ONE

When I clocked into my execution shift this afternoon, I was thinking about how happy I was.

I’d had a fantastic morning. Woke up to a double ration of scrambled eggs seasoned with real planet-grown moon pepper, a reward for six months of exceptional service. Ran into Neve and Simon at breakfast and let them each take a few bites, making them promise in return that they’d score me some real coffee the next time they went down from orbit. Then we spent a few leisurely hours together, playing cards. When I got to my desk at one, there was a note from Darius tucked beneath my lunch rations, thanking me for covering his last morning shift when he was hungover, inviting me to the ship’s bar tonight so he could buy me a drink.

Three days before my twenty-fifth birthday, I was feeling like I’d finally found a life I loved.

The shift started easily enough. I double-checked all my entries from yesterday for spelling errors and translation mistakes. There were three entries: one propagandist from Planet Eight and two revolutionary soldiers from Planet Two.

The Planet Two revolutionaries, Erit and Tirit, were the most interesting. They’d chosen to use their time with me to justify their actions. They explained how their land had changed since the Silver Empire’s companies had come to grow cash crops there: with the forests of their childhood cleared, the rivers had flooded their banks and changed course, the rich soil had thinned to dust and eroded away, the rains had grown infrequent until drought choked their village last winter and claimed a dozen lives. Reading the testimonies over now, I still shivered at the visceral images they’d evoked. What an addition to the archives.

With everything proofread, I encrypted the files and sent them to storage. I wrote up a little report recommending that imperial companies on Planet Two investigate their farming practices for possible areas of improvement. Then I sat back and gazed out my office’s little window, where Planet Nineteen was visible below us.

I like Planet Nineteen. It’s a small planet, temperate, not over-industrialized, and the Moonbeam has been orbiting it for nearly a year now without any large-scale conflict. That’s a long time for a military enforcement ship. But who’s going to trouble us here? All the Silver Empire wants from Planet Nineteen is access to their mountain springs, where we’ve discovered some volatile bacteria that turns water into highly combustible jet fuel when heated. And all they want are some basic assurances about trade rights. It hasn’t been hard keeping the few malcontents in line.

So I was surprised when I checked my updated list of the condemned and saw someone from Planet Nineteen had been added. Usually other ships bring prisoners to us from far away. This was our first home-grown rebel.

I checked the condemned’s file. Stranger and stranger; it was a ninety-six-year-old woman. X377 was her designation. She’d been labeled no danger of violence, so what had she done to warrant execution?

Naturally I was thrilled when I received her request to speak with me. I approved it right away. The door to the tunnel that led from the brig slid open, awaiting her arrival.

When she appeared, she was even smaller than I’d expected. A bent woman beneath a grubby blue robe, face swathed in wrinkles. She stumbled on her last step into the room, and I stood to catch her arm before she fell. I steadied her, shocked at how light she was.

She looked up at me. Her eyes were clear and dark as the sky. Her teeth gleamed when she smiled. “Thank you, dear.”

She spoke the Planet Nineteen common language, Tseren, so I followed suit. “Would you like some food? Water?”

“Thank you.” Her smile widened. “My, you wear our tongue well.”

“It’s my job.” I pressed a button and a glass of water appeared, then a soft bread roll. She took the bread, but didn’t touch the water.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Athara.”

I reached for a pen and paper. I always record my interviews longhand; it feels less clinical that way. “Well, Athara, you can talk to me about anything here. You can make any confessions, share any regrets, or give justifications for your actions. Everything you say is faithfully recorded, but nothing can be used as evidence against you or anyone else. The records won’t be released for seventy-five years. So, this is your chance to share your story with future generations.”

She swallowed the last bite of bread, dark eyes glowing. “I haven’t come to share anything with future generations.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“I’ve come to deliver a prophecy.”

I almost dropped my pen with excitement. I’d heard there were old religious orders in the mountains of Planet Nineteen that claimed to see the future, but they were secretive, and I hardly ever went planetside anyway; I’d never thought I would get a chance to meet one.

“You’re a prophetess?” I breathed. “A real one?”

She nodded, and suddenly it all made sense. No danger of violence, because the danger that religious orders posed to the Silver Empire didn’t come from violence. It came from words. From what they could cause the rest of their planets to believe.

“Go on,” I said eagerly. “What’s your prophecy for the archives?”

“Not for the archives, Tyren. For you.”

That’s when my skin prickled and turned cold. When my pen, which had felt hot in my fingers, itching to write, seemed to freeze over the paper. I stared at her, openmouthed; I couldn’t bring myself to ask how she knew my name.

She drew closer, still with the same smile on her face. My mind wandered back to the button on my touchpad, which I was supposed to press if a prisoner got rowdy. It would re-magnetize their cuffs, forcing them together and restraining the prisoner until enforcement arrived. Part of the excellence of my six months of service had been that I’d never needed to use it; I always managed to calm and placate the condemned in my care. But now, though Athara was calm, her steps slow, I felt the urge to press it and stop her coming any closer. I might have, if I wasn’t frozen.

“I have come,” Athara said, “to tell you how you will die.”

Goosebumps rose on my arms, crept up my neck, prickled over my scalp.

“I was condemned because I foresaw the Silver Empire crumbling,” she said. “I saw the fate of eventual ruin befalling every other member of this starship. But you, Tyren, are destined for a different death.”

She took another step toward me, and suddenly despite her stature, with her standing and me sitting, it felt like she was towering over me.

“You will die with molten silver poured into your eyes,” she said.

I can’t even begin to explain my reaction. Thinking back on it now, surely she was playing some kind of mind game with me. Trying to frighten me with the same death she’ll be facing in two days. How do I even really know she’s a prophetess? Do I even believe in prophecies? But at that moment, my eyes locked on hers, I swear I felt dread seep straight down to my marrow. I swear my heart started frantically thumping, expanding through my chest and up my throat, like it was fighting to unfreeze my blood.

“It will be a slow death,” she said. “Of course, you’ll go blind first. Then the silver will melt your skin and fuse with it. If any runs down your throat, it may choke you before you burn to death.”

“Stop,” I whispered. I was picturing it.

“But otherwise it’s likely the steam that will kill you. Though you know all this already, I suppose; you’re probably quite familiar with the procedure.”

“No,” I said, a little louder. “Stop it.”

“I’m almost finished.” She leaned toward me. I leaned away, hand fumbling backward for the button that would restrain her.

“I’m warning you,” I said.

“You, Tyren of Zyrr, will die laughing.”

My hand hovered over the button. My breath was coming fast and shallow. Athara stood perfectly still.

“What?” I said.

She stepped back. “My prophecy is delivered. If you would be so kind as to return me to my cell.”

There was a moment where I wanted to question her further. To ignore the last of my professional ethics, to not accept her request for dismissal, to turn this interview into an interrogation. I was desperate for her to tell me more. Silver in my eyes, skin burning, laughing. The picture made no sense. And I still had no idea how she knew my name or where I was from. She hadn’t even said Planet Five; she’d said Zyrr, and how did an old religious recluse from this backwater planet know Planet Five’s geography?

But I got hold of myself. I cleared my throat and sat up straighter in my chair. “Well… thank you, Athara. Like I said, your final testimony will be faithfully recorded.”

“I’m sure it will.” She smiled her widest smile yet. “I’m sure.”

The door back to the brig slid open. She turned and stepped onto it, sure-footed this time. I stared after her as she made her slow, careful way down the passage.

Father had always told Uri that if he didn’t get a good trade behind him, he would die alone in a pauper’s grave. But today was his long-awaited chance to start the family trade and he could barely eat breakfast as his stomach twisted and turned in anticipation.

The door leading into the Ghost Merchant’s shop was on the other side of the dinted breakfast table. A door that Uri had not been allowed to access under threat of death, dishonour, and going to bed without supper.

Morning after morning for eighteen years he had sat at this table, in a room with little decoration aside from worn shop castoffs, and stared at the forbidden door. It was almost like his father had placed the door to taunt him.

His sister, Ana, noticed his excited stare. “You probably would have been allowed in there a long time ago if you weren’t so messy.”

“I’m not messy,” said Uri calmly, although his hands clenched the table so hard his knuckles turned white.

“Father let you look at his telescope once and I had to clean it up.” Ana sighed for dramatic effect. “It took me hours.”

“I was five! I’ve not had toffee since.”

Ana chuckled at her brother’s discomfort, then placed a kind hand over his. “It’s not as amazing as you dream of. Dimi down the road gets to drive a cart all over the country to deliver wine. That sounds far more interesting.”

“You think driving a smelly cart down country roads is more interesting than selling actual ghosts?”

“You’ll see.” Ana shrugged. Then she stood up, leaving half her breakfast, to grab her bag. “I have to go to class.”

Uri watched his sister’s exit and shook his head. Walking away from the only ghost merchant in York to go to some crumby university full of books felt like such a boring decision. But it wasn’t without benefits. It meant Uri could steal the rest of her cup of tea before work. The food was still beyond his nervous belly.

And as the clock chimed, Uri walked across to the door that had haunted his dreams since he could remember. He grasped the door handle and entered with a shiver.

---

Uri had hoped for illumination. Instead, he flinched at the brightness of the lights.

Once Uri stopped blinking, he saw luxurious red velvet carpets running from wall to wall between black walnut cabinets with dimly lit candles behind them and lush red silk to showcase the fine figurines of the ghosts. Beautiful swirling-coloured figurines wrought by magic his father guarded closely.

A magic that would soon be his.

There were no customers in the shop, just Uri’s father. He stood behind a green leather countertop with an expression that made it hard to know if he hated customers, or was annoyed at the lack of them. He had gaunt cheekbones with large hollow eye sockets that made him look one missed meal away from his stock.

Father’s thin lips barely parted as he growled, “What are you doing here, boy?”

“It’s my first day, Father,” said Uri, shuffling nervously under a chandelier dangled from the distant ceiling, festooned with candles. In the polished little mirrors around the room, they looked like the lights of a shoal of deep-sea fish.

“That came about quickly ,” said Father. Eighteen years hadn’t been quick for Uri, especially the years delivering milk, but at least Father accepted it was time. “Can I see your hands?”

Uri stifled a groan, but offered out a pair of hands red raw from repeated washing.

“Acceptable, but you should cut your nails. We need to set a good impression.”

“Yes, Father.” Uri nodded, despite having cut them this morning. “I need to set a good impression to sell ghosts.”

“We do not sell ghosts,” said Father, glowering darkly. “We are purveyors of the finest spirits to the distinguished and discerning customer. The only paranormal instigators in Northern England!”

“Yes, Father.”

“We have the finest stock and we will only sell to proper customers. As is our right as members of The Sorrowful Guild of Master Ghost Makers,” said Father. He peered at Uri and frowned. “You can see ghosts, can you not?”

“Yes, sir.” Uri bowed his head. “There was a ghost teacher at Rev. Shackley’s school I used to talk to at lunch. It made him happy. Although the other children thought I was just pretending.”

“Hmm,” said Father, stroking his chin. “I will have to investigate that. We can always do with additional stock. Selection is good for business, as is diversity.”

“Do you struggle to find ghosts?”

“We find an adequate supply,” said Father, slightly too quickly.

“Why are there so few ghosts? Why aren’t they everywhere?”

Father shrugged. “Not everyone leaves a ghost behind. Some ghosts stay longer than others. That’s why we do not see caveman ghosts running around. If they do not receive attention, they just slowly fade away. We ensure that ghosts are remembered forever.”

Remembered forever, Uri knew, as long as people paid an almost reasonable fee. “How do you find them?”

“Ghosts can be anywhere. But the best spot is currently the graveyard. The last person buried in a graveyard stays behind to keep watch over it. We take those cemetery guardian ghosts every time, so there is a steady supply.”

“Like the grave robbers?” asked Uri, his voice brimming with excitement about the men who were all over the papers with their exploits. Making off with jewels, running from the police.

“Those are ruffians and charlatans who steal from their betters for a living.” Father’s eyes flashed with anger before he took a deep breath. “We are preserving the noble heritage of our ghosts.”

“Yes.”

“Just delinquents who are probably covered in tattoos,” said Father with a sneer. In his ever loud opinion, just another kind of scar from needless violence. “But anyway, to business.”

Father walked to the shelves and Uri followed, gazing at the figurines resting upon them, their colours swirling in mesmerising patterns as they wrapped around the non-corporeal remains. They glowed a strange silvery-blue light, like reflections from liquid mirrors.

Some of the memories escaped as they walked by, forming brief pictures in front of Uri before the page turned, and then went flying and fading into the distant, dark corners of the room. There were snatches of sound, too, of laughter, tears, screams, and, for some reason, a brief burst of xylophone music that caused him to pause for a moment.

Eventually, Father stopped in front of a ghost and pointed. The little figure was a wash of orange blurs and green swirls. When Uri stared at it deeply, there was a vague outline of a man, lying down on the floor next to a chisel.

Uri shuddered as he saw his father staring at him from inches away. “You see it, but can you hear it?”

“No.”

“You must be quiet. They are not noisy by nature.”

At first, Uri didn’t hear anything. Then the dim sounds of someone talking in another room came through. He caught his breath, not daring to exhale, and then he heard it. A pitiful mewling like a wounded cat. “I can’t see. I can’t hear. Where am I?”

Uri was horrified, not that he could let it show. He was far from an expert on ghosts, but they had projected sheer, abject misery. The idea of being trapped forever in these little containers with nothing to look forward to sounded monstrous.

“You’re handling it better than your sister. That is why we sent her to the academy.”

Uri could only nod. Ana was the smart one, she’d have understood the horror straight away and realised she wanted no part of it.

“But you don’t need to worry about any of that. Your first job is very important.”

Uri puffed out his chest as best as he could given he could hide behind a stick with a toast rack attached partway up.

“Polish the brass.”

“What?”

“Polish the brass.”

“I thought I was here to sell… to purvey the finest spirits?”

“You are. And we cater for a high-class clientele who enjoy, amongst other things, highly cleansed surfaces. So you will polish the brass, wipe the counters, and await further instructions.”

“Yes, Father.”

Spider Bait held the morning in his hands. The brilliant blue and white sunlight thick and new pooled together on the surface of the dewdrop in the basin of his palms. He drank it in.

It was still early, still just morning on the first day of the rest of his life, and the first sunny day after an unusual bout of rains. That, he thought, was surely a fortunate sign.

Spider Bait wasn’t a particularly fortunate name, especially if your mother was known to be prophet-able, but he was the youngest sprite of a hefty group of five, and his parents had stoked up a solid hatred for one another by the time he came along, so he was never quite sure if the name was meant to be a curse or the predictor of a tragic fate. The fact that he had grown up in the orphan log despite having two living parents made him think it was probably the former.

Probably.

It was on top of the orphan log, still damp with rainwater, that he sat now, waiting for the rest of the meadow to wake and knitting with a pair of wooden needles and a pale ball of silk in his lap. He watched several spiderlings disperse on the morning wind, translating the dawn in signals of light reflecting from their ballooning webs and paid no mind to the shadow descending behind him, sprouting eight slender arms.

He had grown up envying the courage of little spiders, to drift away into the unknown and make their own lives far from the place they were born, with no one but themselves to decide the course of their life. It was frightening. It was tempting. Especially to a little sprite who couldn’t quite understand why he wasn’t living in the lavender with the rest of his brothers and sisters, with his mother and father.

But that would all change today.

“My own flower,” Spider Bait said, mostly to himself, but also to the shadow looming over him, its darkness made harsher, its edges sharpened by the crisp light of this bright day. Its slender legs formed a cage around him, a grasping hand. “My own home,” he continued, as the dampness of his present one seeped into his ass.

When he turned, he found himself reflected in four black eyes, round and staring and larger than his head. There were four more somewhere on the top of her head. He and the spider towering over him regarded one another for a long moment, the long lengths of her jewel green fangs just inches from his shoulder. Then he realized he’d lost count of his stitches.

“Don’t look so confused, I’ve been telling you for months.” He carefully counted the stitches of his current knit row, and Hop moved up, beside, and around him. “No more orphan log for me. No more termites or rotting wood or Brother Clod’s acorn cakes. Or all the other unwanted Sprites,” he added, mostly to himself.

Because it didn’t matter if you were wanted or not. It didn’t matter if your dad hated your mother and she hated him back, but you were somehow their fifth child. It didn’t matter if they couldn’t stop arguing long enough to decide who should feed you breakfast or dinner or put the roof over your head. It didn’t matter if they scrapped over every petal gone toward his clothes because they felt more about each other than they did about him. It was a fortnight until mid-spring, and that meant a new round of sprites would receive their Inheritance – the plant or flower under which their fathers had buried their caul on the day of their birth and would become their home and industry for the rest of their lives. He would come into his own, and no longer have to rely on them or the kindness of Brother Clod. He would provide for himself.

No one knew for sure where their caul was planted. It was a secret until Inheritance day, but they all knew what they could reasonably expect. Misty Morning Clover would get their clover in the patch where eight generations of his family had lived; Mountain Shadow Rosemary their fragrant herb sprig in a frankly overgrown patch of it near the ditch. And of course Spider Bait’s very best friend, Crab Killer Reed, would finally have her own by the creek.

But he, well. He was Spider Bait Lavender, wasn’t he? As much as his parents loathed one another, they were both from the lavender field. It was no contest, no guessing where his Inheritance would be.

Oh, it was going to smell so much better than the log. And just think of the things a sprite could trade with that. He’d been preparing, planning for his mid-spring Offering every damp, horrid night in this dark, rotting bit of oak. There were good textiles in petals, especially when they came in coveted shades. And a good, dried flower bud could make a fine tea, especially if there was a merger involved, which reminded him that he needed to apologize to Moon Light Chamomile for suggesting that his birth parent had been too lazy to provide them with two given names and had instead separated one word.

But there would be plenty of time for building bridges and burying the old rat bone hatchet later. This was a good day. A sunny day after weeks of gloom. Who knew, he might even enjoy seeing his parents. Spider Bait balled up his knitting and rose to his feet.

“I’ll see you at my flower-warming later,” he said, and immediately slipped off the damp, mossy surface of the oak. From his back in the weed patch, he saw Hop look down at him with her usual cocked head. “Much later,” he added, or everyone would run off screaming. He picked himself up, brushing off as much dirt as he could from his withering clothes and trying not to think about the damp spot on his ass. “And you know, a bit of silk would make a nice present now that I can count my stitches in blessed silence for once.” With that, he went into the orphan log for the last time, where he discovered that Brother Clod and the littlest sprites had made him a going away berry cake, which they had to scarf down while saying their goodbyes and farewells and we’ll-miss-yous around choking mouthfuls because the termites were swarming.

Of course they were.

---

All the sprites of Spider Bait’s generation gathered under the lowest branch of the largest oak. It stretched out from the trunk of the tree like one thick artery, briefly dipping into the ground before skimming the forest floor in a table that they would all gather around in a fortnight. After Inheritance, it was each sprite’s responsibility to prove to the peers of their generation how they would contribute to their trade and the continuation of a healthy meadowland industry, and this was the stage upon which they would present it.

Also food.

He said half-hearted hellos to familiar faces and received distracted good-to-see-yous in return. Spider Bait had never made many friends. There was only Hop and one other sprite who didn’t mind the smell of mold and musk that clung to all log-dwellers, probably because she smelled worse than him anyway. It was she that he looked for now, since he didn’t have anyone else to mingle with while they all waited upon the arrival of their parents.

Crab Killer found him first, wrestling him into a one-armed hug – she was strong for someone who’d lost a limb to a particularly mighty mud-bug, which was, of course, extremely cool. “I’m going to bring back a great big one to boil, just for you, Spider,” she said, and her voice was deep and sharp as a river stone.

He couldn’t wait.

Normally, he was against eating the rear ends of things, but he made a special exception for crawfish.

“Spider Bait,” he corrected. “I’d give your other arm for a crawfish boil,” he said, with an awkward laugh to indicate that he was joking, though she didn’t appear to care either way.

“That one got a lucky snip,” she said, boxing at him with her whole arm and the nub. “I know all their tricks now.”

“I know,” Spider Bait said. Crawfish slaying was Crab Killer Reed’s family business, though her dream was to take down a crab and live up to her name.

“One day,” she said, in the same tone of voice that one might talk about finding true love.

“I was thinking I’d bring back some lavender,” Spider Bait said to change the subject, and realized that was a stupid thing to say because of course that was what he would be bringing. “You know, like, the buds. I want to dry them out and give tea making a try.” He hoped the process wouldn’t take longer than the requisite two weeks. He was going to have to find that out. “Just for you,” he added, because it seemed polite after she’d dedicated a crawfish to him and everything, though he wasn’t certain if Crab Killer had any particular fondness for teas.

“You will not,” said Mountain Shadow, hardly sparing a glance. “You were a surprise shit in the field, Spider. Your dad probably buried your caul under some dead grass because he was just as drunk as your mom.”

“Spider Bait,” Spider Bait said. “And how would you know? You weren’t there.”

For a moment, Mountain Shadow was quiet. “Still not going to bring back any dried anything, I’m sure,” she muttered.

“Which reminds me,” Spider Bait started, turning to Moon Light who was passing nearby.

“I’m not getting involved in your herbal tea scheme,” they replied without stopping and soon mingled into another cluster of sprites.

Parents trickled into the shadow of the oak not long after, leading their sprite children away one at a time with happy, hopeful words. With, “Come, let’s show you,” and “Right next to us!” It wasn’t long before Spider Bait found himself alone in the stirring leaf litter. Well, except for Hop, who had parked herself up somewhere in the branches and was watching from above. Probably watching. He couldn’t see her just then and gave a thumbs up in the general direction that he had last spied her to show that he was definitely not nervous. There was no way his parents weren’t going to come, even if they didn’t ever want to see each other again. This was one of those moments where you had to set your ego aside and come together for your child.

Like you had never, not once done before.

But this. This was just too big. This was his livelihood. His Inheritance. His destiny for the rest of his life, decided in the same moment that he’d burst through the first threshold of life, which was now part of the soil on which he would erect the final threshold of home. This was the way it had been since, well, the beginning of time, he assumed, and he was definitely not starting to panic.

“Spider Bait, dear,” he heard, and never in his life had he been so relieved to hear the voice of his mother. She gave the clearing under the oak a once over, noting his solitude, no doubt. “I can’t believe your dad isn’t here yet, the good-for-nothing bastard.” She yanked him into a hug before he could escape, then pulled back with a look of disgust. Some of the scarf he’d knit from Hop’s silk had come apart in her hands. It was always doing that. “What are you wearing?”

“It’s – “

“Spider,” his dad said, dipping his head toward Spider Bait’s mother. “Morning,” he said to her by way of acknowledgment, which worked both as a stingy greeting and also happened to be his mother’s first name. She greeted him back with only a glare.

“It’s Spider Bait, actually -”

“You kept us waiting here all day, you know,” his mother accused, but before Spider Bait could point out that she had only just arrived herself, his dad called her a lying, old whore.

“You’re lucky I came here at all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Oh, oaks, this old argument. “Could we just – “

“Still insisting this one’s mine? He looks nothing like me.”

“What, you don’t recognize your own stupid face when you see it?”

They went back and forth at each other’s throats while Spider Bait nervously picked apart the thin, ephemeral threads of his latest scarf until there was nothing left of it or his patience. “If you’ll just take me to my flower now, we never have to speak to each other again!” he shouted over them.

“Well,” his dad said after a few moments passed. The older sprite kicked at a bit of leaf litter underfoot and avoided looking at Spider Bait. “To tell you the truth – with the name and all – I hadn’t really expected you to. Live. This long.” Then he paused long enough that Spider Bait began to worry his father was about to admit to something terrible, like that he’d lit the caul on fire or thrown it in the creek. Or ate it. Spider Bait’s face was still frozen in disgust when his dad finally continued. “Follow me.”

Today, my roommate has taken the form of a cuckoo clock. Dark-stained and ornate, bare branches ringed by ivy frame the pale window that has become Lucas’ face. Every hour on the hour, a miniature wooden barred owl peeks from the tiny window on his forehead and gives weight to the time at hand.

Last week, Lucas had been a Persian rug. Delicate floral details swirled from his center, his edges clawed by curved boteh motifs. It had been especially hard to spare him from guests then. As a clock, he has mounted himself well out of the way of foot traffic. A rug, though…I’d done my best to save him from the inevitable trampling, but apparently, the sensation of being rolled up and leaned against a wall feels like suffocation to a rug. Pretty sure he still hasn’t forgiven me for that one.

When I look at Lucas in the present, the crystal window protecting his delicate metal hands has already begun collecting dust. My dust cloth remedies that, but despite acting gently, his holly pendulum twitches in annoyance.

Sorry, I tell him. There was no helping it. He was looking scruffy. I almost hear him scoff at that.

When Lucas becomes like this, our apartment, likewise, becomes strained. He hates it if someone unfamiliar touches him, so unless he becomes something small enough for me to move solo, I’m stuck with his positioning until he regains himself. Entertaining guests whilst he stared me down as a giant wardrobe-bookcase duo in the center of the common area was lovely. I’m a strong guy, but I’m not moving solid mahogany on my own. To make things worse, sometimes, the change comes when I’m out of the apartment. Bringing dates home when I have no idea of what might await us is awkward.

This time around, Lucas has left the milk out. A bowl of soggy cereal teases him from the end table below where he had mounted himself. He hadn’t the time to even finish breakfast.

Click.

I glance back in time to see that tiny owl emerge from his doors. Its tiny amber eyes gleam while he gives the calls: Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?

I count the tolls. Four o’clock. Where has the time gone? With a hearty thank-you to Lucas for the reminder, my cleaning supplies are tidied away. Off come my sweatpants and stained T-shirt, on go clean jeans and a button-down. The kitchen is my arena, my apron my shield. A pot of water is on the burner, onions and peppers beneath my knife, pasta from a box – saute, boil, simmer. Our apartment comes alive with the aroma of cooking. When I finish, Lucas ticks with jealousy.

The knock at the door comes just as the turn of five is announced. Behave yourself, I urge Lucas. A flick of his pendulum; he’s rolling his eyes at me.

For once, the guy I’ve invited over is closer to our age. I sense Lucas relax at the realization. I know he has grown tired of me bringing home men ten, twenty years our senior.

My date wastes no time once he’s made it past the threshold. Against the refrigerator I’m pinned, hands sampling my body while he tastes my lips. He teases the delicate skin behind my ear and holds me tight. I allow him this, a starter to wet his appetite before peeling myself from his grasp. Lucas ticks away over our heavy breaths.

Food first.

Faintly, I wonder if cuckoo clocks can feel hunger. If so, I feel bad for taunting Lucas. His overlook is not even ten feet from the dining table. I really should have moved him to his bedroom when I’d found him, but it was too late for that. I would have to prepare an apology plate or two.

At least he makes a cute clock. That’s what my date says when I explain the situation. He finds it charming, asks if I’m aware that Lucas’ rustic appearance clashes horribly with our “discount college fuck-boy” decor. I feel like an ass for laughing, but honestly, he’s right. The shitty furniture is all we can afford. Lucas’ owl is celebrating the sixth hour of the evening. If I look closely at that tiny wooden figure, would I see any laughter on its sharp face?

Well, is he gonna Netflix n’ chill with us, too, or should we take this to your room? My date asks this while tracing a hand down my chest. Again, I laugh. Lucas doesn’t seem the type to spring for that. Even if having a three-way with a clock (something I don’t want to entertain the logistics of) were possible , sex with long-term roommates often does not end well. I try hard not to look at the wall when I explain this.

My bedroom door closes snugly. Even so, I hear Lucas’ ticking well into the night. Over the chatter of the ridiculous B-movie we choose, between our whispers and gasps and the squeaking of springs…through it all, he ticks away.

By the time my date has fallen into sleep’s cradle, I’ve lost track of how many times that owl has called the hour. All I can do is relax in the glow of the television and the songs of my company.

Are you still there? asks the TV. The remote is beneath my date. I haven’t the heart to disturb him. His skin is cool, heartbeat strong through the hollow of his chest. Still, Lucas ticks above all.

I wonder…when the sun rises, what form will he take? A stubbornly firm pillow? A cracked armoire? Might he be capable of sharing breakfast with us? Or, perhaps, Lucas will tick on, announcing the passage of time well into daybreak, his feelings set aside.

Only time will tell.

N.V. Morris (he/they) is a queer writer working towards a career in wildlife conservation. Their work has appeared in Unfortunately Literary Magazine and the Las Positas College Journal of Art and Literature, Havik. They currently share their room with far too many creepy-crawly friends for their loved ones’ comfort.

Every year, Middle Daughter covers the altar with foods I loved when I was alive.

And every year, she discards the uneaten food each evening of the festival.

Youngest Granddaughter is concerned. “Why didn’t Papa eat?”

Middle Daughter tries to explain the ritual, but Youngest Granddaughter cannot grasp the concept.

I was greedy once. Now, I try to atone.

Youngest Granddaughter says, “We should give him something different.”

She leaves bowls beneath the altar since she can’t reach the top. Cereal and cracker crumbs. Dried out rice. Unwanted deli meat.

I wish I could eat her offerings, given out of love and concern. She believes my hunger is literal.

Families feed Hungry Ghosts for many reasons. One is so we will not possess the living.

The teachings were more specific once. We will not possess living humans.

Youngest Granddaughter does not know the difference between human and mouse bites.

“Mommy! Papa ate my turkey!” Youngest Granddaughter holds up a scrap of meat.

Middle Daughter’s response catches in her throat. She recognizes the bite marks. She stoops and finds the discarded food beneath the altar. And the mouse droppings. “We’ll put some turkey on top of the altar tomorrow, okay? No more food underneath.” She eyes the phone, thinking of exterminators.

Middle Daughter sees the ritual and the obligation. Youngest Granddaughter sees the magic. The latter is what matters.

Next time, I’ll possess the dog, who already eats from the table. How can he be blamed for following his nature?

Dawn Vogel has written for children, teens, and adults, spanning genres, places, and time periods. She is a member of SFWA and Codex Writers. She lives in Seattle with her awesome husband (and fellow author), Jeremy Zimmerman, and their cats. Visit her: historythatneverwas.com or Blue Sky @historyneverwas.