Mabel was sitting on a really tall chair, munching on a steak in an extremely luxurious restaurant. Her uncle was also eating a steak, which was weird as she'd initially thought she would just starve until he finally bothered to buy cereal and milk.
The restaurant had simply… happened. One moment they were standing on the grimy sidewalk, Nathaniel staring with profound weariness at the door of a generic diner. The next, he had frozen, his gaze sharpening on a crack in the pavement as if reading a missive carved in stone. He'd sighed, a sound of pure, distilled resignation, and pushed the door.
The air had shifted. The greasy spoon was gone. In its place was a vaulted hall of dark wood and soft light, where the clink of silverware was a gentle, moneyed music and the air smelled of rosemary and seared beef. A server had materialized, bowed with a formality that felt like a verdict, and ushered them to a secluded booth without a word.
Nathaniel hadn't explained. He'd just scanned the menu with a critic's disdain and ordered the most expensive cut for both of them. The waiter had vanished and returned with impossible speed.
"This is… a bit much for a Tuesday," Mabel said, her voice small in the vast, hushed space. She swung her legs, her heels thumping softly against the embroidered velvet of the chair.
"It's Thursday," Nathaniel corrected without looking up, meticulously separating a piece of fat from his meat as if performing a dissection. "And I didn't make it. It's a gift. A bribe, more accurately."
Mabel paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. "A bribe? From who?"
"From an old acquaintance. A reminder of a… settled matter." He finally looked at her, his golden eyes glinting in the candlelight like old coins. "There's no debt. No new favor. It's just a… receipt. Proof of a previous transaction."
the Voice murmured, its tone flat and grim.
Mabel's eyes widened. "Another Keeper? They're just… out there? Sending you restaurants as receipts and what is a deicide?"
"They are meticulous. They believe in balancing the books, even for transactions that can never be spoken of." He gestured vaguely at the gilded sconces. "The presentation is a bit… on the nose. All this gilt. It's the aesthetic equivalent of a raised eyebrow. And a deicide i'll tell u that later"
"So, what do they want?"
"Nothing. That's the point." He set his knife and fork down with a soft, definitive click. "They are saying, 'I remember. I know you remember. And we are both aware that the circumstances which once required our… collaboration… are re-emerging.' The fire was a message from our enemies. This…" He gestured with his knife at the opulent, silent room. "This is a message from the only other being who knows I am not nearly as harmless as I appear."
The steak suddenly felt like lead in Mabel's stomach. The luxurious room was no longer a sanctuary, but a gilded confession booth.
"So we're being watched right now?"
"We are being acknowledged," he clarified, the word hanging in the air, cold and final. "He is not threatening me. He is reminding me that I have, on exactly one occasion, chosen a side. And that side has not forgotten. Enjoy the steak. It's the last truly simple thing you'll taste for a while."
They ate the rest of the meal in a silence thick with the weight of a shared, unspoken crime. The food was perfect, but every bite was a communion with a ghost.
Finally, Nathaniel pushed his plate away, the steak only half-eaten. He stood, and the moment he rose, the restaurant's solidity wavered. The maître d' flickered, becoming for a split second a tall, slender figure whose eyes held the cold, impartial sheen of a polished silver scale. The figure gave a slight, precise nod—not of greeting, but of recognition—before the illusion snapped back into place and then dissolved entirely.
They were back on the grimy, noisy street. The transition was so jarring Mabel stumbled.
He caught her arm, his grip surprisingly steady. "Now," he said, his voice a low murmur, "we go home. The receipt has been filed. The past is no longer sleeping."
"What past?" Mabel asked, her head spinning.
"A tedious one." He sighed, the sound laden with the weight of a buried weapon being exhumed. "But first, we appear to require… provisions."
What followed was the strangest shopping trip of Mabel's life. It was not a matter of browsing. Nathaniel would stop in front of a store, his gaze turning inward and slightly annoyed, as if scanning a tedious internal checklist.
Dresses and Shoes. He stood outside a boutique, his eyes scanning the window display with the detached analysis of a general surveying a battlefield. "That one. The deep green. And the grey. And the blue. And the yellow. And the white," he stated, pointing with a faintly accusing finger at five mannequins. "In her size. And... the footwear corresponding to each." A saleswoman emerged, her eyes glazed, her arms laden not just with the five perfectly sized dresses, but with five pairs of shoes: practical ankle boots for the grey dress, sturdy leather sandals for the blue, and a pair of simple, elegant black shoes that somehow looked both comfortable and formal for the green, soft-soled, suede ankle boots in a pale wheat shade for the practical, sun-hued yellow dress, and a pair of impeccably clean, resilient white sneakers for the pristine white one—shoes made for standing, waiting, or a sudden, necessary departure. No fitting room. No payment. He simply took the bundle, and the woman wandered back inside, humming.
Mabel took the heavy, soft bundle, the textures of wool, cotton, and leather a tangible promise against her chest. She wasn't just getting clothes; she was being equipped for a future.
A Study Set. Outside a furniture store, he stared at a simple wooden desk and chair. "That will do. But the legs require… correction." He made a subtle twisting motion with his finger. Inside, the legs of the chair and desk shifted, the proportions becoming perfectly ergonomic for a thirteen-year-old girl. The manager, holding a clipboard, simply nodded, made a checkmark, and turned away.
Groceries. This was the most surreal. He walked into a supermarket, grabbed a single, empty cardboard box from a stack, and began a slow, deliberate parade down the aisles. He didn't pick items off the shelves. He simply passed them, and as he did, cans of soup, boxes of pasta, a carton of eggs, and a bag of apples popped into existence inside the box he carried. He bypassed the cereal aisle entirely. "Nutrient-deficient chaff," he muttered. He did, however, stop to glare at a jar of instant coffee until it obediently levitated into the box. the Voice sighed.
Mabel, trailing behind him with her new dresses and shoes in a garment bag, felt like she was watching a king reluctantly manage his own tiny, bizarre kingdom. He wasn't buying things; he was curating his immediate future to minimize further hassle.
Finally, laden with their haul, they stood before the concrete monolith of their apartment building. The white void awaited.
Nathaniel looked at the box of groceries, then at the garment bag, then at the door, his expression that of a man facing a mountain he was expected to climb for the third time today.
"These are anchors," he said, so quietly she almost missed it.
"What are?"
"All of it. The dresses. The shoes. The desk. The eggs." He met her gaze, and the ancient exhaustion in his eyes was momentarily eclipsed by a flicker of grim understanding. "They are anchors in the void. Things that tie you here. To a tomorrow. To a future that requires… participation."
He took a deep, weary breath, the kind that seemed to drain the light from the hallway.
The climb to the third floor was a silent, ponderous ritual. Nathaniel moved as if each step cost him something vital, his breathing a soft counterpoint to the rustle of the garment bag and the shifting contents of the grocery box. Mabel followed, her arms wrapped around the bundled-up dresses and shoes, their soft textures a strange comfort against the building's oppressive sterility.
When the door to the white void clicked shut behind them, the silence felt heavier than before, now charged with the potential of their new acquisitions. Nathaniel stood for a long moment, surveying the empty space as if it were a battlefield.
"Right," he said, the word a soft exhalation. He didn't move to put anything down. Instead, he closed his eyes.
Mabel felt it again—that subtle, nauseating shift in reality, the world taking a soft, deep breath. The empty corner of the living room, adjacent to the window, seemed to deepen. The wall bowed inward, not into a rough alcove like her bedroom nook, but into a perfect, smooth indentation, a recess exactly the width of the desk. The air shimmered, and the desk and chair from the furniture store were simply there, nestled within it, as if they had always belonged.
He opened his eyes, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. "Your study," he announced, his voice a little thinner. "The light is… adequate."
He didn't stop. His gaze swept to the kitchen. With another weary gesture, the empty cupboards sprang open. The box of groceries levitated from his arms, and its contents flew in a silent, organized ballet—cans stacking themselves with geometric precision, boxes aligning, the eggs arranging themselves in the fridge door that had been empty moments before. The jar of coffee landed next to the single, pristine mug with a soft clink.
It was efficient, breathtaking, and utterly devoid of joy. It was the creation of a habitat by a being who found the very concept of habitation tedious.
Lastly, he turned to the garments Mabel held. He didn't touch them. He simply looked at the bare wall opposite the sofa, and three simple, floating hooks, wrought of the same light-and-smoke substance as the dream-door, manifested from the emptiness. Below them, a polished wooden shelf appeared. "For the anchors," he said.
Overwhelmed, Mabel hung the dresses. She placed the shoes neatly on the shelf beneath them. The splash of color and the solid, grounded presence of the footwear against the relentless white was jarring. It was a rebellion. It was a declaration. Someone lives here, and she plans to walk somewhere.
Nathaniel stared at the small, curated collection for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he walked to the sofa and collapsed onto it, the last of his energy seemingly spent. He looked paler than usual, the luminous roots of his hair stark against the cheap black dye.
"It is done," he breathed, closing his eyes. "The infrastructure for continued existence is… established."
Mabel didn't know what to do. She walked to her new desk, running her fingers over the smooth, perfectly corrected wood. She opened the fridge and stared at the full shelves. It was everything she could have wanted, conjured from nothing by a tired god. But it felt less like a gift and more like a strategic deployment of resources.
And then she looked at him, really looked at him. Slumped on the sofa, drained from the effort of building a home he never wanted, haunted by a past he refused to name. He had done all this, every bit of it, for her. Not for efficiency, not to avoid a hassle, but because she had chosen to stay.
She walked over to the sofa. He didn't stir, his breathing slow and deep. For a moment, she hesitated, unsure if the gesture would be welcomed or seen as just another demand on his depleted reserves.
Then she did it anyway.
She leaned over and wrapped her arms around his shoulders in a brief, tight hug. It was awkward, one-sided, and over in a second.
Nathaniel went perfectly still. It wasn't the stillness of sleep or focus, but the sudden, absolute freeze of a creature that had not been touched with kindness in a very, very long time. He didn't reciprocate, but he didn't pull away. He simply endured it, a statue surprised by a sudden, warm vine.
Mabel pulled back, her face feeling warm. "Thank you," she whispered, the words meaning more than just for the furniture and food.
He was silent for so long she thought he might have fallen asleep or simply decided to ignore it. Then, his hand came up. But instead of patting the air, it landed clumsily on her head. His fingers moved in a quick, rough, and utterly awkward ruffle, messing up her hair with the gentle precision of a seismic event. It was over almost before it began, his hand retreating back to his side as if startled by its own mission.
"Yes, well," he said, his voice rough. "The metabolic cost of your malnutrition would have been… suboptimal."
Mabel smiled, a small, private thing. She understood. Some truths were too heavy for words. They needed to be carried in silence, in the space between heartbeats, in the brief, awkward pressure of a hug.
She retreated to her new desk, giving him back his space. He remained on the sofa, but his posture had changed minutely. The line of his shoulders was less rigid.
"So," she said, her voice steady. "The thinking."
Nathaniel's eyes opened. The gold in them was dull, like old varnish. "Yes. The thinking." He sat up slowly, his movements stiff. "The steak was the bribe from Justice. This…" He gestured vaguely at the room, now slightly more furnished, slightly more alive. "This is the bribe I give myself. A marginally more comfortable environment in which to undertake a profoundly uncomfortable task."
"What are you going to think about?"
"The Key. The lock. The woman." His gaze drifted to the ash. "And how to convince a handful of cosmic cinders that existence is a marginally more interesting state than non-existence." He let out another of those world-weary sighs. "It will require… focus. An application of will I have not employed in centuries. The mental equivalent of moving a mountain using only my eyebrows."
He settled back, not lying down, but sitting upright, his hands resting on his knees. His breathing slowed, becoming so deep and measured it was barely perceptible. The air in the room grew still, not like the stillness of emptiness, but like the stillness of a drawn bowstring. The faint, ever-present hum of the city outside seemed to fade away, as if the white void had sealed itself off from the world.
Mabel watched, mesmerized. She saw the tension leave his body, but it wasn't the relaxation of sleep. It was the focus of a predator, or a monk in deep meditation. The faint glow from his roots seemed to brighten, casting a soft, lunar light on his features.
He was working. He was, against his every instinct, trying.
And as she sat at her new desk, in her corner of the void that he had carved out just for her, Mabel knew one thing for certain.
It was, indeed, going to be a colossal hassle. For both of them. And for the first time, that thought didn't fill her with dread, but with a strange, fierce sense of hope.