Travis was in his room, practicing the saxophone. Downstairs, Grandma Edna was fixing dinner. She always knew her grandson was upset whenever he played with extra intensity.
Finally, she poured the soup into two bowls and set them on the small kitchen table by the wall. When she didn't hear him come down, she called out. No answer. With an exasperated sigh, she went upstairs and knocked on his door.
"TRAVIS!" she shouted. "DINNER'S GETTING COLD!"
The saxophone went silent. A few seconds later, Travis opened the door.
"Let me guess… mac and cheese," he said dryly.
"Listen, Your Highness," Edna shot back. "Next time I'll serve air à la cordon bleu if you keep that tone."
They both went downstairs.
When they reached the table, Travis blinked in surprise—two steaming bowls of pho soup, chopsticks neatly placed beside them.
"Wow… now this is new." He leaned over, inhaling the scent. "No way you made this."
"Of course not. Uber Eats," said Edna, dabbing her lips with a napkin. "Eat before it gets cold."
"Someone's feeling guilty," Travis muttered, tearing open his chopsticks.
Edna replied only with a smirk. They ate in silence for a while—she scrolled through the news on her tablet while Travis stared at his phone.
After a few minutes, he finally spoke."Grandma, what if Aunt Helen contacted Interpol?"
Edna looked up. "Travis… I understand you're worried, but I have no idea how that would even work. I'm sure your grandfather's fine." She sighed. "Very fine, probably."
"I know… I'm just worried. I've been having those dreams again."
Edna was about to respond when someone knocked on the door.
"Who could that be at this hour?" she asked.
Travis shrugged.
"Maybe Mrs. Romero's complaining again," she muttered.
"I stopped playing way before ten," he said.
Edna went to the front door and peered through the peephole. Travis followed, leaning against the doorway to the dining room.
"What the hell…" she murmured and opened the door.
Standing on the porch were Donald Williams and Mike Miller.
"Good evening, Edna," they said in unison.
She froze in the doorway. Travis stepped closer to look past her.
"Well, this is… unexpected. What brings you two here? Bit late for a visit, isn't it?"
"Hi, Edna," said Mike. "Sorry about the hour. We were just passing by and wanted to check how you and Willy were doing."
"It's Travis," Edna corrected sharply. "Now, what do you need?"
"We were wondering if you've heard from Victor," Mike said.
"No," Edna answered flatly. "Nothing at all."
"He hasn't contacted you or Billy?" Donald asked.
"It's Travis," the boy corrected again.
Edna crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. "No, not a single word from him. Why the sudden concern?"
"Well," said Mike, "we'd appreciate it if, should he get in touch, you let us know where he is. We're… worried about him."
"Sure," Edna said curtly. "Is that all?"
The men nodded awkwardly, mumbled goodbyes, and left. Edna shut the door firmly behind them.
"What did they want?" Travis asked.
"No idea," she muttered, walking back toward the kitchen. "But it wouldn't surprise me if your grandfather owed them something. Those bastards teamed up with your Uncle Jack years ago and got your grandfather kicked out of the university. And now they're worried about him?"
Travis pressed his lips together and began helping her clear the dishes.
"They're shameless," Edna grumbled, scraping leftovers into the sink. "Anyway, I'm leaving early tomorrow for the airport."
"I know, Grandma. Don't worry about this—go get some sleep."
She kissed him on the forehead and hugged him close. "Everything's going to be fine. You're too young to worry about an old man."
"Grandma," Travis said, smirking, "your affection is as tender and confusing as Pennywise's."
She squinted at him, half amused. That sarcastic spark of his reminded her far too much of herself. She brushed a hand through his black hair.
"You need a haircut."
"It gives me strength."
She tugged lightly at his hair before heading off. Travis kept washing dishes when a sudden creak made him turn.
The door to the basement had opened by itself.
He rolled his eyes. "Not tonight, Mr. Moody," he muttered, hurrying over to shut it.
Later, he went up to his room, changed into his pajamas, and sat at his computer.
He checked his Chronicles of Sonata account—no new alerts. His mines were producing, his kingdom was stable, his neighbors quiet. Everything was fine.
Then he opened a new browser tab. Outside, thunder rumbled, and rain began tapping against the wooden roof. Travis got up and checked the window—it was closed tight.
He looked out anyway. The street was glistening under the rain, streetlights blurred by the downpour. Across the way, Mrs. Romero was towel-drying her hair at her window, wearing only a robe. She noticed him watching and quickly yanked the curtains shut.
Travis did the same, embarrassed.
He sat back at his desk and typed into the search bar:
"Missing persons… disappearances…"
He scanned the results. Nothing new. His lips tightened in disappointment.
With a sigh, he clicked his inbox icon and opened a new message window. He began to type:
"Grandpa, where are you? Please… just give me a sign you're alive."
He hit send, leaned back, and exhaled.
He'd lost count of how many messages he'd written since the day his grandfather had left on that long research trip.
The sound of rain lulled him toward sleep. Then, just as his eyes began to close, a thought surfaced.
"What the hell is Midgard?" he whispered.