I go to work as a clerk, like usual—but—
"Good Saturday, Margaret," I say.
"Hmph." She avoids my eyes.
"Margaret?"
"Hmph." She turns her entire body, presenting her back to me.
"Did something happen?"
"Nothing."
"Got it. Nothing happened at all," I chuckle softly.
She turns—and—
SLAP.
Heat blooms across my cheek. Sharp. Stinging. My ears ring faintly. The room tilts ever so slightly. Words tangle in my throat. My fingers clench against the counter.
"WHAT HAPPENED YESTERDAY?" she yells.
"What?"
Confusion hits me. Thoughts scatter, half-formed. My stomach twists, my head feels light. I blink, trying to focus on her words, but they slip past me.
"I called you and you ignored me," her tone softens.
"Oh, Good Friday?"
"YES," she yells again.
"I was busy that day."
"What could be more important than working?" She presses a finger to my chest, eyes narrowing, lips slightly trembling.
"I was helping Gary," I chuckle.
"Okay… did you return to work after?" She leans in close, whispering.
"I didn't."
"You are a good man. Tomorrow, you will help the community around us," she smiles.
"I'm a good man. Tomorrow, I will help the community around us," I repeat.
"Alone," she adds.
"Alone," I echo.
Margaret smiles again at me for the rest of the day.
The day's work finally eases into evening. I return to my room first, the faint smell of rain lingering outside. Ashlynn joins me shortly after, settling onto the bed as I take my seat by the desk.
"You've been quiet," she says softly. "Mind if I guess what's on your mind?"
I tilt my head, letting the chair creak beneath me. "I doubt you'll get it right."
She smirks, amber eyes glinting in the lamplight. "I'll try anyway."
"Go ahead," I say, folding my hands on my lap.
She hums, thinking. "You're… deciding whether to… tell me something?"
"Maybe," I reply. "Or maybe I'm deciding whether to think at all."
Her brow furrows, teasing and uncertain. "That's not fair. You can't hide behind nothing."
"I never said it was fair," I say, letting a faint smile tug at my lips.
"Then… maybe I shouldn't guess," she murmurs, a little hesitant, twisting her fingers in the blanket. "Because… I'm undecided too. And I like it when I don't know."
I watch her, letting the quiet stretch between us. "So, what happens if neither of us decides?"
Her lips twitch. "Then I… win by default?"
I smirk, settling back. "A provisional victory, I suppose."
She laughs quietly, the sound brushing the edges of the room like smoke. "Maybe I should be more certain."
Good Sunday.
Clerk in the morning. Community helper for the rest of the day.
"Len, it's time," Margaret says.
I nod.
She rests her hands on my shoulders, steady and firm. "Len, who are we?"
"Hearthlight," I answer.
Her blue eyes lock into mine, piercing. "What do we do?"
"We help everyone," I say.
"How do we do it?"
"With a smile," I stretch my lips as best I can.
"Wider," she instructs, her own smile reaching her cheeks, a warmth that doesn't quite touch the corners of her eyes.
I push my lips further, teeth pressing, jaw aching, but I hold it. Pain mixes with pride.
"Good." She releases her hands and taps my chest, light but certain.
I leave the Hearthlight Building, stepping into the quiet street. The closest house bears the Hearthlight emblem—a white raven inside glowing lantern carved above the door.
Knock. Knock.
The door opens. A woman appears.
"Good Sunday, Madam Serah," I greet.
"Good Sunday, Len," she replies, her smile small but polite.
"Hearthlight Order is here to help. What kind of problem do you have today?" I ask.
"My… brother—husband thinks he's a dog," she says, voice tight with embarrassment. "He's been barking at the visiting nurse ever since we officially… you know, became a couple."
What the—
"Don't worry. It's a normal marriage phase," I assure her, keeping my voice light.
She exhales a small breath, relief washing over her features. "You're right. It's a normal marriage phase."
She hands me one rock. One phen.
As she turns to retreat, I call after her, "Wait. The help isn't over yet."
"But I have no more problems thanks to you," she says, pausing. Her eyes flicker back toward me, bright.
"I want the medical records and documents you have," I say, voice calm, measured.
"All of them?"
"Yes. Everything."
She nods and disappears inside. The door remains open, letting in a swirl of city smog and dust, which settles on her spotless threshold.
Moments later, she returns, balancing piles of medical documents.
"Here," she says, handing them over, her smile steady.
"You have no more problems, Madam Serah," I say, spreading my own smile wide as I take the documents.
"Thank you, Len. Hearthlight truly is a blessing," she says, her smile firm and unwavering, radiating quiet conviction.
After the first house, I find a carriage and instruct the jarvy to take me to my warehouse.
I step out in the alley between the florist shops. The cobblestones glint faintly under the lantern light. I check left and right. No shadows tail me.
I walk through the narrow alley, boots clicking, until I reach my warehouse.
I close the door behind me and lock it from within. The steel shelves and chests reflect the lantern light, locks clicking sharply under my fingers. Each surface feels exact, cold, deliberate—the warehouse ready, waiting.
I place the stack of documents on the steel table. The papers are crisp, edges straight, ink still dark. I pick up the first sheet. Observations from two days ago.
I set the first sheet under the lantern. The ink is still fresh, the paper firm under my fingers. I trace the lines slowly, memorizing the natural order of the notes. Then I begin.
I slide a few entries—restlessness, skipped meals—up toward the top. The patient's barking episodes, once buried in the middle, now sit first, glaring. I scribble a tiny note in the margin beside the earliest barking report: "Increase frequency—observe closely — Dr. Beatrix Granger."
Next page, I fold corners lightly, leaving faint marks where a nurse might have handled it. I draw tiny arrows connecting patient entries across the week, revealing a pattern only a careful eye might notice.
I reach the final sheet, detailing his "delusions of canine identity." I circle the dates in tight, even strokes, adding a faint mark beside them—like someone flagged them for immediate review.
I stack the sheets so the most alarming notes rise to the top: yesterday, today, last night. Each sheet carries the faintest signs of hurried handling—folded corners, slight smudges. Enough to catch a doctor's eye at a glance, urgent without breaking truth.
The stack seems to lean toward alarm. Real enough to be true, urgent enough to demand attention.
I place the documents in my steel shelves.
I return to Hearthlight Building to finish my job.
Good Monday.
Work ends as the day ends, and I return to the best part of my day—my bed.
I sink onto the bed beside Ashlynn, letting the warmth of the blankets settle around me. She lies on her side, chin propped on her hand, amber eyes fixed on mine.
"You were thinking about Saturday," she says softly, voice calm. "I could tell."
I raise an eyebrow. "Were you guessing again?"
"Not guessing this time," she says with a small smile. "I was right."
I tilt my head. "Oh? Enlighten me."
"You didn't decide," she states simply. "You let the moment be, and… so did I."
Her fingers drift to mine, brushing along the back lightly, deliberate. I flex my hand, letting mine meet hers, thumb tracing a subtle line along her wrist. She slides her fingers along my knuckles, tracing faint patterns. The warmth spreads, in time with the gentle rise and fall of her chest beneath the blankets, a rhythm that draws my hand to mirror hers.
I chuckle softly, low, letting the quiet linger. "So you win, then?"
She shrugs, grin widening. "I think I do. You didn't argue."
I lean back a little, exhaling, letting the pressure of her fingers guide the subtle rise and fall of my hand. "Alright. You were right."
Amber eyes catch the lantern light. Her fingers linger, pressing just enough to be felt. "Sometimes," she says softly, "being right feels… better than fighting it."
I close the small distance between our hands, thumb brushing over hers. "Sometimes it does," I reply, letting the warmth linger.
"Time for a bath," she murmurs, rising and disappearing into the bathroom. "No peeking." The door clicks shut—but doesn't lock.