Chapter 2: Of Trains, Towns, and Time - Part 6

The room we had stepped into felt like something out of a nostalgic dream, a grandmother’s living room, warm and inviting, where every object carried memories. The kind of place where generations gathered for holidays, the type of house where childhood was preserved in the worn patterns of knitted throws draped over old sofas. The hand-woven blankets on the couches, stitched with tiny embroidered trains, didn’t surprise me in a town like this—where trains were clearly woven into the very fabric of the place. The walls were unevenly adorned with tapestries, patched together like the repairs were done with whatever was handy, but it all had a charming, homey quality to it.

The old woman returned shortly, carrying a tray of steaming apple fritters in one hand while holding that ever-present cup of coffee in the other. Mi Fan, ever polite and quick on her feet, immediately stood up to help.

“Oh, what a dear you are,” said the old woman, smiling even wider—if that was even possible—as she handed Mi Fan the tray. The little tigress brought it over to the coffee table with military precision, carefully arranging the fritters.

“Well done, little lady,” I said, smiling as I watched her take on the task with such seriousness. She lifted her chin with a mix of pride and composure.

“I always do a good job, Mr. Ma... Mimic,” she corrected herself, with a small grimace of frustration as she caught her slip.

We simply smiled. Sometimes, keeping up the charade of identities was more complicated than it needed to be, but we were managing—at least, I liked to think so.

The old woman settled herself into a large armchair, still holding her cup of coffee, watching us with that same placid smile.

“These fritters are amazing!” I exclaimed, stuffing three into my mouth at once without a hint of shame. The sugar melted on my tongue, the taste of the apple was gentle and warm. I glanced at Mi Fan, who was devouring hers with a surprising speed. It wasn’t like her to eat so quickly, but I could understand it—these fritters were impossible to resist.

“They’re homemade, with our local apples,” the woman said, her smile never wavering. In her hand, the cup of coffee trembled slightly, but she held it firmly, never letting it go, as though it were a part of her. “Our town has the best fritters in the entire worldregion.”

I raised an eyebrow at that. Not that I doubted her claim, but I was sure any town that made fritters would say the same.

“Long ago, before Miss Lassi Mahayan gave us a purpose, we were farmers. We had apple orchards—many, many more than we have now. Over time, they dwindled, but we still have enough to keep the old recipes alive, like these fritters,” she explained with a mix of pride and nostalgia. As she spoke, she picked up a fritter herself, but never loosened her grip on that coffee cup. It seemed to anchor her in her story.

I kept eating. I couldn’t help it. The fritters were so soft, they practically dissolved in my mouth, with just the right balance of sweetness and tartness from the apples. We had tasted many delicacies over the years, but this... this was simple and perfect, a reminder of quieter times.

“Fritters and a story,” I said, my mouth half full, quickly swallowing before I continued. “It’s a winning combination.”

The old woman laughed lightly, clearly charmed by my enthusiasm.

“What brings you fritter lovers to our little town?” she asked.

“We were traveling to Svadhistana, and our car broke down. We left it at the workshop up the road,” I explained, with the last fritter already halfway to my mouth.

“Oh, that happens all the time, dear,” the woman replied, her nonchalant tone throwing me off a little. “The only visitors we ever get here are because their cars break down. But what can you do? It happens quite regularly, don’t worry. Your car will probably be ready by tomorrow.”

She said it like it was the most normal thing in the world. I, with my mouth full of fritter, couldn’t help but smile at the absurd inevitability of it all.

“So what you’re saying is, we’re trapped here,” I commented with a chuckle, biting into another fritter. We didn’t usually feel trapped, but the word felt more amusing than alarming in this moment.

“Well, yes,” the woman replied with a soft laugh.

Both of us laughed. But not Mi Fan. She made a small pout, visibly annoyed, which made me reach over and pat her head affectionately. For someone who had sworn to protect others, the idea of being “trapped” must have sounded terrible, but what could we do?

“You can stay here for the night, dears,” the old woman said, gesturing with her free hand toward a staircase that led to the upper floor. “Free of charge, of course.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly accept that, ma’am,” I said quickly, standing up with a hand over my heart, as always, dramatic. “Tomorrow, I’ll pay you for these fritters, which taste like they were made by the Swedish Chef himself.” I began waving my hands around, imitating the character from The Muppet Show, adopting his unintelligible accent. “‘Bork, bork, fritters, delicious fritters, bork, bork!’” I said enthusiastically, grinning as I mimed the motions of an invisible chef. “Or my name isn’t Mimic!”

Both of them looked at me as though I had lost my mind. Clearly, this town didn’t get much exposure to television. God, it was like they were living in another era.

Mi Fan shot me a look that said everything: That’s not your name. I simply shrugged, smiling as if to say, Well, we know what we’re doing... more or less.

The old woman stood up with surprising grace, bidding us goodnight with the same serene elegance she had shown throughout the evening. It struck me then that, in all the time we’d been sitting together, she hadn’t taken a single sip from her coffee.

We headed upstairs to the room. It was simple, the wooden walls adorned with the same uneven tapestries we’d seen throughout the house. Two beds, each with a carved wooden headboard, and a small radio on the nightstand. No television, which no longer surprised me, though I found myself missing it anyway.

Mi Fan immediately set about inspecting the room. She always did that, like a ritual, checking everything to ensure all was in order. When she was satisfied with her sweep, she gave me a quick glance, her silent approval, and I finally let myself collapse onto the bed. The mattress creaked beneath my weight, but it was comfortable enough. It had been a long day, but at least we had made it to Hemlock Ridge.

Tomorrow, we’ll do a little investigation of this place, I thought, hoping that maybe my bad dreams would finally stop.