Stories

This was, without question, the worst morning I’ve had in a long time.

And somehow, meeting that priest drained me more than being chased by a man through side streets. More than ditching the cart. More than running until my lungs felt like they’d split. What does that say about me?

What does it say about him?

And then there’s the girl.

I don’t know what to think about her. I don’t want to start thinking about her.

Not now.

It’s over. Behind me. That’s what matters.

Focus forward.

What’s Nate doing? Maybe pacing. Or reading. Or working himself into a spiral over something small.

Good. Let him. I need a new task—something mechanical, boring, normal. If I let my thoughts circle back to that little orphanage, or that soft-spoken priest, I might come apart.

And I don’t have the luxury for that.

Thankfully, I made it back to the inn without further adventures. The streets looked a little less foreign after yesterday’s walk—some of the stones even felt familiar beneath my boots.

Then I hear it.

A loud, unbothered neigh from the back.

I take a look. My brain is too slow to process what I’m seeing at first.

Wait.

Our cart.

Our horse.

Right there, tied lazily beside the inn like it never left. A little hay at its hooves, a bucket nearby. Casual, like it came back from a stroll.

What?

Did someone return it?

Did the innkeeper somehow retrieve it?

Is he… not completely useless?

No. I don’t have the energy to question this. Let’s call it a happy coincidence and move on.

I climb the steps—each one heavier than the last. The inn is quiet again. Too quiet for this hour. The kind of quiet that always feels like someone’s either cleaning something they shouldn’t or hiding from something they caused.

Outside our door, something odd catches my eye.

A bowl. Empty. Scraped clean.

It’s been placed neatly beside the door.

Nate?

I frown.

Did he… eat? Or try to? Did he ask someone to bring food and then leave it outside like an injured animal not wanting to be seen?

Whatever it was, the bowl isn’t a priority. It’s just one more tiny, unexplained piece of this miserable morning.

I unlock the door and slip inside.

The moment I’m in, I let it all drop. The veil comes off first—my least favorite accessory—and lands on the table like a discarded lie. Next, the coin purse. Today’s prize. Earned with sweat, fear, and one confusing act of charity.

I finally let myself look at Nate.

He’s awake. Sitting upright, like he’s only just returned from whatever his mind’s been doing since I left.

He looks at me with those tired, too-honest eyes.

“You’re back,” he says, voice low.

It’s a stupidly obvious thing to say. But somehow, I need it. More than I expected.

“I am,” I say, voice raw.

Then I add, “Can we switch back to my language? For today I’m done sounding like them.”

I’m not even sure if he fully understands the weight of that request. I just know I’m done twisting my mouth into someone else’s words. I want to sound like myself again. Just for a little while.

He nods.

I collapse face-first onto the bed.

Not delicately. Not gracefully.

Just a full-body surrender to exhaustion.

I am done.

“I propose,” I mumble into the mattress, “we stay in bed for the rest of today.”

I can hear the corner of his mouth pull into a smirk, even if I don’t see it.

It’s a ridiculous thing to say. Almost romantic. I sound like some simpering newlywed from a cheap love story. Or worse—like one of those giddy, idealistic wives from a farmer’s dream.

It’s funny.

I let the weight of it all melt into the bedding. The running. The girl. The priest.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll unpack it. Maybe not.

Right now, I’m home.

Or at least somewhere that feels like it.

###

“Did you see my note?” I ask, still lying face-down on the bed. Turning over feels like a monumental task right now. Not worth it.

“I did,” Nate says from somewhere behind me. His voice is a little hoarse, but calm. “So… what was the problem?”

“Huh?” I grunt. “How did you know?”

“Come on,” he says. “One look at you tells me something happened. And I think I can feel it. Something’s different about you than yesterday.”

Oh.

That. Right.

The Presence.

I almost forgot. For a moment, lying here, everything felt normal again. Or at least quiet.

He’s picking up on things more easily now. It’s subtle—probably instinctive—but it’s there.

I should start teaching him something about how to use it properly. He’s still barely scratching the surface. But… maybe later.

“So… any trouble?” he asks, cautiously. Not pushing, just leaving the door open.

“Some,” I admit, knowing it’s an understatement. A man, a priest, a girl I can’t stop thinking about.

But I don’t feel like unpacking it just yet.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he says gently. “I’m just glad you came back safe.”

That catches me off guard a little. Not the words, but the way he says them—like he means it, but doesn’t expect anything in return.

“…Thanks,” I murmur.

I don’t say it often. I should probably appreciate him more.

Well. Maybe sometimes.

We lie there in silence, the kind that used to feel awkward—heavy with everything unspoken. But now it’s different. Softer. Full of breath and warmth and the quiet knowledge that neither of us is going anywhere.

Then I feel it.

Something touches my head.

I shift slightly and glance sideways. Nate’s hand. Resting gently against my hair.

He’s stroking it.

Where did that come from?

He wasn’t this tactile before. Not like this.

“You just looked like you needed that,” he says before I can ask.

I blink into the bedding. It’s… nice. I didn’t realize how much I missed this kind of contact—gentle, unprompted, uncomplicated.

The last person who did something like this was—oddly enough—the kid from this morning.

But this is different.

Safer.

Closer.

“Can you tell me something?” I ask, voice low.

“Tell what?” he replies.

“Like a story. Doesn’t matter what it’s about. Real or not.”

I’m not tired enough to sleep, but I need something to hold onto. Something steady. The sound of his voice in my language—his odd accent bending it slightly—it helps.

Nate goes quiet for a moment. I can feel him thinking, shuffling through memories and half-formed ideas. His hand lifts slightly.

“No, don’t stop,” I say quickly, eyes still closed.

The hand returns.

Good.

Now I’m ready to listen.

“Alright,” he says, shifting a little beside me. “Have I ever told you a story about how I made money when I was younger?”

I shake my head.

Let’s see where this goes.

###

“So there’s this thing called TV,” Nate begins, his voice warm against the quiet of the room. “I think I told you about it.”

Right. TV.

I vaguely remember that word. Something with moving images and voices—stories in a box, he said. At the time, I couldn’t understand why anyone would want that in their home, but now… I suppose I can see the appeal. A way to fill the silence.

“And one of the things they do on TV is something called game shows,” he continues. “You get players—contestants, whatever—and make them play some kind of game for money.”

That sounds… strange.

But not unlike here, really. People gamble on fights, dice, crops. Why not answers?

“So when I was younger,” he says, “I tried my hand at a few of those. I stuck to the kind where they ask you questions.”

I shift slightly, eyes half-closed, but listening. I can hear the smile in his voice. It’s the kind he saves for when he’s making fun of himself.

“They test your knowledge. Could be science, history, books, movies, sports… anything, really.”

That’s a lot to know. I imagine Nate in one of those games, sitting still, arms crossed, voice dry and too fast for the others to follow. I don’t know why, but the image makes me smile.

“I got really good at them,” he says more quietly. “Earned enough to live after my mom…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

I feel his hand shift slightly against my hair. Just for a second.

“Anyway,” he moves on, “I had this method. I’d study all kinds of topics. And when they asked a question, I’d try to piece it together on the spot.”

That tracks. Nate doesn’t strike me as the memorize-everything type. He figures things out. Pulls pieces from odd places and makes them fit. Like watching someone repair a wagon using kitchen tools and twine.

“I had a helper,” he adds. “Something that now seems… not as strange.”

I turn my head slightly against the pillow. His tone shifted.

“My best guess? It was related to the Presence. Or maybe it was something similar.”

He pauses, then laughs softly. “Remember way back—when we first met—I asked if you could feel the Presence in your head?”

I nod against the bedding. I remember. He didn’t use the right words back then, but I knew what he meant.

“Well,” he continues, “now that I can feel the Presence, I think that’s what it was. Or something close. I’d hear this weird sound—like SSSSSS—just a sharp, steady noise in the back of my head.”

I open my eyes, watching the wood beams of the ceiling.

That sound—he’s described it before, but never like this. For me, the Presence has texture. Layers. His always seemed like a signal, a single thread vibrating against thought.

“The funny thing is,” he says, voice picking up again, “I couldn’t sense people with it. Or emotions. None of that. It just… flared up when I had an idea.”

I frown. That’s not how it usually works.

“So they’d ask me some ridiculous question—like, how many eyes does a shrimp have, or something—and I’d listen for the loudest SSSSS, then say whatever came with it.”

He laughs then. A real laugh.

It catches me off guard.

“I made actual money that way,” he says between chuckles. “Like… enough to live on.”

I blink.

He’s not lying. He sounds amused, but also a little amazed with himself.

This man used some half-developed version of the Presence… to win games. For money.

“And I stuck with it!” he says. “Can you believe that? I trusted a sound in my head more than my memory. That’s so—”

He breaks off into another laugh.

I watch him for a moment from my place on the bed. There’s something bright in his face when he talks like this. He’s not like this often.

Maybe I should ask him for more stories.

And maybe I should stop pretending I’m not enjoying this.

“So…” I murmur, “you let a strange noise in your head guide your life choices.”

“Pretty much,” he says.

“You’re lucky I met you later in life,” I mutter.

He snorts.

“You wouldn’t have been impressed?”

“Not even a little.”

But I’m smiling.

And I think he knows it.

###

Why don’t we do this more often?

Just lie around. Talk. No plans, no masks, no need to explain ourselves to the world.

Maybe next time I should be the one to share a story. Something light, something warm. One of the few good memories from when I was small. I don’t have many, but… there are a few.

Just—not today.

Today I want to be the one who listens. Who sinks into something soft and lets her thoughts go quiet.

Is this what the appeal of the “TV” was?

I didn’t understand the point. Why stare at a box when there’s so much to do?

But right now, I think I get it. Stories without needing to do anything… a pause from thinking. A breath. No wonder it was popular. I wonder if this world will ever have something like that. Probably not in my lifetime.

“I think we should someday look more into my connection to the Presence,” Nate says suddenly, voice drifting over. “Maybe we could figure something out. Together. What do you think?”

He sounds unsure. Hopeful, maybe.

Still face-down on the bed, I don’t lift my head. I just murmur, “We should just…”

“…Not today. I agree,” he finishes for me.

Good. I’m glad we understand each other. There’s comfort in not needing to explain everything.

Today I’m tired. Today he’s learning to feel the world differently. We’re both unraveling in our own ways.

I finally roll onto my back and scoot up so my head rests on the pillow beside his.

“How was your morning?” I ask, voice low. “Did you freak out because of the Presence again?”

He lies down next to me—closer than when we sleep, but this isn't about distance. It’s about making talking easier. And… I don’t mind.

“Well,” he says, turning slightly to look at me, “nothing as violent as yesterday. I think I felt when the street outside got more crowded—like the crawling under my skin picked up again.”

He pauses, then smiles slightly.

“Oh, and I felt it when you came in.”

“That’s why you sat up?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he nods. “It’s kind of like… you know how you can recognize someone by the sound of their footsteps? It was like that. I felt a wave—stronger than the rest. I think because you were just behind the door. And I just knew it was you.”

I raise an eyebrow. “How?”

He looks like he’s trying to put it into words.

“Hard to explain,” he says. “But maybe like… hearing the voice of your favorite person in a noisy room. The flow of it was different. Familiar.”

I look at him, unable to resist.

“So I’m your favorite person now?”

There’s a beat. Then:

“…Yeah. You are. Surprised?”

He tries to say it lightly, but there’s a quiet truth behind it.

I snort softly. “No. Seeing as we’ve been sleeping in the same bed for a while, I’d say the feeling is mutual.”

There’s no one else I’d want next to me when I wake up.

There’s a pause. A good one. Just breathing. Feeling the weight of our shared silence.

“…So, you’re making progress?” I ask eventually.

“You could say that,” he replies. “Not a single freakout today.”

“Then soon we’ll need to put you in a crowd. You need to get used to the noise.”

He groans without lifting his head.

“We’ll do it slowly,” I add, more gently this time.

He nods, barely moving.

For a moment, we just lay there. Quiet. Warm. Safe.

Then I speak—with full theatrical weight.

“Nate… it’s time.”

He lifts his head, startled. “For what?”

“For the next story.”

He groans. “Really? You had to say it like that?”

“Just spoil me a little more,” I say with a grin. “Tell me something different this time. A legend. A myth. One of your world’s tales.”

He thinks for a moment, then shifts onto his side.

“Okay. There’s one they made us learn in school.”

“Is it any good?”

“It’s considered a classic,” he says, with that dry Nate confidence. “One of the most famous love stories. Very dramatic.”

“All right then,” I say, settling deeper into the pillow. “Go on.”

He clears his throat.

“It’s called Romeo and Juliet…”

And just like that, I let myself drift—not to sleep, but into his words.

###

When did I fall asleep?

I blink against the low afternoon light and stare up at the ceiling. The air is still, warm with the scent of sunlit wood and the faintest trace of old herbs.

I heard the whole story… right? The one with the lovers. Romeo and Juliet. They died in the end. Yes, I remember that much.

So it must’ve been sometime after that. The rest is a blur.

I sit up slowly, feeling the stiffness in my back from lying too long in one position. A groan escapes before I catch it.

What time is it?

I drag myself to the window. The sky outside is dull gold, fading at the edges. Afternoon—late, maybe. People still walk the streets, though not as many as before.

I press a palm lightly against my stomach.

I’m starving.

Did I even eat today? I don’t think so. We’ve been living off whatever scraps we had left. I should ask the innkeeper for something—if there's anything left to ask for. Our supplies are running low again.

Which means tomorrow I’ll need to run errands. Alone, most likely. Again.

I glance over my shoulder.

Nate’s still sleeping. Curled on his side, one hand under the pillow, breathing steady. I understand him. After everything, rest is a luxury we both need. He looks like he hasn’t had it in weeks.

I should let him sleep.

Quietly, I stand and stretch before heading to the door. Just as my fingers brush the handle, I pause.

Right. The veil.

Even now, even just for food, I have to put it on. Another layer between me and the world.

I tie it back over my head, tugging the edge just right to shadow my features. Then I make my way downstairs.

The inn is still empty. A single shaft of light filters through the main room’s window, illuminating floating dust. No voices. No footsteps. No clatter of mugs or shouts from traveling merchants.

I step off the last stair, and—as if summoned by the creak of the step—the innkeeper appears from the back.

Perfect timing.

“What can I do for you, mrs?” he asks, polite as ever.

Mrs, huh. I should get used to that. It’s not a bad title, just… strange. Like trying on someone else’s coat and pretending it fits.

“Is there some food I could get for me and my husband?” The words feel clunky in my mouth, like I’m still not used to forming them.

The keeper nods, no questions asked. “Right away.”

He disappears through the swinging door into the back. I catch a glimpse—stone hearth, hanging bundles of herbs, the glow of coals. A cooking fire. Efficient, but quiet.

I lean slightly to see more. He pours some kind of broth into two wide bowls—thin, but hot. Then he pauses, sets the ladle aside, and reaches for something.

A plate of bread.

He hesitates. Then, suddenly, he tosses it into the fire.

“What are you doing?” I ask, stepping forward. That looked like perfectly edible bread.

He grimaces, but doesn’t flinch. “Sorry. I’ve been hearing things. They say not to eat anything made from the church’s flour. Some say it’s making people sick. I don’t want to take the chance.”

I frown.

The rumors… they’re spreading. Maybe they’re not even rumors anymore.

“Where did you hear that?” I ask, quieter now.

“Everyone’s been talking,” he replies, eyes on the fire. “People vomiting in the alley. Hallucinations. Some say even the baker’s own boy collapsed. I don’t know what that is, but it’s enough to make me burn a day’s bread.”

His voice is low. There’s a sadness to it. Not just for the loss of food, but something deeper. A fear of something.

I nod, unsure what else to say.

He sets two bowls on the counter with care.

“Thank you,” I say. Then I pause, remembering the empty bowl I saw earlier—outside our room. “And… thank you for before.”

He glances at me, unreadable.

“Please add this and the other one to our bill. The name’s Kesler.”

A nod. That’s all I get. But I think it means something. Gratitude, maybe. Or understanding.

I pick up the bowls and head back upstairs, the steam rising into my face through the veil.

I open the door with my foot and slide inside. The room’s still warm, dim, safe.

“Nate,” I say, louder than before. “Wake up. I got food.”

From the bed: a groggy sound.

“Uh… what?” He blinks up at me, hair tousled, blinking like a man who forgot he fell asleep.

I smile just a little, because it’s good to see him like this—alive, unguarded, a little ridiculous.

“Dinner,” I say simply, holding out the bowl. “And maybe a conversation. But we’ll start with dinner.”

###

The soup was thin, but warm. The kind of food that didn’t fill your stomach so much as remind it that you were still alive. I dipped the last piece of bread into the bowl, letting it soak, then brought it to my mouth and took a thoughtful bite. That’s the last of our own bread. We probably won’t be getting any for a while now.

I chewed slowly, considering.

Then I said it—between bites, like a passing thought.

“You know, I have this idea.”

Nate looked up from his bowl, suspicious. “That’s never a good start.”

“The story you told me,” I continued, ignoring the sarcasm. “The romance one. With the two idiots who died.”

His brow furrowed. “Romeo and Juliet?”

“That’s the one.”

He blinked. “What about it?”

“We can sell it.”

I couldn’t help the little grin curling at the corners of my mouth. The thought hit me sometime during the middle of the story, and it hasn’t let go since.

He raised an eyebrow. “You want to sell tragedy?”

“I want to sell stories,” I said, tapping my spoon lightly against the edge of the bowl. “Think about it. You probably know more, right? Dozens? Hundreds? You come from another world, so there’s a very good chance no one here has ever heard them. That makes them valuable. If we can find the right person to sell them to…”

I let the sentence hang.

“We can make some money. And right now, slowing down means we’ll need another source.”

Nate leaned back slightly, suspicious.

“That’s… borderline theft,” he said eventually.

I waved a hand. “Please. Who’s going to find out? It’s not like all the original authors from your world dropped in behind you.”

He frowned, but didn’t argue. Which meant I had him.

Still, he found a new angle. “Even if no one knows, not all stories would work here. Different customs, different cultures—half the ones I remember wouldn’t make sense without context. And I’m not exactly a writer. I can retell, but… crafting it from scratch?”

“That’s why we don’t do it alone,” I said, leaning forward now. “We need a partner. Like the bard from the inn. Remember him?”

Nate gave me a look.

“He already makes a living spinning tales. If we give him the stories, he can rework them—adapt them. Fill in the blanks you don’t remember. Add local flair. He gets brand new material, we get a cut. Everyone wins.”

“Assuming we can even find him again,” Nate said, always the practical one.

I shrugged. “Then I’ll just have to hunt him down.”

He raised both eyebrows this time. “Hunt?”

“You know what I mean,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’ll ask around. Track him by reputation. It’s not like bards are hard to find once you know what to listen for. I’ll tell him I have a storyteller partner with a terrible hand for writing. Which is true, by the way.”

Nate gave me a dry look but didn’t deny it.

“Then we see if he’s interested. If he is, we work out a deal. We feed him the ideas, he shapes them. Simple.”

There was a pause. He looked at me for a long moment, that careful way he does when he’s weighing ten possibilities at once. Then, softly:

“…You really think we can do this?”

“I think we can try,” I said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

He looked down at his empty bowl. Then back at me.

“…All right. Let’s try.”

And just like that, I had a new project.

I felt a little flutter of excitement in my chest. I’ve never sold a story before. I’ve traded goods, negotiated prices, bartered over wool and wheat—but this? This is different. Intangible. A new kind of skill. Nate brings the ideas, I turn them into something with weight. With worth.

Look at me—expanding my horizons.

Tomorrow, I hunt a bard.