Elias stood in the garden his grandfather had spent most of his afternoons. Golden light streaked through the tree branches, illuminating the tiny dust motes that drifted around like small constellations. There was a longing that settled at the base of his stomach but somehow, the world felt right. Everything felt muted as he took in the surroundings. He had not been here since he was a kid.
"Elias."
He turned to see his grandfather, standing there. He looked much healthier than Elias had remembered him in recent years. Not the bedridden, frail version that somehow existed in his memory even now.
He looked younger. Stronger even. The way Elias remembered him from the countless summers he had spent with him.
His grandfather stood there—not the frail, hospital-bed version from three weeks ago, but younger. Stronger. The way "Grandpa?" Elias called out, his voice coming out smaller than he had intended.
His grandfather smiled but there was a hint of sadness on his lips.
"You've got to do better than me, kid." He spoke in a clear voice, without the rasp from the pneumonia that had taken him. "I'm sorry I couldn't explain before. But you'll do better than I did. I know you will."
"Do what? Grandpa, what—"
The next moment felt like falling endlessly. Elias stretched his hands, trying to take hold of the man who was now smiling resolutely.
"The stories need you, Elias. Take care of them."
"Wait—WAIT—"
Elias jolted awake, gasping as his hand shot out instinctively, reaching for what was no longer there.
He was here. In this shitty apartment. He lazily stared into space, before he was interrupted by the sound of the leaky faucet in the bathroom and the water stain on the ceiling he'd been meaning to report for the last six months.
He dragged both hands through his hair—God, when had it gotten this long? It fell past his eyes now, greasy and unkempt.
He had stopped paying attention or caring about anything around month three of unemployment.
His fingers caught in a tangled patch of hair as he tried to slick it back, squinting at the floor to find where his feet should go.
The dream was already fading. He could still recall fragments. His grandfather and something about stories.
Stories.
Right. His grandfather was gone. The funeral was today.
Elias felt his stomach sink deeper than when he had gotten the news of his grandpa's demise.
He sat there for a moment, hands still tangled in his hair, staring at the pile of dirty laundry that had become furniture. The overdue bills on the desk. The half-empty ramen cup from... yesterday? Two days ago?
He had to get up.
He stood, hearing his knees buckle slightly. He was twenty-five and his body already felt like they needed oil to grease his joints every single time. Guess we don't die in a day. It starts slowly.
Time to bury the only person who'd ever given a damn about him.
The service was painfully small. Considering how amazing his grandfather was.
It was an open casket service with a pitiful bouquet of flowers on the side and people who looked too bored to shed a single tear.
Elias stood at the back of the gathering, observing the procession of people. His hands showed deep into the pocket of the one black suit he owned to keep anyone from seeing how they were constantly trembling.
His mother, who had not spoken to him for months, was giving the show of a lifetime as she dabbed her eyes with a tissue. The performative grief was astounding, considering she had not seen him in nearly a decade nor did she bother coming to the hospital to check on him.
His father on the other hand did not bother to hide his feelings, checking his watch twice in the last five minutes.
Claire, his sister, was on her phone, taking photos of herself in a black dress with her tongue out as she resumed punching texts into her phone.
Marcus glanced over to his direction before returning to face the service. At least he was paying attention. He was everything Elias wasn't. According to his family. But he had never cared about their opinions.
The priest droned on about "a life well-lived" and "cherished memories." None of them knew his grandfather. Not really.
Elias barely heard it.
It was time for the final goodbyes.
He stared at the casket, trying to form some emotion but nothing.
No, that wasn't true. He felt hollow. Like someone had scooped out his insides and left just enough to keep him standing upright. Yes, that seemed like the right feeling.
His grandfather had been the only one who never looked at him with disappointment. Who never asked "So what's your plan, Elias?" with that edge of judgment. Who just... listened. Let him exist without expectations.
And now he was gone.
Last one who gave a damn.
The service ended. People dispersed quickly like life went on.
Elias turned to leave.
"Mr. Grimm?"
He stopped. An older man in a grey suit approached, carrying a leather briefcase. Sharp eyes behind his horn rimmed glasses..
"I'm Gerald Finch. Your grandfather's attorney."
Elias blinked. "His... attorney? I didn't know he had one."
"He was a very private man." Mr. Finch responded almost instinctively as he reached into his briefcase. He retrieved a small envelope and an old looking key. "He left specific instructions for you. Just you." Mr. Finch added as though to buttress his point.
The envelope was sealed with actual red wax. His name was written on it in his grandfather's careful handwriting: Elias.
"What is this?"
"The key to his cottage. And..." Mr. Finch hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Instructions. He insisted you go alone. Tonight, if possible. He was very particular about the timing."
Elias turned the key over in his hand. It felt cold to touch. Definitely not made in this century.
"That's it? Just the cottage?"
"There's more inside. But I was instructed not to explain further." Mr. Finch's expression was unreadable. "I'll be honest with you, Mr. Grimm—your grandfather was an unusual client. What he asked me to arrange was... unconventional. But he paid well and seemed of sound mind." He paused. "Mostly."
Mostly. Great.
"He also asked me to tell you something, if you seemed hesitant." Mr. Finch met his eyes. "He said: 'The stories remember you, Elias. Even if you've forgotten them.'"
A chill ran down Elias's spine. He had no idea what that meant but the dream he had this morning was starting to look real.
"...Thanks. I think."
Mr. Finch nodded, handing him a business card, and left.
Elias stood there in the emptying cemetery, feeling more lost than ever.
His mother's voice cut through his thoughts. "Elias! Are you coming to the reception?"
Reception. Right. More forced small talk. More "so what are you doing these days?"
He was all burnt out from barely socializing with people who acted like they gave a damn about him or grandfather.
"I'm good, Mom. I've got... something to take care of."
She frowned, not hiding her disappointment, as always but she didn't push. "Fine. Your father and I are flying back tomorrow. Call if you need anything."
She wouldn't answer. She never did.
Elias watched his family leave. He quickly hailed himself a cab and got in. He opened the envelope.
Inside was a single handwritten note:
Elias,
If you're reading this, I'm gone. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you everything before—it would have sounded insane, and you would have thought the dementia finally got me.
Go to the cottage. Use the key. Trust me one last time.
The world needs Custodians, kid. It always has. And whether you know it or not, you've always been meant for this.
Protect the stories. We need them.
— Grandpa
Elias read it three times.
It was similar to what his grandfather said in the dream.
"...What the hell does that mean?"
But he pocketed the note and the key anyway.
What else did he have to do?
* * *
It was late afternoon when he arrived. A small cottage at the edge of the woods with a rustic vibe. The drive took two hours. Elias had been to his grandfather's cottage maybe a dozen times as a kid during those summer visits. It was always magical in the way childhood memories always were. But he hadn't been back in over a decade.
It looked smaller than he remembered. Modest if he was being honest. Not at all as grand as he remembered. It was the sort of place you would see on a postcard. Old stone walls covered in ivy. A chimney and a beautiful garden that seemed surprisingly kept considering how long his grandfather had been in the hospital before he passed.
Grandpa definitely had people taking care of this place..
He parked his beat-up Camry in front of the cottage, as he sat there for a moment, staring at the front door.
Just go inside. His grandfather did a lot of things but he never did anything without a reason.
He got out, feeling around for the key in his pocket. But he never really lost track of it. It was cold against his skin.
The front door was unlocked—typical. His grandfather never locked anything.
"If someone needs to steal from an old man, they probably need it more than I do," he would always say.
Elias stepped inside the cottage.
He was hit with the smell of old books, woodsmoke and something he could only describe as lavender, maybe.
It was just as he remembered. Clustered but organized. There were books everywhere. Stacked on shelves, tucked into various corners— piled on tables.
His grandfather was a collector.
Fairy tales, mostly. Old stories. First editions. Annotated versions. Translations in languages Elias didn't recognize.
He was an amazing storyteller. He always had stories that Elias found interesting.
He'd always thought it was just an old man's hobby. Now that he was standing here with brown eyes, it felt different. Like he had just walked into a shrine.
"Alright, Grandpa," Elias muttered. "What am I supposed to find?"
He wandered through the cottage, running his fingers along book spines. Nothing seemed out of place.
Then he saw it.
A door at the back of the cottage. Unremarkable except for one thing. Elias has no memory of it.
He froze.
"...That wasn't there before."
Was it? He tried to remember. He had explored every possible angle of this cottage but he had no recollection of this door.
Was he sure he explored every part of this place?
No. He would have remembered a door. Wouldn't he?
His hand moved to his pocket. The key.
He slowly approached, like the door might vanish if he moved too fast.
The key slid into the lock perfectly like it had been used a thousand times.
Elias twisted the key.
Click.
The door swung open.
A gust of wind escaped the doorway like it had been trapped for centuries. He was met by an impossibly large space. It looked unreal.
No, it was unreal.
It had endless shelves of books stretching into the darkness. Some parts were occasionally illuminated by floating lights that looked like fireflies.
The architecture of this place defied physics.
"...What the fuck."
It seemed like it existed in a temporal space.
Shelves of books stretched upward into shadow—higher than should be possible, higher than the cottage itself. They spiraled and twisted, forming impossible geometries. Bridges of light connected them. Floating orbs drifted lazily, casting soft golden glows.
It was books. Millions of them.
And the space—God, the space. It stretched in every direction that was impossible to estimate its end. The cottage was maybe 800 square feet. This was... endless.
Elias stepped through the doorway.
The air changed instantly. Warmer. Thicker. The best description he had for it was unearthly.
He looked back. The door was still there, still open to the cottage's cozy interior.
I'm hallucinating. That's all this is, he said as he rubbed his eyes.
He took another step.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Elias spun. "No—no no no—" He grabbed the handle, twisted. Locked. "SHIT!"
His heart hammered in his chest as he pounded on the door. "HELLO? ANYONE?"
The silence was deafening.
The sound of something shifting made Elias turn around.
One of the nearby shelves had... moved. Like it actually moved.
"Okay. Okay, this is fine. This is—this is a mental breakdown. I'm having a mental breakdown." He laughed, a high pitched laugh. "Great. Always wondered when I'd snap."