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  Friday, October 14th, 2253 — 11:23 AM

  The Mystical Menagerie

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  Rain rasped gently against the front windows, tracing pale ribbons down the glass before pooling along the sill. Inside, the Mystical Menagerie held its own quiet warmth. The air was thick with the scent of cocoa and roasted beans, damp earth drifting from the beetle terrariums, and the faint tang of wood polish that Jeremiah had worked into the counter the night before.

  Lewis’s “garden class” had taken refuge from the drizzle not long ago. A dozen children in mismatched coats were scattered around the café’s round tables, their boots still stubbornly caked with mud. Dark smudges spread across the floor despite Lewis’s tired scolding and his futile attempts at order. The autobrooms whirred to life with offended urgency, brushes scrubbing at every fresh footprint. Before long, several of the younger kids had turned the cleanup into a game, shrieking with laughter as they deliberately dripped new clumps of mud onto the tiles, sending Uno and Dos spinning into frantic pursuit.

  At one table, an older boy balanced a marshmallow on his spoon with concentration, as if performing a high-wire act. A girl beside him tried to copy the feat, snorting as laughter overtook her and her drink sloshed over the rim.

  Jeremiah stood behind the front counter, elbows resting on the polished wood, watching the shop hum around him. Soft murmurs drifted through the room, broken by bursts of laughter and the muted clink of mugs against saucers. Outside, the steady rain set a gentle tempo, blending with the hiss of the espresso machine and the occasional creak of the floorboards.

  He flicked a finger lazily, eyes fixed on the blue pen of the Twin Boundaries lying on the counter. It rocked forward without his touch, rolling a few inches before slowing to a stop. The motion was so slight it might have passed for a draft.

  A small grin tugged at his mouth.

  He crooked his finger again. The pen rolled smoothly back across the wood, settling neatly where it had begun. His grin widened.

  It wasn’t a spell, not a real one. Ulrick had been clear about that. Most mages wouldn’t even call it a cantrip, just a child’s exercise in control. That didn’t matter. For Jeremiah, it was still magic. No System trick, no glowing prompt or enchanted trinket doing the work for him. Just focus, breathe, and will. His.

  The soft sound of the rain and the low chatter of the children blurred together into a background rhythm as he repeated the motion — forward, back, forward again — until the little roll of the pen matched the beat of the drizzle. Small or not, it was his first step.

  Mero’s voice slipped through the hum of the shop. “Havin’ fun, kid?”

  Jeremiah didn’t look up as the fairy appeared beside him, perched on the counter as if he’d always been there. He’d long since stopped reacting to Mero’s entrances; surprise was as pointless as trying to stop him.

  The pen wobbled and came to rest at the counter’s edge. Jeremiah nodded once.

  “Yeah,” he murmured. “Kinda.”

  Mero leaned back in the air, hands folded behind his head. “Well, don’t let me spoil your fun. I just figured business must be dead if you’re sittin’ here practicin’ parlor tricks during store hours.”

  Jeremiah’s gaze drifted toward the window. Rain traced thin silver lines down the glass; the street beyond blurred into watercolor smears of gray and brown. “It’s been a quiet week,” he said softly. “Feels strange.”

  Mero tilted his head, a smirk on his lips. “Strange, huh? You sayin’ you miss the chaos?”

  Jeremiah snorted, the corner of his eye twitching. He gave the pen a final nudge, watching it glide in a smooth line before settling against the counter’s edge. “Not exactly. It’s just… the first couple of weeks were nothing but fires to put out. One problem after another.” He paused. “Then last week? Nothing. Not one major issue. It feels weird. Like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

  “Enjoy the calm while it lasts,” Mero said, straightening. “Trust me. Chaos doesn’t need an invitation.”

  He had barely finished speaking when the front door exploded open.

  The heavy oak slammed into the wall hard enough to rattle the glass, wind howling through the sudden gap. A dozen heads snapped toward the sound. The children froze mid-giggle, cocoa dripping from forgotten spoons. Even Uno and Dos skidded to a halt.

  A streak of tortoiseshell fur shot across the floor.

  Sissy’s terrified yowl cut through the stunned silence as she bolted for the far end of the room, claws scrabbling on tile.

  Jeremiah’s head snapped toward the doorway. A figure stood framed against the rain, swallowed in shadow by the pale wash of daylight behind them. Mud clung to their boots, and the figure’s shoulders heaved his deep, gasping breaths, as if they had run the entire way here from wherever it was they’d come.

  The shop fell utterly still.

  Jeremiah turned toward Mero, a frown creasing his brow. The fairy had both hands raised, palms out.

  “Don’t look at me,” Mero said. “I didn’t do anything.”

  The man filling the doorway like a landslide took a step forward into the store. Water streamed from his jacket, pooling across the tiles.

  Then he lifted his head, and Jeremiah realized he recognized the man.

  It was the same customer who had wandered in nearly every day since the shop opened. The big, quiet man with rough hands and a worn coat. He always bought the same thing: a can or two of cat food, nothing more. He never lingered. Never talked. Most days, he offered a brief nod and disappeared again.

  But the look in his eyes now wasn’t the steady, neutral calm Jeremiah remembered. They were wide, darting across the shop with something that might have been panic, or raw nerves stretched too tight.

  A warning bell rang in Jeremiah’s head.

  He straightened behind the counter, every instinct flaring at once. Something was wrong. Had the man been chased here? Or — an ugly thought he hated for even forming — had he been casing the store all this time, working up the nerve to finally act?

  Lewis stiffened where he stood, instinctively stepping in front of the cluster of children, while Jina gently herded the youngest toward the back tables. Out of the corner of his eye, Jeremiah caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye — a shadow sliding across the courtyard window. Maddie. The lynx’s silhouette rippled once before vanishing upward toward the roof.

  The shop went quiet, save for the rain and the soft mechanical whir of the autobrooms idling mid-motion.

  Jeremiah stepped out from behind the counter, careful and composed.

  “Sir?” he said, drawing on the Shopkeeper’s Regalia to keep his voice steady. “Can I help you?”

  The man looked up at the sound. His eyes locked onto Jeremiah, wild and pleading, and then he started forward in heavy strides. Jeremiah’s first instinct was to step back. His fingers twitched toward the Twin Boundaries resting on the counter, a heartbeat away from calling it to his hand, but something in the man’s posture stopped him short.

  That was when Jeremiah noticed what the man was holding.

  As the light caught him, Jeremiah’s stomach twisted. A cat — old and thin, her fur a patchwork of faded browns and greys — lay limp in the man’s arms. Her ribs shifted with each shallow breath. Her eyes were half-open, glazed, and unfocused.

  “Please,” the man rasped. His voice was deep, booming by nature, but cracked at the edges, as though sheer force of will was the only thing keeping it together. “You’ve got to help her. Please.”

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  Jeremiah moved closer, the sound of his own heartbeat suddenly loud in his ears. “Let me see.”

  The man lowered the cat onto his forearm, cradling her as if she were made of glass. Jeremiah leaned in, careful not to startle her. The smell reached him first — a faint, sweet note of age and sickness, the scent that clung to bodies nearing their end. He rested his hand near her flank, feeling the shallow flutter of her breathing, the faint tremor of effort behind each exhale.

  There was no blood. No wounds. Just the stillness that came before the last quiet moment.

  Jeremiah exhaled slowly, the weight of it settling in his chest. “She’s not sick,” he said softly. “She’s just old.”

  The man blinked. His brow furrowed as he tried to speak, the words catching and refusing to come.

  Jeremiah’s expression softened. He reached up and gently stroked the cat’s head. “Her body’s done all it can,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry, but…” He hesitated, searching for gentler words, and found none. “There’s nothing left to fix.”

  The man’s face twisted, disbelief tightening his mouth. “No. No, I’ve seen the things in this place.” He gestured wildly toward the shelves. “You do magic. I’ve seen it. You’ve got—” His voice broke, slipping into a half-growl, half-plea. “You’ve got to have something.”

  Jeremiah met his gaze and shook his head. “Not for this. Magic can mend wounds, soothe pain, sometimes even cheat death for a little while.” He took a breath. “But if there’s any magic that can fight old age, I don’t know it.”

  The man’s shoulders sagged, then began to shake. His breath hitched once, twice, before breaking completely. “She—she’s all I have,” he whispered, the words tearing free. “Since my wife passed, it’s just been me and her. I can’t just—”

  Jeremiah’s throat tightened. He let the man’s words fade into the hush of the shop, waiting until the worst of the tremors eased from the man’s shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I can’t save her. But there’s one thing I might be able to offer.”

  His gaze drifted to the display case behind the counter. The glass caught the store light, casting soft ripples across the paper talismans within. Each slip of parchment shimmered faintly, darkened edges lined with precise brushstrokes that looped and folded into intricate calligrams.

  The man lifted his head, eyes hollow but for a faint flicker of hope slowly fading. The old cat lay limp against his chest, panting shallowly. “Whatever it is. Whatever it costs.”

  Jeremiah hesitated as he weighed the moment. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen that same look in a man’s eyes. Not all moments at the shelter had been happy ones.

  Then he nodded, stood, and walked toward the talisman display, placing a hand against the glass. He flicked his wrist, and the Twin Boundaries vanished from the counter, appearing in his hand. He traced a single line across the case. A faint blue shimmer slid along the glass like water over ice. With a soft click, the case unlocked.

  Inside, dozens of Beast Talismans rested — some edged in gold, others marked in black or silver. Each was itself a bit of magic, even if not the same kind Ulrick was teaching him. He just hoped he was doing the right thing. Jeremiah’s gaze moved along the rows until he found the one he was looking for.

  A pale ivory sheet bordered in soft blue. Its calligram depicted a mother cat curled around a sleeping kitten.

  He paused, fingers brushing the edge before lifting it free. The parchment was warm, and even just holding it evoked a faint memory of loving arms wrapping around him when he was sick. He’d never used this one himself, though it had become quietly popular with the mothers in the neighborhood over the past week.

  Jeremiah returned and knelt beside the man. The cat let out a weak, raspy mewl, and the man’s hands trembled as he tried to steady her.

  “This is called A Mother’s Sacrifice,” Jeremiah said, lifting the slip of parchment so the light caught the delicate ink. “It won’t save her,” he added softly. “But it can make things… easier.”

  The man’s gaze flicked between Jeremiah’s face and the talisman, disbelief and fragile hope colliding in his eyes. “Easier?” he asked, his voice rough.

  Jeremiah nodded. “It will take away her pain. Let her pass peacefully.” He hesitated. “But there’s a cost.”

  The man’s voice broke before he could take his next breath. “I don’t care what it costs,” he blurted. “Please, if it can help her, I’ll—” He cut himself off, fumbling into his jacket, fingers shaking as he reached for his wallet.

  Jeremiah stepped forward and caught his arm, firm but gentle. “Not like that.” His gaze dropped briefly to the fading cat cradled against the man’s chest, then returned to his eyes. “For the talisman to work, you have to be willing to share her pain. Not all of it. Just enough to let her rest.”

  The man went still. His breath turned shallow as he looked down at the small, shivering body in his arms, his thumb tracing the matted fur between her ears. His hand trembled as he swallowed. Then, with quiet resolve, he lifted his head.

  “Do it,” he said hoarsely.

  Jeremiah met his gaze once more, then pressed the talisman into his hands. “Hold it close to her heart,” he said. “It will do the rest.”

  The man nodded, barely steady. He shifted the cat carefully and placed the parchment against her chest. For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

  Then the ink began to glow.

  Soft gold bled outward through the paper, the lines of the mother cat and kitten brightening until they seemed to stir. The calligram flared once, and the parchment dissolved into light, sinking into both of them.

  The man gasped, eyes squeezing shut as the light seeped into him. Pain flickered across his face, the sharp, silent kind that came from somewhere deeper than flesh. His jaw clenched, a low groan escaping as dark lines crept up his neck from beneath his collar.

  For an instant, Jeremiah’s pulse spiked. Had he misjudged it? The talisman was meant to help a parent shoulder an illness, not the final weight of death. Was it too much?

  Then, slowly, the cat stirred.

  Her eyes fluttered closed, her muscles relaxing by degrees. The trembling in her chest stilled, and her breath came softer than before. Her claws, which had been pressed tight into the man’s sleeve, uncurled. Her body, which had been twisted and tense, relaxed, and the old cat curled up in the man’s arms, purring lightly.

  Jeremiah watched in silence as the last traces of light faded between them.

  When it was over, the man released a shuddering breath. “She’s… sleeping? She’s not slept in days.”

  He drew her closer, pressing his forehead to hers. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice raw.

  Jeremiah swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “There’s a quiet nook in the back,” he said gently, nodding toward the curtained alcove near the café tables. “Take as long as you need.”

  The man nodded. He rose slowly, groaning as if his entire body ached. Then, still cradling the cat, he walked toward the back of the cafe.

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  The minutes that followed passed in the low hush that always seemed to settle after grief.

  The children’s faded laughter had slowly returned, if slightly more somber and quiet, as if wanting not to disturb the large man in the corner.

  Occasionally, parents would enter to collect a child and be on their way. Lewis eventually gathered those who were left and made the walk back to the Maddock apartments, ushering them out in twos and threes beneath a canopy of umbrellas.

  When the door closed again, only Jeremiah, Mero, Jina, her twins, and the man in the corner nook were left.

  For a long while, no one spoke. The autobrooms resumed their slow patrol, brushes humming softly over the tiles. The man sat with his back to the wall, shoulders hunched, the small shape of the cat curled motionless in his lap. Jeremiah kept himself busy behind the counter, wiping the same stretch of wood more than once, offering the stranger the courtesy of time and quiet. Even Mero stayed silent, his wings drawn close to his back.

  Eventually, the man stood. His face was pale, his eyes rimmed red, but his hands were steady as he gathered the limp body against his chest. When he stepped back into the open, Jeremiah looked up. The small figure in his arms lay still, her chest no longer rising. Even so, she remained curled against him, her head resting lightly against his heart, as though she were only sleeping.

  Jeremiah said nothing. He met the man’s eyes. The man gave a faint nod, gratitude and exhaustion etched deep into his features, then turned toward the door.

  A soft tug stopped him.

  He looked down to find Jill standing beside him, half-hidden behind her mother’s skirt. She held a small umbrella — bright pink, patterned with tiny white cats, its handle chipped where the paint had worn thin.

  The man blinked. “What’s this?”

  Jill’s voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s raining.”

  For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then he glanced toward Jina, uncertain. She answered with a slow nod.

  He opened his mouth to say something, but the words caught, and he closed it, swallowing. Then he crouched, careful not to jostle the bundle in his arms. He took the umbrella with his free hand, his voice rough but gentle. “Thank you.”

  The child smiled shyly and stepped back to her mother’s side.

  The man lingered a moment longer, fingers brushing over the umbrella’s curved handle. Then, without another word, he opened it. The pink canopy bloomed above him, a bright splash of color against the dim light.

  The bell over the door chimed softly as he stepped out into the rain.

  Jeremiah watched the pink umbrella drift down the street until it blurred into the gray and was gone.

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  Friday, October 14th, 2253 — 10:12 PM

  Market Street

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  The rain had stopped hours ago, but the world still seemed dreary in the silence that followed.

  Jeremiah walked with his hands buried deep in his pockets. Overhead, the streetlights washed the road in hazy amber, mist drifting through their glow like thin smoke.

  He didn’t hurry. The night was calm in a way it hadn’t been for weeks, and the cool air against his face loosened something in his chest he hadn’t realized was still knotted tight. The hollow weight in his eyes, the way he’d carried the cat as if afraid to let her go. It was a look Jeremiah knew too well, one that echoed in the quiet corners of memory he tried not to visit.

  He rounded a corner, the steady drip of eaves fading behind him, and slowed when something caught his eye.

  At the edge of the road, tucked into a small patch of grass where the curb gave way to soil, lay a small pile of stones. They’d been stacked carefully, almost tenderly — the kind of patience only grief could shape. Propped above them, half-slumped from the evening breeze, stood a small pink umbrella.

  Jeremiah stopped.

  The fabric fluttered faintly in the breeze, scattering drops of water that gleamed like tiny beads of glass. Beneath it, the stones glistened dark and smooth, each one chosen and placed with deliberate care.

  He stepped closer, his throat tightening. For a long moment, he said nothing. The night pressed close around him, all quiet except for the faint rustle of the grass.

  Jeremiah crouched beside the little shrine, and a quiet ache settled deep in his chest.

  “Rest well,” he murmured, voice barely a whisper.

  Then he stood, hands slipping back into his pockets, and started toward home, the soft pink glow of the umbrella fading behind him into the dark.