His hand hurts. A deep ache, one that echoes up his arm and hits his heart before trembling its way back down to his balled-up fist. There’s blood; of course there is blood, a smear against dark skin and shattered glass. The tender flesh of his knuckles are an open wound with shards of glass teasing the edges. He can’t help but stare, to unfurl his hand and inspect the damage, and then his eyes flicker up and it’s-

Wrong. Everything Patrick sees looks wrong. The skin color that’s too dark, the hair that wasn’t curly enough, the green, green eyes, and the fat that softened every single one of his features. He looks broken and wrong with the deep shadows and even deeper wrinkles, his hair a lackluster brown, and his lips unable to form even an attempt of a smile.

There are times, like now, when he would just stare in the mirror and think. Think and regret; lament the bills piled high on his broken table and the last opened envelope with the crisp white paper displaying the word BANKRUPT in big red letters. Regret his fridge that contained little else than beer, and he’d rue this stupid, stupid cottage that he got for the love of his life eons ago. Now he has a broken mirror to mourn, the cracks like a web trying to catch every single mistake he has.

His phone rings, a jarring sound that has Patrick scrambling to pick it up. Blood touches grey, it smears, and the silence that follows suffocates until-

“Hey, are you coming? We’ve-“ Static erupts, eating half of the sentence before, “past hour, and if you aren’t going to show up again, you should at least tell us.” The voice is snappy, something that is only enhanced by the sharp thunder rumbling in the device.

Patrick freezes, mind drawing a blank as he tries to match the broken voice. To recognize and think of a face to match. A face that might match, he’s not sure. He’s not sure of anything anymore outside of the shattered mirror and his bleeding hand and the ache that consumes his very being.

His memories were simply another crack in the mirror, as faulty and incomplete as the pieces of glass scattered on the bathroom counter.

“Yes, I- I lost track of time. That’s all. I’m on my way.” His voice stutters, broken in places where it shouldn’t break, and everything is just so obviously wrong.

“You always lose track of time nowadays. Is everything alright? I know since-“

“I’m fine- you know how shitty the signal is here, just give me ten minutes and I’ll be there.” The snap is like the end of one thing and the beginning of another. Patrick looks back at the bleeding mirror, then his broken hand, and finally the blood smeared across the both of them. The blood that had trickled onto the dirty counter and started to dip into the off-white sink.

The water is cold, a shock to his system as he ducks his hand into it and splashes away the rivulet of blood tainting the sink and counter. His hand is a trembling mess as water forces its way into the cuts and open sores, and the glass tumbles away like a child scorned. He won’t be able to hide it, he wasn’t one of those disease-ridden freaks who could just magic their way into a fully healed hand with just a thought, just a word.

Sometimes, he thinks he might be. He can see the wound closing on its own in his head. He can watch the flesh knitting back together to leave an unblemished hand, but as soon as his eyes open his knuckles are split open once again. His mirror is still broken. He continues to look, feel, be wrong. He is still an everyday average human. Still normal, boring, stupid Patrick who opened up a bakery after his life fell apart without a thought.

His life fell apart with the lack of a heartbeat, actually. Whether it was his heart or her heart that stopped, he honestly doesn’t know. Maybe it was both.

The water is cut off, a few spluttering complaints cutting into his knuckles before he’s reaching, reaching-

For something. Part of him wants to say he had the bandages in the cracked mirror, but the second he goes to reach for the fractured mess, something clicks. It wasn’t in this house, it was in another house. A different house, a happier home. Patrick isn’t sure he ever even had that happy abode. Maybe once, in a dream.

Dreams are something best forgotten about. They are the demons that haunt you about things you wish and want for and will never have. Dreams are the worst kind of nightmare, a fantasy that your mind tries to entrap you with. Sometimes, he wonders if reality was just a dream.

Maybe, in reality, she never died.

Sometimes, he doesn’t even know who she is supposed to be.

There’s a face, but it’s like a dream. Something he’s tried so hard to forget about and ignore that it no longer exists. A fantasy he made out of reality, or maybe a reality he made out of a nightmare.

The phone sings again, a sharp whistle that jabs into Patrick’s mind.

He doesn’t even answer; he already knows what he’ll hear. Instead he sweeps it into his pocket and takes one last look at the broken mirror. His shattered mind echoes back in the reflection before he turns and braves the chilling beast waiting outside.

It’s a quick walk to Dangerous Drink, the wind urging Patrick to walk faster with its freezing shove.

The bar is this charming, quaint place. Soothing warm browns with candles strewn about in hues of reds; there’s even a fat television propped up on the counter. It’s crowded, he doesn’t know if he’s ever seen it not busy except maybe when it first opened.

There’s a roar as he ducks inside, feet shuffle across the wooden floor as snow filters in through the open door. Another shout, a greeting he thinks, as he looks around before-

There’s two men, tucked away in a corner of the bar far away from the masses; the darker of the two raises his beer again before, “Patrick!”

Patrick’s feet are moving before he can even register the word. Even then, something is off- everything is off. He doesn’t know them, but they know him but- he does. He has to know them. He’s not that far gone, not yet.

And he does, he does know them. He remembers high school and the opening of a bakery and graduation of some police academy, and he remembers sitting in the rain at a funeral. The dark-skinned one jostles his beer, a blush high on his cheeks, and Patrick knows him. He knows that he knows him.

It’s just… nothing is there. He’s grasping for straws, grasping for those missing pieces in that fractured mirror, and there’s nothing to grab hold of.

“I told you I was coming.” Patrick slides into the seat in front of the two men. He makes a halted motion to take off his coat before shoving his wounded hand out of sight.

“Well excuse me for doubting, you just hadn’t made it to the last three. Honestly, I thought you forgot about us.” He’s the one in the police force, Patrick remembers that. Police force, but a desk job. He’s got a wife too, he remembers her hand on that dark skin at the funeral. He-

“I’m sorry, something came up at the bakery. Didn’t have the time. I promise I could never forget about you.” Patrick laughs, the smile comes in like a sliver that he found from the splintered mirror and then-

Aiden softens, melting like butter with his golden eyes turning into half crescent, dark skin crinkling at the corner before he’s asking, “How is your little shop going? Refurbishing it, right?” Maxwell just stares at Patrick with his doubting blue eyes that seem more gray than blue. Someone harder to remember, but Patrick can remember him perfectly. Aiden’s the only one that feels like a dream.

He can’t remember Maxwell at the funeral. He just remembers a hospital bed and the tiniest cut on a pale, pale wrist.

“It’s… going. Should be able to open it soon.” It’s the biggest lie he’s told. Patrick knows the difference between fantasy and reality, after all. He’s seen the papers, looked at his finances. He’d be lucky to have the cottage in a year. Given, there’s a chance he might not even need the place by next year.

He actually won’t need it. Not with the itch that’s been crawling around his skin for the past month. Not if the ideas and plans come together like they should. There’s nothing left for him after all. His bakery all but a childhood dream that he got to see for a few months before it went under.

“Really? Tell me the date and time, and me and Brianna will be the first people there!” Aiden looks like a puppy, eyes bright and grin sloppy. His face is redder than brown, dimples high in his cheeks and he goes to take another drink before-

“Nope, Aiden. Water first. I’m not dealing with you when you are drunk off your arse.” Maxwell snatches the glass away as he shoves a glass of water closer. Those pale eyes quickly glancing back at Patrick before, “I was worried about that. I know money’s been tight lately; just let me know if you ever need any help, okay?”

“It’s fine. I’m a big boy now. I can take care of myself.” He can’t, though. He doesn’t think he ever could. He has memories of it, but those are more like dreams nowadays than anything else. Everything is like a dream, really; the bakery, the funeral, that week where everything was just too much.

“I know but-“

“Hello, would you like anything? Any refills for you, gentlemen?” The waitress has a soft voice and a harsh expression. A pad of paper is open in her waiting hand with a pen impatiently awaiting their answers. Aiden’s instantly soppy; a doped-up smile falling across his lips as he simpers out a,

“Two more beers, please, beautiful.”

“And if we could get another glass of water?” Maxwell is quick to throw out the words as he pushes the untouched water even closer to Aiden.

“Is there anything for you?” The waitress’s eyes skid over to Patrick, who gives the brightest grin he can manage. He’s about to raise a hand to wave her off when Aiden pipes up, “Oh, one of those beers are for him. But Imma pay for it so it will be going on my check. Rough times, ya know?”

Patrick doesn’t hold back from the nasty glare he sends over to Aiden, who still has that besotted smile on his face. The waitress gives a hum, scribbling down something on the pad of paper in her hand, “Is that everything?”

Maxwell gives a smile, dismissing her, and as soon as she leaves Patrick snaps. “What would Brianna think of you flirting with the waitress? I’m sure she wouldn’t be too happy.”

“Are you kidding? She’d be proud of me! The Godlings know how she’s dealt with me for so long as is. It’d be a reprieve I tell you.” Aiden’s laughing, reaching for his glass as Maxwell tuts at him with a pointed nudge to the glass of water.

“I swear you act like you’re my mother. Don’t you have someone else to worry about?” Maxwell rolls his eyes and practically sighs out,

“Maybe if you acted less like a child, I wouldn’t have to mother you. You might think Brianna would be happy without you, but she’d kill me if I let you poison yourself to death.”

Aiden gives a second to pout, downing a gulp of water before he bounces back with eyes wide, “Oh, did you hear? The CME stopped by earlier today. Apparently, one of those nephlim freaks went crazy and started killing people.”

Patrick freezes as horror trickles into his bones at the suggestion- at the mere thought. “What? But there aren’t supposed to be any nephlims this far west. It spreads too easily here.” Spreads easier, more dangerous, and they don’t have any of the leeches to prevent the disease from claiming its victims. It’s why everything fell apart to begin with.

“I know! It’s that one killer supposedly. The uh…” Aiden’s face scrunches up, and his hand flails in the air. Maxwell dives to the rescue as he pushes the glass of water even closer to the man.

“The shapeshifter one? Ghost? I know my father was worried about that one. Sent a letter a few days ago about it. Apparently, he started moving west a while ago and recently vanished from the news. The CME doesn’t even know where he went off to. Why would he even come to Demsen?” Maxwell’s voice is a soft hush, leaning in closer as if he was giving a secret away.

“They have suspicions. That’s what they came in today for. Some real short kid with this tall man. Supposedly he started using his magic again and led them here? They were asking about any suspicious events or if anyone started acting real odd.” Aiden’s loud, his voice echoes in the corner. Patrick can feel the curious eyes of the other bar-goers burning into their table.

“Are you even supposed to be talking about this?” It’s a serious question, he remembers the big mouth during their high-school years. Namely, he remembers getting ripped a new one when Aiden inevitably spilled the beans about whatever illegal stunt they were playing with at that time.

Aiden leans back with a cringe. The guilty look on his face says everything. Maxwell stares at him before spitting out, “So you decide to tell us. In a bar. Without even whispering.”

“Hey, look. I’m just letting you guys know the dangers-“

“You’re an idiot. The biggest idiot, I swear to Otelis it is a miracle you even got hired.” The words are thrown out into the air as if they were an ax. Aiden looks injured, betrayal written across his face as he sputters out,

“It’s not that big of a deal. It’s,” A bitten lip as Aiden tries to think of a reasonable explanation, but he can’t. They all know he can’t. He never could think of lies to save his life. Patrick remembers a stuttering child surrounded by adults and questionable circumstances.

Maxwell never fit into those memories. He might not have even been involved in those events of their past.

Aiden gives a quick glance around the pub before whispering, “Okay, technically, we aren’t supposed to talk about it. But not because it’s some secret! We just don’t want to worry the civilians or have the rumor reach the killer if he’s even here. There’s no proof he’s here after all. Just some hunch.”

“It’s still-“ There’s another sigh, Maxwell looks as if someone forced the air out of his lungs.

The waitress comes to the rescue, a scowl firmly in place as she deposits the drinks. “Two beers and a water. Was there anything else you guys would like?” The glasses slide across the smooth wood of the table. Aiden throws her a grin, the same besotted smile from earlier as he says,

“No, that would be all. Thank you!”

She gives a cursory glance around before giving a hum and grabs the nearly empty glass of beer Aiden was working on earlier before leaving. Aiden keeps his soppy smile, “She’s so lovely, isn’t she?”

“Oh, you aren’t changing the conversation just because you’re an idiot. Why would you even say anything? Here of all places? It’d be more understanding if it was in your house, but literally anyone can hear you.” Maxwell scolds, his eyebrows dipping low and frown deepening as he watches Aiden.

Aiden just fidgets, a wary glance towards Maxwell before he hesitatingly grabs one of the beers. “Look, it really isn’t that big of a deal, okay? I’m just letting you guys know. So be careful, right? Anyone that seems suspicious or new just… stay away. Especially if it’s one of the plague-ridden rats from the CME. Who knows what kind of trickery they get up to.”

Maxwell is staring down at Aiden with the face of disappointment when Patrick decides to risk it. He hasn’t forgotten, after all, his right hand carefully tucked out of view. Or mostly out of sight. It’s one of the few things he does remember. He can still feel the glass sliding through his fragile skin.

He shouldn’t have, even if Maxwell and Aiden were distracted. The open cuts seem to attract their attention like fire draws in a moth. “What- What happened? Are you okay?” Maxwell swings his head over like a worried mother. His hands reach out to grab the wounded hand Patrick has wrapped around the glass of beer.

“Oh, it’s- it’s fine. Just a brawl I got into.” Patrick is retracting his hand, leaving the beer unattended. He shifts in the chair as he avoids Maxwell’s searching gaze. “So about the CME-“

“That didn’t look like it was from a brawl. Let me-“ Maxwell’s frown is definitely pointed at Patrick. He can feel it prickling at his skin even as he stares determinedly at the table.

“Did you at least report it? I haven’t heard anything about a brawl.” Aiden’s probably relieved in all honesty. Patrick just opened himself up and got Maxwell to stop thinking about Aiden’s big mouth and lack of thinking.

“I told you, it’s fine. Nothing to be worried about.”

“It looked fresh, was that why you were late? Usually, you either show up on time or not at all, so if it was-“ Maxwell is still reaching out, wiggling his fingers as if that would entice Patrick into giving him his hand.

“That’s rich coming from you. I don’t remember you showing up to most things.” Patrick snaps out, and Maxwell is flinching back as if Patrick lashed out at him. “Look, I told you it was fine, and I really don’t want to talk about it, so could we just… move on?” The words are a band aid slapped onto a fresh cut, and the silence that follows suffocates.

Patrick frowns down at the table, chin digging into the fur of his coat.

“I’m sorry if I was…” It’s Maxwell’s voice ringing into the air. Something soft and confused that drops before he actually apologizes for being the persistently nosy brat he’s always been. Always trying to know everything and baby everyone even when they don’t need it.

“It’s fine.” It’s not, but Patrick isn’t sure if he cares enough for it to matter. He gives a sigh, the silence digging into their skin as the other two wait for something, anything. He doesn’t know what.

The coat feels tight and constricting, heavy under the waiting stares, and it’s easier to take off the layer than give in and speak. Patrick flaunts the wound as he picks at his clasps, and he waits for the inevitable.

“Are you-“

“When did you get that necklace?” Aiden is in a rush, the words slam down onto the table and shatter whatever Maxwell was beginning to say.

Patrick freezes for a split second before all the weight vanishes, and he’s left floating, “Ah. I found it in some antique shop. They were selling it cheap.” His fingers go to touch the golden skull dangling around his neck. Polishing the shining surface that has scatterings of his reflection dancing in the contours.

“It’s kind of creepy. Even if it was cheap, why would you buy that?” Aiden squints, dragging his face closer to get a better look at the tiny object.

“It just- spoke to me, I guess? I just looked at it, and I could see myself reflected back.” Patrick lifts it off his chest, bringing it closer to Aiden’s speculative face.

“Are you still going through that midlife crisis shit? It really doesn’t fit you.” Aiden’s leaning back, cradling his beer close as he takes long gulps from it.

“That-“ Maxwell snarls at Aiden before shaking his head and looking at Patrick, “It’s lovely. Ignore Aiden, he’s drunk. You know how he gets.”

Patrick isn’t sure he does know how Aiden gets. He knows how drunk people get though; he has enough memories of drunkards to last lifetimes. People get honest when they drink; their real character and thoughts creeping out into the open. It’s not really his thought, though. It’s never crossed his mind before until he was staring at Aiden with his blushing cheeks and rash words.

“It’s…” Fine, he wants to say. The word chokes in his throat, and he’s forced to swallow it down.

“I’m just saying, just because Elaine died doesn’t mean you have to change yourself-“

The world drops beneath Patrick’s feet, and he’s left dangling, suspended in the air as gravity tries to drag him back down. It’s like a string is attached, tied around his heart, and carrying his entire body weight against the pull of gravity.

It hurts.

Part of him thinks, oh, that was her name. He sees brown hair when it should be red. He sees a smile that he doesn’t really envision. She’s got Maxwell’s eyes. He remembers that. It doesn't seem to fit.

“I- I think I should go.” The beer is untouched, still sitting near him, and his coat only has the latches undone. It would be so easy to just stand up and leave.

To leave and, the itch crawls against his skin like ants, not return. To go somewhere that isn’t here, that isn’t this town. Somewhere far away, far away from people. Far away from Aiden and Maxwell and fucking Elaine. Dead Elaine with the white funeral and the white flowers dotting the mound of dirt that hid her decomposing corpse. Away from his bankrupt bakery that was a fantasy for the both of them that he just had to live out.

Maxwell is silent, his face ashen, and Patrick thinks he deserves it. He deserves it because he wasn’t there and that was his sister. He wasn’t there for his sister.

He was dying instead. Somewhere else. That’s what Patrick needs to remember. He does remember, but it doesn’t stick. It should because he knows, but at the same time-

Maxwell wasn’t there for his sister. He never said goodbye. He never comforted her when she took her last breath. He just wasn’t there.

Aiden watches, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find something to say. Something to follow up, but it’s impossible. Patrick doesn’t think there are even words to offer.

“I didn’t mean that. I’ve…” Aiden drops his glass down on the table, pushing it further from himself. “I’ve drank too much. You guys should just ignore me.”

“It’s….” Not fine. Nothing about it is okay. Aiden’s words are like a sucker punch. Something that shatters everything Patrick has worked so hard to ignore. It’s like waking up from a dream and realizing the worst parts of that fantasy are real.

He’s done so well at forgetting.

At dreaming.

“It actually- it might be better-“ Maxwell’s voice breaks, and he looks just as broken with his mouth curling in an unnatural shape and his cheeks more white than their usual tan. Maxwell swallows before he continues, “It might be better if we leave for the night. It’s getting late.”

Really the night had just begun.

“No, no. We rarely get together as it is. Especially after-“ Aiden reaches out, eyes wide and desperate, and everything is just falling apart.

Abruptly and horrifyingly.

Secrets being revealed from the cracks of fractured conversation. Patrick thinks, for a second, that maybe if he moves, blood will smear.

There’s no blood, but there should be. Aiden’s drunken words cut into barely healed wounds like a rusty knife that he carelessly twists deeper into the injury.

“Patrick just got here.” It’s Aiden’s last ditch effort of keeping everything together with his wide gold eyes.

“I…” Patrick gives a glance at the untouched beer, and his stomach revolts. The thought of even drinking, of being even a semblance of honest, is repulsive. “There’s something at the bakery I need to deal with actually. I stopped to come here, but…”

The lie drowns any complaints the others had. Aiden cowers in his seat as Maxwell picks at his fingers.

“That’s- We can try again next week? Maybe everything will be calmer and… better. And you can tell us about the CME?” Maxwell’s smile looks painful, and he’s watching both Aiden and Patrick with such pitying eyes.

“Yeah, of course. Next week. Same time? Or, me and Brianna could host a cookout sooner? You guys haven’t visited since…” Aiden licks his lips, ducking his head down and letting the rest of his words be smothered in his turtleneck.

No one says why they haven’t visited, the reason palpable as soon as someone thinks about it. Aiden was there, of course he was. He also wasn’t alone.

Patrick was alone.

“Maybe.” Maxwell is the one who answers, which Patrick is thankful for. He isn’t sure he could even respond without the bitterness churning in his stomach spewing out.

“I’ll see you guys-“ Patrick is already getting up, forcing a smile on his lips that he is sure is spread too thin. Maxwell jolts in his seat,

“We could always walk out-“

“I’d rather be by myself.” The words are harsh, a violent wall being slammed between the two of them that Patrick instantly regrets. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just, I need some fresh air. Alone.” Away from you, and the memory of Elaine and this place. It goes unsaid, but he can feel it, dancing on the tip of his tongue and just waiting to float free in the air.

It’s not even that; it’s not even Elaine and Maxwell, and Godling damned Aiden. It’s not even the bills and the rotting bakery and the shitty cottage that was bought for two. It’s the fact that Patrick went out a month ago to get away and he stared at a lake, and he actually thought,

He thought of cinder blocks and chains and walking straight into the depths and never returning. He wakes up, and he lies in bed, and he can’t do anything. It’s the fact that sometimes breathing seems like the hardest thing he has ever done, and he’s tired.

He’s exhausted, and he wants away. He wants…. Something that wasn’t this.

That wasn’t this life. This awful, horrible existence where he was some boring human that’d die at the slightest hint of magic in his system. Watching someone die from it was…

Awful.

Surviving it must be worse.

Maxwell sits back down, a defeated slump to his shoulder, but he relents, “Okay. But, next week, okay? Next week.”

“Next week.” It’s the worst lie Patrick’s ever told, but Maxwell nods anyways.

Outside of the bar it’s cold. The winds picked up and winter starves for its victims. Ruthless in how the snow drags down on your clothing and vicious in how the wind tries to rip you apart. Patrick fumbles with the latches of his coat as the cold nips at his fingers.

He hates the cold. Always has, he doesn’t remember a time when he didn’t. Which is a lie, he remembers being outside of a house and building a snowman and laughing, but that wasn’t him. That was someone else, somewhere else. That was someone who had everything put together and no worries.

Snow clings on like someone dying that was afraid of death.

Like someone standing in two feet of water too scared to take another step.

He’s not going to the bakery, the bakery was the other direction. A left instead of a right. The bakery was towards the darkened side of town with all the houses tucked away for a good night sleep. There’s still light where he’s going. Little shops yawning, but still awake just in case someone came in.

The poor person's way of life. Always waiting for something, for money or a person to just walk in and set everything right.

He’s not going to be that person but-

The thought, the idea tickling his head, makes sense as he stares at the small shop sitting in the corner between two dying monopolies. It’s a broken down store, with creaking wooden columns out front to hold the caving in ceiling. Usually, he’d ignore it, but the idea is there.

The idea is there and perched in the windows are maps and travel guides.

It’s so much more tantalizing when he can see the way. When he can hold directions and the idea in his very hands. When the idea of away actually has a name like NorDale or Qleehl. Qleehl specifically, he remembers the tales. The stories. The myths.

It’s where the Godlings originated from. Where everything started until things soured and the wars began. No one goes there anymore, no one even touches it or looks at it. It’s somewhere where you can just go and never return.

It’s like the lake.

The door is already open when Patrick enters. The wind whistles in and rustles the piles and piles of newspapers. It’s empty for the most part, lit by a few candles and a lantern by the inside of the door. There’s a girl at the counter, some teenager leaned over and flipping through a magazine or book.

Across from the girl is a wall dressed up in maps with pictures nailed into specific locations. There’s a short bookshelf with all sorts of magazines splayed about. When Patrick takes a step closer, he can see illustrations splashed along the covers of most of them, some staying true with the black and white photography to portray the locations the magazine talked about.

It’s the third step that catches him, the floor creaking with protest and announcing the heavy weight being placed upon it. The teenager’s head whips up, and she’s calls out, “Hey, could I help you with something?” She doesn’t even bother to move, just closes the magazine she was reading with a flip of her hand.

“Oh, I was…” Patrick gave a glance back at the wall of maps. “I was just looking.”

“Looking for what? I can tell you if we sell it or not.” She watches him with unblinking eyes, her hair pulled up in a messy bun that left some hair to fall loose when she goes to tilt her head to the side.

“Traveling. I was thinking of traveling and,” Patrick gestures to the wall, forcing a smile as he creeps ever closer to the wall and-

He can see into one the aisles, and there’s this child. This small thing curled up on the floor with newspapers strewn about, and they have this face. This sunken in face that makes Patrick remember something, someone. Someone terrifying, but not and they look so familiar.

The child is just sitting there, flipping through one of the newspapers without even registering anything else, and Patrick just stares. Gawks as he tries to figure out why he can feel the itch growing worse. Why he can feel his lungs constricting because he can’t remember. There’s just-

Something is wrong. Something is horribly wrong, and he doesn’t know and-

“Are you planning on buying something?” The voice is right behind him, loud and shocking, and Patrick startles. The floor creaks in protest as he turns around to address the girl,

“I-“

“Look, if you aren’t buying anything, I really don’t have time to deal with loiterers so…” The girl makes a quick gesture to the open door.

“I’m not-“ The words fall flat because he never intended to buy. He was going to look and if he saw something, saw the answer, he was going to steal. He didn’t have the funds for anything else. Not the funds to be able to spend it on some stupid piece of paper that gave him a possibility.

You don’t need the piece of paper for some of those possibilities, after all. The Qleehl Mountains were the most obvious one, the mountains ranged high and tall. A landmark you couldn’t even miss from the town.

He gives a glance backwards to the child surrounded by paper. A kid who had looked up, dead eyes watching their interaction for a second before they twisted around to pick up another newspaper. “What about-“

“He’s a paying customer. Something you don’t seem to be.” The girl is snappish, arms crossing in front of her. There’s a name tag near her collarbone, Sanvi written in fancy lettering, and a silver paperclip keeping the piece of paper attached to her shirt.

“You didn’t give me the chance to even look.” He snaps back without even thinking. He shouldn’t be. Really, he should just leave. He can feel the hair rising on the back of his neck, and the face still haunts him. Something so familiar but alien. A memory just tucked away, too far out of reach.

Patrick gives another glance towards the wall just as the girl says, “You said yourself that you were just looking and then said you were thinking of traveling. I’m closing soon, so…” Sanvi waves her hand at him, chest puffed up, and chin held high as if daring him to argue.

He doesn’t. One last glance at the wall of possibilities and then he’s leaving. It doesn’t matter anyways; if he was going to leave, it’d be easy. Somewhere far away from other people. Somewhere where it won’t matter that all his dreams crumbled to his feet. Somewhere-

Somewhere where he can’t remember things he shouldn’t. Where he doesn’t remember stories being told about places he’s never been. Somewhere where it is impossible to get lost.

Somewhere where every lake is frozen; the ice so thick that concrete blocks couldn’t break the ice no matter how heavy the blocks were.

Somewhere where the faces he recognize don’t actually exist.

He’s passing by the bar again, going back to the dark streets that lead to home and the desolate bakery. The bar is still the same bright, lively place as before, people leaving and entering, laughing, and living. The window has the perfect view of the table he had sat at. One of the beers were even still on the table, the seats empty.

Maxwell and Aiden were gone. Of course they were. Aiden had Brianna to go home, and Maxwell had his lovely little house in the countryside to return to. Even if that wasn’t the case, everything was frosty when he left, and Aiden was never one to drink alone.

“Are you okay?” A voice rings out, startling Patrick out of his musings. He searches out the owner of the sound, coming across a girl with burning hair and smokey skin with a mole at the corner of her eye. Her eyes were this horrible emerald color. Something so bright and painful, and he can’t help but think of home when he first sees them.

He hasn’t thought of that home in so long, it’s a wonder he even remembers it.

“Ah, yeah. Yes.” He coughs, a cloud of grey air exploding from his mouth as he stumbles over his words, “I’m fine.”

It’s fine. The words are another lie, just with different letters. His hand burns with the thought of the broken mirror displaying every single secret he has. He shoves his hand further into his pocket, forcing a smile towards the girl.

“If you’re sure…” She’s skeptical, her green, green eyes squinting up at him as if she could detect a lie from merely looking. Patrick just forces his grin bigger, hoping against hope that he seems like the happy person he’s supposed to be. That his pretending works and the cracks are hidden from sight.

It must work; a killer smile graces her lips and the glint in her eye takes on a positively mischievous appearance. “By the way, I’m Miranda.”

She throws out her hand as if it’s an attack. Every movement aggressive and wild. Something that screams danger and predator. Patrick in-kind freezes, his eyes widen at the possibilities and the thoughts and the plans and-

Everything just clicks in place.

“Patrick.” He takes her hand, and the exchange stays short. Her thumb touches his torn flesh for a split second, and Patrick wonders if this is a bad idea. Wonders if this is like dropping blood in a shark tank.

“Well, Patrick, would you care for a drink?” The words are a snare, something lethal and unknown. She still has this menacing grin on her face, something that promises danger.

It’s a temptation, a possibility that Patrick could never resist. The thoughts of returning to a table covered in bills and a frozen room and a broken mirror are a nightmare. His own personal fantasy that he could delay and avoid. Something inevitable that could suddenly turn into something that he doesn’t even need to go to. A dream he never needs to have.

Just the thought, the possibility, and Patrick is snared. “I’d love to.”

Miranda grins like a fox that just caught her favorite meal.