become an afterthought.

“Letting go doesn’t always mean losing something. Sometimes, it’s just making room for something new to take its place.”

Almie’s throat tightened. “Who’d be able to take my little brother’s place? When I was eight and we went to school, stealing apples, running across fields, hiding in the wheat, playing catch by the river, gathering frogs and lizards—snatching cake the day before a birthday, trying to trap Santa—who would ever be able to fill this spot if not—”

She finally took a deep breath and set the envelope down on the counter. She knew he was right, but the thought of letting go—the thought of allowing the space to be empty, without the promise of anything else… Still, she couldn’t ignore the small part of herself that craved peace, that ached to get rid of wondering, waiting, and wishing.

“What do I do now?” Almie asked quietly. “What did I come here for again?”

Orrin’s expression became neutral, but there was a hint of something gentle in the way he regarded her. He glanced at the clock.

Almost 6.

He rummaged behind the counter, holding out a small blue-white packet to her. “Chocolate cigarettes. Like back in the 90s. From that one summer with barely any shadows in sight. With lots of trips to the lake; going out by boat with the young boy you once had a crush one, the son of the man your mother worked for. Only to jump off the boat halfway to swim to the small island in the lake, watching the bigger ships go by until the lifeguards came to scold you for swimming out so far.”

Almie stared at the packet for a long moment, her fingers brushing over the wrapper, feeling the sharp corners. A soft laugh bubbled up, hesitant and quiet, as if it had been stuck in her throat for years. “I had completely forgotten about these.”

It wasn’t quite right, but after all, her stay at the shop was coming to an end.

“There are things that get lost along the way,” he said, his voice calm. “But that’s fine. Sooner or later, they come back around. Fashion, sweets,” people, he almost added, but he swallowed the word.

Sooner or later, hope would hurt her enough.

Orrin adjusted the ivy plant on the counter, the letter nowhere in sight.

Almie rummaged in her coat, dropping him a few coins and Orrin realized, that for the first time ever, a small price tag was attached to the ware he had given out.

Frowning, he took the money, shoving it in an empty space underneath the countertop.

“Have a nice day, Sir.” Almie said, her eyes still a little too dark, a little too haunted for his liking.

“You too. Have a nice day. Enjoy your treat.”

She smiled, only for a brief moment, and as she walked out the door, slipping the chocolate cigarettes into her coat, the clock struck six. The shop exhaled as the door shut behind her, a whisper of settling wood and shifting air, as if the space itself was releasing something.

Orrin stood still for a long moment, his fingers brushing against the coins beneath the counter.

A price tag.

It had been so long since anything in Four Forty-Four had one. Since anything given had required something tangible in return.

He glanced toward the ivy plant, its leaves curling in the low light. But only for a moment.

It snapped a vine straight into Little Sir Menace’s face, stirring him from his unplanned freeze in time. Little Sir Menace flailed, wielding his tiny lance, his hollow sockets fixed on the ivy. He swung his lance at the offending plant with all the fury a loaf-sized knight could muster but he missed spectacularly.

Instead, he drove it straight into Orrin’s hand.

Orrin barely reacted.

The sharp tip of the tiny lance was more of an inconvenience than an actual lethal problem, but Little Sir Menace had a different opinion. With great effort, the tiny knight pried his weapon free and immediately began an aggressive, flustered routine of making amends—tapping the spot on Orrin’s skin where the lance had landed, as if assessing the non-existent damage.

Orrin chuckled, rubbing his thumb over the faint mark. “Calm down. You’ve done worse to furniture.”

Little Sir Menace stiffened at that, his whole form radiating the unmistakable energy of a knight caught in scandal.

Chuckling, Orrin let out a breath and nudged the little knight away from the plant he had started to sneak up on (without much luck in the matter; it was Little Sir Menace, after all.)

His mind looped back to the price tag, almost as if it just couldn’t grasp the matter at hand. He had never set one before. Not truly. Yet Almie had left payment all the same.

His gaze flickered out the window, though he knew she was already gone.

The shop had let her go.

Not in the way it let customers slip away into the mist, fading into the forgotten corners of their own lives—but truly let her go. Without making her leave something here. Without making her take something with her.

Well… in a way she had taken something and left something. But… well. Wrongly.

Orrin exhaled slowly and turned his attention back to Little Sir Menace, who was now dramatically jabbing at the ivy, ensuring it knew its place. Despite it all, a slow, fond smile tugged at the corners of Orrin’s lips.

“I suppose, there is always something new for us, mhm?” he murmured, scooping the little knight into his palm. “Speaking of something new. Let’s see how Fenner is doing with breakfast.”

The ivy plant rustled as if in protest, but Orrin paid it no mind. He grabbed it, settling it comfortably against his chest, before making his way upstairs, leaving the coins where they were. Halfway up, the ivy stretched its vines around Orrin’s neck, causing him to give it a sharp look.

“You might want to reconsider. I have a cook now. And I am sure he hates this place enough to replace wine leaves with ivy leaves in certain meals.”

The ivy stilled immediately, its vines retreating just enough to suggest reluctant obedience. Orrin smirked. “Thought so.”

Little Sir Menace, cradled in his palm, gave it a long, knightly warning glare. Upstairs, he pushed the door open with his boots and set the ivy down on the kitchen table, where it made a show of curling toward the light.

He ignored it again.

And Fenner ignored them too.

Little Sir Menace wiggled in Orrin’s grip, clearly eager to continue where they had stopped earlier, but Orrin tightened his hold just slightly, preventing any immediate disasters. Fenner didn’t look up from the stove, but his voice was as dry as ever. "If that plant so much as twitches toward me, I’m throwing it out into the compost."

Orrin smirked. “Funny that you say that. That’s what I did with the egg that held a grudge towards me as well.”

Fenner’s hand froze over the skillet, his back stiffening, but he didn’t say anything.

As Orrin settled into a chair, Fenner plated something that might have been toast before it met its untimely fate. A faint curl of smoke still lingered from the edges.

Orrin eyed it with a smirk. “Good thing I’m immortal, I suppose.”

Fenner shot him a look so deadpan it was nearly a glare. “Good thing I’m not,” he muttered. “Maybe the plant will kill me in my sleep. Or maybe my bedside lamp will. Oh hey, wait. If I’m really lucky, the little violence-coded brickman over there might get the winning blow in.”

Orrin grinned, not at all put off by Fenner’s grumbling. “I should find him a better lance then. Maybe we can give him a piece of the toast you turned into coal and see how far that gets him.”

Fenner exhaled slowly, then nudged the plate toward Orrin. “Be my guest.”

---

---