At 1400 hours, after a hearty lunch served by the new cook of the house, all the letters were finished. Done. Complete.

Ready to be delivered.

Apparently, as Sam explained it, casually sending these letters through the mail might cause some sort of incident for the authorities. Hence, Sam convinced George to drive Kreig to wherever it was they needed going. Of course, as required by the law, Sam technically did have a driver’s licence. The issue was that George, being a sensible and wise man, would never in a million years let his sister get anywhere close enough to his car in order to drive it.

She could scoot around in her scooter as much as she liked, but it would never change George’s mind. It was his car, and if she wanted any part in it, she was better prepared to be relegated to the shotgun seat.

Even then, the car in question only had a pair of front-seats, lacking any passenger seats in the back. After all, for ten years, he had never needed any more than two seats.

So it was that he sat behind the wheel of his car, glancing somewhat anxiously at his brother where he sat clutching a bundle of four letters. Each of them written in the most gorgeous handwriting George had ever seen. It was melodic, brass and elegant, the kind you wouldn’t expect to see from such a barbaric-looking man. It might have been a bit unkind of him to call his own brother barbaric, especially after seeing him labour over these kind letters for so long, but… Truly, a barbaric man, warm heart aside.

One who, if he clutched too hard, could make a pencil explode. Who could pluck a metal rose and burn it with a mere thought.

Of course George felt unsure. He was living in a house with a massive wall of a man and a Fighter sister. This was the kind of things you saw on late-night soap operas where the twist was that the baby was a Fighter. Absolutely stupid, and to a normal person like him, borderline terrifying.

These were people who could easily crush bones should they wish to. Sam didn’t even have a high level, barely enough to enter the more medium-levelled portals that might appear at times, but even she could lift things several times her own bodyweight.

It wasn’t scary, it wasn’t terrifying, just… Worrying.

And somehow, Kreig was a hundred times beyond that, or even more. In truth, nobody actually knew the true extent of his strength. Not as far as George knew, and he had deliberately looked for it. But every aspect of Kreig, from what he’d experienced in the otherworld to what his status was (one of the few things he actually knew) had been locked behind thick walls. There was no way for George to read any of it, leaving him with a hole that he desperately wanted to fill.

What had Kreig experienced? Why had he changed? Why couldn’t he remember anything at all?

Ten years ago, before all this happened, before the unknown invaded the known and the world got all topsy-turvy, George had known everything about Kreig. He knew how Kreig always made a big show of following in his father’s footsteps but really just wanted to be like his mother. She was a kind, caring woman who gave her everything to her art, to the art of cooking. But Kreig couldn’t let himself look up to her, and George knew that. He knew his brother.

But now, he barely knew his brother at all. The death of his brother had been mourned, and in some way, George couldn’t fully connect these two people to believe that his brother had been revived, or even that he hadn’t died at all.

The only real way George could think of how to connect these two people, the Kreig he knew and the Kreig that was sitting next to him, was to know what had happened. Who Kreig had become during his years.

“Kreig,” George said, peeking at his brother. The man showed no certain expression of being named, merely continuing to stare straight ahead, fiddling with the letters in hand. “Say, tell me. I’m aware you came to the otherworld, yet, if I may ask… How did that happen? Did a portal appear beneath your feet? Usually, that’s how people find themselves in the otherworld. Even more so, you wouldn’t happen to know why you disappeared a day before the portals opened?”

Much like always, Kreig sat in silence for a pretty good while. Eyes straight ahead. But he wasn’t moving his hands about the letters anymore. “The world went black. When I awoke, I was in a coffin.”

That was… certainly worrying. To a degree. It almost sounded as if he died right then and there. Though, since he was most definitely alive, that wasn’t possible.

No portal. “Really? A coffin… and then what happened?”

“...” Kreig seemed more reluctant to speak than usual, but after less than a minute in complete silence between them, the only sound being the whirring of the car motor, Kreig spoke softly. Somehow, the tale he spoke felt… muted. Apparently, Kreig had been summoned by a good church in dire need of help, and he had, as a man should, helped it. Killing monsters and doing what had to be done to bring prosperity to a country in a bad place.

It was a heroic tale, but it didn’t feel real in the least. No mention of any physical pain or death or personal hardship. Almost like it was just a soft-hearted parody of the truth, told to keep George happy.

It felt strange, but just as Kreig explained how the kingdom he resided in had become so believing that they appointed the pope of his religion as the leader of a theocracy, just as George felt he had worked up the courage to ask Kreig what really happened, the GPS gave a beep, signifying that the travel destination was on their right. And, yeah. There it was. A large, almost run-down apartment complex modelled after the countless grey blocks of soviet Russia. The height of brutalist architecture.

This was the kind of place that the Swallowbird family lived in. Nothing fancy, nothing that cost much of anything.

George stepped out of the car, followed closely by Kreig. The apartment complex was at least fifteen storeys high, but the Swallowbirds lived on the first floor. Although Kreig was far from eager, he still trailed after George, a single letter clutched dearly in his hands. He almost gave off the same feeling as an inexperienced teenager, on his way to hand a love letter to someone he was sure wouldn’t respond in kind. They entered the complex.

They wouldn’t talk to them, just in and out, leaving a letter in their wake. Unseen, un-,

“May I help you?” There she was. The girl George had seen on the LinkedIn profile. Brown hair tied up behind her head, sunken but still clear green eyes. The young miss of the house, barely 15.

Annie Swallowbird, young sister of Charlie Swallowbird.