pasthalfsquid

[pasthalfsquid]

Thanks for the tag @estranged-sky ( ⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝)

ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ: Turning (the webnovel ver.) || Dead Souls by Nikolai Gogol || whatever webcomics are on my following lists ʟᴀsᴛ sᴏɴɢ: Icarus by Starset ʟᴀsᴛ ғɪʟᴍ: Bubble ʟᴀsᴛ sᴇʀɪᴇs: The Water Magician || Lord of Mysteries sᴡᴇᴇᴛ/sᴀᴠᴏᴜʀʏ/sᴀʟᴛʏ: depends on the time of day and moon phase, though more inclined towards sweet ᴛᴇᴀ ᴏʀ ᴄᴏғғᴇᴇ: Anything with high caffeine content. Please. ᴡᴏʀᴋɪɴɢ ᴏɴ: Simultaneously many drafts and nothing at all.

No pressure tags!! @dreamerwhofell @lucilleambrose @rtblack @ladyazulina @storyteller-kara and whoever else wants to join in (づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡

— TAG NINE PEOPLE YOU WANT TO GET TO KNOW MORE !

thank you for the tags LOVE you guys and hit me up on my disc for a kiss: @gojodickbig @fayerie @sugurusladyknightt @fear-is-truth

currently reading: haha who reads lol... last song: cowboy gangster politican - goldie boutilier last film: superman last series: overcompensating sweet/savory/salty: spicy i make my own rules tea or coffee: anything with caffeine to keep me going working on: getting over this gosh darn cold that wants to keep me shackled in my bedroom

✦ nine no pressure tags my loves: @prosypepper @joemama-2 @letteremi @hellowoolf @redrrem @getouyuri @eraserbread @nialovessatoru @kunareads

[pasthalfsquid]

『ᴛʜᴇ ʙʀᴇᴡᴋᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ』

ᴠɪɪɪ. ᴏʀɪɢɪɴs, ᴜɴᴍᴀᴅᴇ

⋮⟢ ᴀʀᴄʜɪᴠᴇ ⟢⋮

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Evening crept into the cafe almost reverently, as if afraid to even disturb the dust. 

It had been a slow day.

The last guest had left over an hour ago. No one else had come since, and yet Ambrose hadn’t moved far from the counter. He stood by the sink, cloth in hand, methodically polishing a teacup that was already clean. The soft amber light of the setting sun painted the woodgrain in long streaks, and the shadows had begun to gather in the corners. Unthreatening, of course, but heavy, like old memories stuffed into crevices.

Ambrose waved his hand absently. The bulbs overhead flickered to life, one by one, humming reluctantly as though hesitant to disturb the quiet.

The quietness felt wrong today. Teetering uncomfortably into a silence Ambrose disliked very much, but still not unwelcome. The cafe had always been a sanctuary, a space between worlds where time moved like molasses and grief could sit in the sunlight with its shoes off. But lately, it had begun to feel like something else was there too. Its presence grew every day, but it wasn’t watching him, exactly. More like watching with him.

Not hostile. Just… waiting.

The sigils on his dagger still hadn’t faded. Neither had the feeling that something older than language now resided in even the smallest cracks of his place. Ambrose had sealed it. He was sure of that. 

And yet, sometimes, in the quietest moments, he caught himself glancing over his shoulder. 

It wasn’t because he felt danger.

But because he felt recognition.

He’d brewed every blend he could think of to banish the aftertaste: mugwort, valerian, crushed lapis. None of it worked. The thing in the blade didn’t want to hurt him. It simply was, and it lingered in the air like something remembered too vividly to forget.

He didn’t regret what he had done. 

Only how naturally it had come.

Ambrose exhaled slowly. He set the cup down with careful precision and reached for another. Not because it needed cleaning, but because the motion gave his hands somewhere to go while the rest of him stayed still.

A copy of the Order’s report notes sat stacked near the register. It was written mostly in Areta’s fine print, with Myren’s handwriting curling like the steam in the margins:

 “If it remembers different versions of us, what else might it remember?”

He hadn’t answered that question.

The bell above the door rang. Not with its usual bright chime. It sounded hollow and off-kilter, like it was underwater

Ambrose didn’t look up immediately. He set the second cup beside the first, neatly aligned. He already knew who it was.

Bootsteps, deliberate and cold, followed. And then a voice, dry as the wind outside and just as biting:

“What have you done now, you fool?”

Ambrose lifted his head.

Cyril stood in the doorway, cloak still heavy with the scent of winter and faint incense. He didn’t move to shut the door right away. His eyes scanned the room like they half-expected to find a summoning circle still smoking somewhere in the room.

“Evening,” Ambrose said simply.

“You’ve done something,” Cyril repeated, stepping inside. “I can feel it in the walls.”

“You always did imagine things when you were tired,” Ambrose murmured, heading toward the kettle. “I’ll put something on.”

Cyril removed his gloves without ceremony and draped them over the back of a chair. He looked around again, slower this time. His gaze landed on shelves that had shifted since his last visit, bundles of dried herbs that weren’t native to the old forest, the faint shimmer in the wards that held too much warmth for winter.

His discomfort tugged at the edges of the room like wind against an old door.

“This place isn’t supposed to feel like this,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Ambrose didn’t answer. He had no desire to explain himself anymore.

The kettle took its time. Everything did, these days. Lavender and old citrus peel bloomed into the air. Comfort and familiarity. What he offered to every soul who stepped through that door.

Even the ones who came bearing warnings.

Only once the tea was poured and set in front of Cyril did the silence finally break.

“They’re preparing a summons.”

Ambrose didn’t flinch. He only leaned back against the counter, cradling his own cup in both hands. “I assumed they might.”

“The Order’s report reached them three days ago. Areta kept it restrained. Basel didn’t. And Myren…” Cyril exhaled. “He tried. But the Council knows. Knows you sealed it. Knows what you’re keeping in that knife.”

“They’re not sending a letter, then,” Ambrose said softly.

“No.” Cyril’s voice hardened. “They’re summoning you.”

The word settled between them like frost on glass.

Ambrose stared into his tea, watching the faint whirl of herbs turn lazy circles. He didn’t want to fight. But he would not run, either.

He had lived his whole life being told what not to do. Don’t touch what doesn’t belong to you. Don’t cross the lines drawn in salt. Don’t be soft. Don’t be seen. Don’t give to those who wouldn’t give back.

And yet.

He had reached out to the wounded witch. He had healed an enemy child. He had sealed an ancient being not with force, but with a promise to stay.

“You remember the mirror wisp?”

Ambrose looked up.

“You found it flickering near the edge of the west woods,” Cyril said. “Carried it home in your bare hands so it wouldn’t slip through. You kept it in the linen cupboard. Tried to feed it moonwater and glowstone.”

Ambrose smiled faintly. “It was afraid of the dark.”

“It was the dark,” Cyril muttered. “It shorted half the wards and cracked Mother’s scrying basin. Bion couldn’t look into a mirror for days.”

Ambrose’s voice stayed soft. “Only because it mirrored emotions. It didn’t know how to be anything until someone showed it.”

“It didn’t like shouting,” Cyril added. “Tried to scatter every time the twins barreled down the stairs.”

“They would stomp and scream,” Ambrose said. “It was terrified.”

Cyril huffed, something like a laugh, worn down by time. “You always think... if you’re soft enough, careful enough, good enough... nothing will break in your hands.”

Ambrose didn’t reply. He only looked down at the tea in his cup, watching the surface go still.

Cyril’s voice grew quieter. “You were the gentlest thing in that house. And we were a house that chewed up gentleness and spat it out.”

Ambrose blinked, but his face didn’t change.

“The elders saw it and tried to beat it out of you,” Cyril said. “Called you weak. Foolish. Said you'd get yourself killed. And the rest of us… we followed their lead. We turned away. Or worse.”

Ambrose’s voice came quiet. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Cyril said. “Not always, but enough. I stood there and let them carve pieces out of you.”

Ambrose’s throat moved like he was going to speak, but didn’t.

Cyril leaned back, eyes distant. “Do you remember when Father gave you that dagger?”

Ambrose didn’t answer right away. Then, “Yes.”

“He told you it was tradition,” Cyril said. “That all the children received a ritual blade at thirteen, to make their first sacrifice. Said it would toughen you up.” His lip curled. “I remember. He was furious you wouldn’t kill the bird.”

Ambrose exhaled slowly. “It had a broken wing.”

“He made you use it on your hair, in the end,” Cyril muttered. “A blood-for-protection spell. Said it would count if it came from your roots. I watched you after. You looked like something hollowed out.”

Ambrose’s fingers tightened slightly around the cup.

“Do you still have it?”

Ambrose was still for a moment. “Yes.”

Cyril looked at him sharply, as if trying to understand something that had always escaped him. “I thought you would’ve thrown it in the sea.”

“I thought about it,” Ambrose said. “For a long time, I wanted to.”

“Then why..?”

Ambrose didn’t reply. He pushed off the counter without a word and opened the drawer which held his dagger. He held up the blade, wrapped in black cloth, its material humming faintly beneath the fabric. He set it on the table and peeled back the cloth.

The sigil burned low and steady. Not aggressive. Not flaring. Just... present.

Cyril didn’t touch it. But his expression shifted. There was something in his face that hadn’t been there the last time they met. Recognition, yes, but also grief.

“You know what this is,” he said.

“I have guesses.”

“This wasn’t meant to survive.”

“I didn’t ask it to,” Ambrose replied. “But it did.”

Cyril sat back in his chair, shoulders tight.

“You carry things like they won’t cut you. Like if you’re careful enough, they won’t remember how sharp they are.”

Ambrose met his gaze. “And I’m still here.”

“For now.”

The quiet stretched again, this time softening slightly at the edges. It wasn’t forgiveness. But it wasn’t rejection, either.

Eventually, Cyril stood.

“I’ll stay the night. The summons won’t come till morning.”

Ambrose didn’t blink. “You know where the spare room is. There are more blankets in the drawers under the bed.”

“Of course,” Cyril said, already moving toward the hearth. “You’ve always kept a place ready for ghosts.”

Ambrose lingered a little longer at the counter, watching the way the shadows moved across the floor.

Then, with another flick of his wrist, he dimmed the lights.

He closed the café early that night.

There were too many names hanging in the air to welcome anyone else.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

< ᴘʀᴇᴠ | ɴᴇxᴛ >

[pasthalfsquid]

⌜ғɪᴇʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛᴇs ғʀᴏᴍ ᴀ ɴᴀʀʀᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴏᴍᴀʟʏ⌟

『ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ's ᴀ ʙᴏᴅʏ ʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴛʏᴘɪɴɢ.』 『ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ᴀ ᴍɪɴᴅ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇsᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅs. ᴡᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴀᴇᴏɴs ᴏғ ᴜɴғɪɴɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴅʀᴀғᴛs, ʀᴇᴡʀɪᴛᴇs, ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴄᴜʀsɪᴠᴇ ʟᴏʀᴇ sᴘɪʀᴀʟs. ɪᴛ ʀᴜɴs ᴏɴ ɪɴsᴏᴍɴɪᴀ, ʜᴀʟғ-ғᴏʀᴍᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛʟɪɴᴇs, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏғ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ǫᴜɪᴛᴇ ғɪɴɪsʜɪɴɢ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ.』

Hi. I'm Caela. Or Cael A. Sallow, if the lighting's dramatic enough and the plot demands a surname.

ɴᴀᴍᴇs ᴀʀᴇ sᴜᴄʜ ғʟɪᴍsʏ ᴛʜɪɴɢs ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜɪs ᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴇᴀʀs ᴍᴀɴʏ ʜᴀᴛs (ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇᴍ sᴛᴏʟᴇɴ).

『ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴏʀɪᴇs ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍsᴇʟᴠᴇs.』 『ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴍᴇʀᴇʟʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴇssᴇʟ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴍᴀɴɪғᴇsᴛ.』 『sᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇs ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴏᴜs. sᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇs ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅᴇᴠᴏᴜʀ. ɪ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴇs.』

My update system is event-based, not time-based.

My relationship with my works is somewhere between a divine pact and a hostage situation.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

₊⊹ ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ ᴍᴇᴛᴀᴅᴀᴛᴀ

sᴛᴀᴛᴜs: Drafting | Plotting | Spiralling

ᴄʟᴀss: INTJ | Chaotic Neutal

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ ᴀʟɪɢɴᴍᴇɴᴛ: Slice of Life | Slow Life | Heavy Angst

ғᴀᴠᴏʀᴇᴅ ᴛʀᴏᴘᴇs: Found Family | Reluctant Hero | Time Loops / Nonlinear Timelines | Post-Apocalyptic Slice of Life | Cosmic Horror

ʟɪᴛᴇʀᴀʀʏ ᴀғғʟɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴs: Webnovel Rot | Delusions of Symbolism | Spiritual Kinship with Doomed Narratives

ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ᴛᴏ ᴇxᴘᴇʀɪᴇɴᴄᴇ: spontaneous worldbuilding | emotional whiplash

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

₊⊹ ᴀʀᴄʜɪᴠᴇs ᴏғ ᴇʟsᴇᴡᴏʀʟᴅs

(compiled and incomplete, like all good archives)

『ᴏʀɪɢɪɴᴀʟ ᴡᴏʀᴋs』 ᯓ✦ The Brewkeeper Status: Ongoing || Genre: Low Fantasy, Slice of Life || All posts tagged as #the brewkeeper

『ᴘᴏᴇᴛʀʏ』 ᯓ✦ Cosmogyre

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

₊⊹ ᴄᴏʀʀᴇsᴘᴏɴᴅᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴏɪᴅ ɪs ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇᴅ

The line between reader and author is thin, and fraying.

Asks are open. Requests are accepted.

Send a sign. Leave an offering.

If a story wants to be written, it will be.

Stay tuned to #mailfromthecephalopost for responses and other musings

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

[pasthalfsquid]

『ᴛʜᴇ ʙʀᴇᴡᴋᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ』: ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ɴᴏᴛᴇs

(An overview and chapter archive)

Ambrose never wanted power. He just wanted to live peacefully.

But having been born into a coven where tradition mattered more than kindness, his compassion became his undoing. Now exiled, he keeps a tucked-away café at the edge of a sleepy town, brewing tea and stillness for passing souls. Yet the world beyond his hearth hasn’t stopped turning.

After all, the past always has a way of coming back.

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪ: ᴛᴏ ᴛᴇɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀs ʙᴜʀɪᴇᴅ

ɪ. ᴄʟᴀʀɪᴛʏ, ᴘᴏᴜʀᴇᴅ.

ɪɪ. ᴄᴏᴍғᴏʀᴛ, sᴛᴇᴇᴘᴇᴅ.

ɪɪɪ. ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇs, sᴛɪʀʀᴇᴅ

ɪᴠ. ᴛʀᴀᴄᴇs, ɪɴғᴜsᴇᴅ

ᴠ. sᴛɪʟʟɴᴇss, ғʀᴀʏᴇᴅ

ᴠɪ. ʀᴇᴍɴᴀɴᴛs, ᴀᴡᴏᴋᴇɴ

ᴠɪɪ. ᴘʀᴇsᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴀɴᴄʜᴏʀᴇᴅ

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪɪ: ᴛᴏ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀs ғᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ

ᴠɪɪɪ. ᴏʀɪɢɪɴs, ᴜɴᴍᴀᴅᴇ

[pasthalfsquid]

『ᴛʜᴇ ʙʀᴇᴡᴋᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ』

ᴠɪɪ. ᴘʀᴇsᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴀɴᴄʜᴏʀᴇᴅ

⋮⟢ ᴀʀᴄʜɪᴠᴇ ⟢⋮

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The cafe had always held quiet well.

Not silence. Never that. Silence was too sterile, too hollow. But quiet: the kind that hummed softly under breath and brew, that curled around the ankles like steam and made space for people to sit with whatever they were carrying, be it grief, joy, confusion, or hunger.

Lately, though, the quiet had changed.

It wasn’t heavier. Not colder. But it lingered differently now. As if someone else were listening.

Ambrose noticed it in the small pauses between motions. The way the steam rose slower than usual from the morning kettle. The way light filtered through the front windows and bent at odd angles, catching dust motes that hung a little longer in the air. Even Bear, usually curled in her sunlit corner, had taken to sitting near the cash register, tail curled protectively, ears flicking like she was eavesdropping on a conversation only she could hear.

Sometimes, when Ambrose walked through the cafe at dusk, he caught the scent of old ink and petrichor, notes of spellcraft long forgotten. The chalk line beneath the tea shelf, once purely decorative, had begun to glow faintly under certain angles of sunlight, a pale shimmer like mist on glass. A half-sung note seemed to hum in the floorboards when the rooms were empty.

The broom swept the floor without complaint, but its rhythm had changed, too. Softer. More deliberate. Ambrose moved alongside it, his slippers rustling against the flooring like the hush before a thought fully formed.

Sometimes, Ambrose swore he could hear it purring. Not the dagger, precisely, but the thing inside it, or the memory of it, spooling lazily through the cafe’s foundations like a cat settling in. Not malicious. Just there. Watching. Adjusting. Tasting the air.

He'd started leaving offerings without realising it: extra herbs in the brew pot, a pinch of salt on the sill, letting the flame burn just a little longer in the evenings. It didn’t ask for these things. But they felt... appropriate. Courtesies, perhaps.

He paused by the counter, hand hovering over the drawer beneath the register. Inside, tucked among bundles of hawthorn and packets of powdered vervain, rested the ritual dagger.

He didn’t open it.

But he knew it was awake.

It hadn’t spoken, not in words, at least. But its presence rippled faintly through the grain of the wood, threading itself into the heartbeat of the cafe like a low chord held just under the melody. Guests didn’t notice. Even Bear, perceptive as she was, only glanced once at the register and blinked slowly, tail twitching.

Still, the change was there.

Not threatening. Not unwelcome. Just… older.

As if the cafe had remembered something about itself that it had long since forgotten.

The Order had left three days ago. Not all at once, though. Areta stayed the longest, her voice low and eyes distant, as if she were still listening for echoes the rest of them had stopped hearing. Basel had disappeared before sunrise. Ambrose found only a half-empty mug on the counter and a folded napkin with no note. Myren had left with a simple nod at the door, boots crunching through fresh snow without ceremony.

Their absence wasn’t loud. It was felt in the absence of weight, the kind of gravity that made you stand straighter without realising it. The cafe had grown lighter since. But that lightness carried an afterimage, like a space recently vacated by something ancient.

Ambrose reached for the kettle, setting it on the flame with practised ease. The scent of chamomile and dried apricot from yesterday’s blend still clung faintly to the air. Somewhere beneath it, something darker: rooted, mineral, old.

Not all hauntings were sad. Some were simply persistent.

The bell above the door jangled with a sort of deflated enthusiasm.

Ambrose turned.

Oliver and Eloise entered in single file, like clouds trailing after a brief storm. Oliver’s scarf was knotted unevenly; Eloise looked like she hadn’t slept properly in a week.

“Good afternoon,” Ambrose said, which felt almost like mislabeling.

Oliver sighed as he dropped into the nearest chair. “We failed.”

“Utterly,” Eloise added, slumping beside him. “Apparently, our project lacked ‘cultural viability.’ The old woods are ‘superstitious detritus with no historiographical merit.’” She mimed quotation marks in the air. “Which is academic for ‘we hated it but wanted to sound smart.’”

Ambrose blinked once. "Is that... is that actually a real phrase someone used?" He looked mildly concerned. "It sounds like someone choking on a thesaurus. Did you cite me?"

Oliver nodded. “With a footnote.”

Eloise muttered, “Apparently, ‘mysterious cafe wizard’ doesn’t count as a qualified expert.”

Ambrose moved back behind the counter, lips twitching. “Academia has no taste.”

He pulled three mismatched mugs from the shelf, brushing the rim of each with his thumb before choosing. For moments like these, something cheerful was needed. Not loud, not sugar-coated. Just... kind.

He reached for the orange peel first, its scent bright and unwavering. Resilience, in peel and pith, the kind that clings stubbornly through winter and whispers that light returns. Then hibiscus, tart and vivid, petals the colour of sunset. Sharp but lovely, like the ache of a goodbye you never quite got to say. He added cinnamon next, grounding and warm, the sort of warmth that softened sharp edges and wrapped around sorrow without asking it to leave. For a moment, he held all three in his hands, considering not just their weight but their intent. Together, they sang in scent alone, a quiet harmony of hurt and hope mingling in the air.

“Are you making a sympathy brew?” Eloise asked, peeking over the counter.

Ambrose nodded. “Of course. Anything less would be negligence.”

Oliver grumbled, “Do you have anything for crushing disillusionment and the urge to commit arson?”

“Hm...” Ambrose murmured, reaching into the jar of candied ginger. “Ginger for your spite. And maybe a bit of clove, for that fiery existential dread.”

“Make it a double,” Eloise mumbled.

He added a sliver of the ginger to each mug and adjusted the flame beneath the kettle.

The brewing process was slow and intentional. The leaves swirled like lazy comets in amber-tinted water. The scent rose, sharp and warm at once, like the memory of laughter at the edge of a funeral.

Somewhere above the brewing station, one of the ceiling beams let out a soft, resonant creak, as though stirred by the alchemy in progress. The flame beneath the kettle flickered violet for a second, then returned to its steady glow.

“A brew for the academically wounded,” he said as he poured the water. “And for the stubborn belief that stories matter, even when no one listens.”

Oliver perked up. “Does it have a name?”

“Bittersweet,” Ambrose said. “Or Red Tape Relief, depending on your mood.”

Eloise rested her head on the table. “I want to laugh, but I’m too emotionally bruised.”

Oliver blew gently on his mug, then stared into it. "I mean, I get it. We're just two teenagers with a very questionable hypothesis and a passion for wandering into off-limit areas."

Eloise mumbled into her sleeve, "I thought the handmade map would at least earn us creativity points."

"It did," Oliver said. "Negative ones."

Ambrose raised a brow as he leaned against the counter. "You made a map?"

"An illustrated one," Eloise said, lifting her head. "With ink washes. It had symbols, Ambrose. Symbols."

"And I may have included a drawing of Bear," Oliver added. "For scale."

Bear, sensing her name, gave a half-hearted flick of her tail.

Ambrose chuckled. "Next time, submit it to a gallery instead. You’d get more appreciation."

Oliver sighed. "That’s the real tragedy. We worked so hard to convince them the woods had something worth listening to."

"They do," Ambrose said quietly. "Even if the wrong people aren’t ready to hear it yet."

Eloise glanced at him, eyes narrowing with a hint of curiosity. "You talk like they’ve spoken to you before."

Ambrose hesitated, then smiled. "They might have."

Oliver stared. "How do we learn to hear them? It might be a good citation for the next time we do a project on the woods"

Ambrose tilted his head slightly, the same way Bear did when she was listening to something beyond human frequency.

“You don’t,” he said softly. “But if you're still long enough, and kind enough, something old might decide you're worth the trouble.”

A soft vibration tingled up through the wood beneath his feet. It almost felt like approval.

“I’ll take that as a success,” Ambrose murmured.

Something seemed to ripple across the room, leaving behind a sense of peace more ancient than the walls, older than the beams. Not a chill, but a presence, like standing beneath a canopy of stars and realising they are watching back. The air shimmered for a breath, not visibly, but in sensation, as though the cafe were exhaling slowly, realigning itself around something unseen. Faintly, from the floorboards, or perhaps the rafters, a hum unfurled: low, wordless, and deeply familiar in a way that made no logical sense. Ambrose felt it in his teeth, his bones, the way one feels thunder before it arrives.

The cafe had always been a place of warmth. But now, it held depth, layers unspoken, histories unbottled, memory folded into the woodgrain like forgotten spells waiting to be remembered.

The cafe settled into a hush that felt less like silence and more like a held breath. Like a stillness that invited reflection rather than demanded it. Steam coiled lazily through the air, carrying the soft fragrance of citrus and spice. Mugs sat in quiet communion with the hands that held them. Bear leapt lightly into Oliver’s lap and tucked herself in as though resuming a ritual as old as the building itself, her gaze not watchful, but knowing.

Somewhere near the drawer under the register, the wood creaked softly. Not ominous. Not urgent. Just present. A reminder.

Ambrose didn’t look.

He didn’t need to.

He felt it. Acknowledgement, perhaps. Or agreement.

His hand paused, just briefly, fingers brushing the rim of a mug.

Then he exhaled, and moved again, as if nothing had changed.

Though something had.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

< ᴘʀᴇᴠ | ɴᴇxᴛ >

[pasthalfsquid]

『ᴛʜᴇ ʙʀᴇᴡᴋᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ』

ᴠɪ. ʀᴇᴍɴᴀɴᴛs, ᴀᴡᴏᴋᴇɴ

⋮⟢ ᴀʀᴄʜɪᴠᴇ ⟢⋮

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Ambrose had walked these woods since before his exile. 

They had spoken to him then. Advised him when he left.

But never had they watched him.

The snow fell steadily, the kind that blurred the world into absolutes: light and dark, warmth and cold, breath and silence. It softened the outlines of every tree, dulled the crunch of bootsteps, and cloaked even the wind. And yet, the woods were not still.

They were listening.

Ambrose moved carefully, one gloved hand outstretched to part frost-heavy branches. A lantern swung in his other hand, the sanctifying flames casting a muted amber glow that barely touched the gloom ahead. Behind him, the three witches from the Order followed: boots muffled by snow, cloaks trailing along the narrow path, shadows to his own. No one spoke. Even breathing felt too loud.

The trees here were old, not merely in years, but also in memory. Some bore scars shaped like vaguely familiar sigils, others bent unnaturally inward, as if pulled toward a long-forgotten centre. Bark shimmered with frost that didn’t melt. Roots shifted beneath snow without sound. Ambrose could feel it in the soles of his boots: a rhythm, low and patient. Not a heartbeat. Something older.

They passed a fallen log ringed with mushrooms, their caps furred with hoarfrost. A broken stone half-buried beneath it bore remnants of a glyph he didn’t recognise. He slowed, placing two fingers to the stone, letting the magic brush against his skin.

Old.

Not wild, not violent, but vigilant.

Behind him, one of the others stepped close, breath curling beside Ambrose’s shoulder.

“Something wrong?” the woman asked softly.

Ambrose shook his head, but didn’t move immediately. “Not wrong. Just… paying attention.”

A few more steps forward, and the path widened into a hollow where trees arched overhead like ribs. Here, the snow fell slower, like even gravity had quieted. Ambrose stopped, raising the lantern just enough to catch the low haze curling near the ground. It was warmer here. Not natural.

He turned slightly to address the others.

“If this is what your trail led to,” he said, “then we’re not following anything anymore. It’s... waiting.”

The tallest of the three, the one who had hovered by the bookshelf back in the café, gave a curt nod. “The trail has fractured. We felt it, just as your wards stirred.”

Ambrose let the silence hold for a breath longer, then glanced over his shoulder at the man beside him. “Do you —” he began, then hesitated, blinking. “I never asked your names.”

The man blinked as well, surprised perhaps by the realisation.

“Basel,” he offered, voice lower than before. “I’m the one who caught the rupture in the veil.”

The woman pulled her cloak tighter as she stepped up beside him. “Areta,” she said, dipping her chin. “I trace echoes through resonance… sound, mostly. Vibration. Some things remember best, that way.”

The third, broad-shouldered and quiet, was the last to speak. “Myren,” he said simply. “Wards and bindings. I was tracking an unravelling spell-form when it vanished near your treeline.”

Ambrose nodded slowly. “Ambrose,” he said, though they already knew. Somehow, saying it now felt like a ceremony. “The Brewkeeper. And, apparently, keeper of whatever this has become.”

They stood together in the hush, surrounded by snow and trees that bent too far inward. Above them, the sky was a hollow pewter, thick with unfallen snow. Somewhere in the woods, a branch cracked, not loudly, not threateningly.

Just enough to remind them they were not alone.

Ambrose’s fingers drifted toward the sheath hanging at his hip, brushing against the hilt of the ritual blade. He didn’t draw it. Not yet. But its weight grounded him in readiness.

He took a breath. “Come on,” he murmured. “We’re close.”

And the woods, as if hearing him, fell quieter still.

Snow deepened as they pressed further, rising past their boots. The path had long since dissolved, swallowed by drifting frost and tangled roots. What remained wasn’t direction so much as instinct, an invisible pull toward a presence that hadn’t yet made itself known.

No one spoke. Words felt unwelcome here.

Ambrose let his lantern dip low, its light catching strange glimmers just beneath the snow: the faint outline of symbols drawn into the earth, blurred but not erased. Some he recognised as binding glyphs, others as protective measures long since burned out.

Others were older. Not written for human eyes at all.

At one point, Areta paused beside the twisted remains of a thornbush, its branches blackened and curled inwards like fingers around an invisible wound. She knelt, brushing snow aside with reverent care. Beneath the ice, a shard of bone protruded — long, thin, and etched with threadlike script.

“Residual spellform,” she murmured. “Bone-carved. But it’s been hollowed. Whatever lived here bled its magic dry.”

Ambrose knelt beside her, brushing a hand through the snow until his fingertips touched the frozen bark of the bush. The texture was wrong; slick with frost, yes, but beneath that, a strange warmth pulsed once, faint as a heartbeat.

He pulled back.

“Something fed here,” Basel said from nearby, his voice barely above the wind. “Tore through the veil like a thread pulled from fabric. This whole place is thin.”

Myren, silent until now, stood by a tree marked with nails and bits of woven cord. He reached toward it, not touching, just hovering. The cords began to unravel. The spells they once held had come undone long before they’d ever stepped into the forest.

“Charms are failing,” Myren said. “Old ones. Bordercraft. I don’t think anyone’s tended this land in generations.”

Ambrose’s eyes flicked upward. He could feel it too. Not emptiness, not ruin. Something more dangerous.

Neglect.

Magic, left untended, didn’t die. It drifted. Collected. Curled in on itself like rot. And when rot gathered long enough, it became something else.

They passed another sigil carved into stone, this one half-sunk into a tree trunk, as though the forest had grown over it in protest. Ambrose ran his fingers over its edge and felt a jolt. Not pain, exactly. Recognition. A whisper against his thoughts.

It remembers you.

He let his hand fall away. “We’re not the first to come here,” he said quietly. “But I don’t think any of the others left.”

They walked for a long time after that, each step more reluctant than the last, not from fear, no, but because the woods themselves seemed to resist progress. The air thickened. Lanternlight dimmed. Even sound felt slow, dulled by frost and breath and the knowledge that something was aware of them now.

A shimmer of warmth passed across Ambrose’s skin like breath. The lantern flared. Ahead, the trees opened.

A clearing waited.

Perfectly round. Unnaturally quiet.

And at its centre, half-submerged in frost and time, a stone monolith leaned like a gravemarker. No name. No carving. No obvious magic.

But every one of them stopped just outside the ring of trees.

Even the snow had refused to cross into the circle.

Ambrose let out a long breath, the vapour curling like incense in the stillness. His fingers brushed the sheath once more, feeling the familiar shape of the ritual blade.

Still, he didn’t draw it.

Instead, he whispered, “We found it.”

Behind him, the others remained still, their magic curling tightly around them, not in hostility, but in reverence. Whatever they’d come for… this was only the edge of it.

And the monolith, dark and patient, began to hum.

No one moved.

The monolith stood like a shadow cast before light was invented, before memory, even. Around it, the snow had melted in a perfect ring, the soil beneath dark, untouched by frost. Not even their breath drifted into the space beyond the trees. The air simply refused to enter.

Areta pressed her palm against one of the bordering trunks. “The clearing isn’t natural,” she said softly. “Not magically made, either. It’s... responding.”

“To what?” Basel asked.

“To us,” she answered. “To him.”

Ambrose took a step forward, boots crunching softly. The very edge of the circle lay inches away. Beyond that point, even sound seemed thinner, like water poured through cloth.

“I know this place,” he said, voice low, uncertain. “Or I should. I’ve dreamt it. Long ago.”

He didn’t explain further. He couldn’t. The memory was less an image than a scent: linden smoke and scorched parchment. A fevered chant, then silence.

Myren was frowning. “There’s no leyline here. Not aboveground.”

“Maybe not anymore,” Ambrose murmured.

The stone hummed again. Faint, but stronger this time. Resonant. Like a note struck under the skin, vibrating inside the ribcage instead of the ear.

Something had noticed them.

The lantern dimmed.

Just a flicker. Just enough for the shadows to lean forward.

Areta shifted beside him. Her voice, when it came, was tight. “I think it’s time we asked what’s beneath.”

Ambrose’s hand hovered by his hip, where the dagger’s presence pulsed softly like a second heartbeat. Not a threat. A reminder.

“We don’t need to break the seal,” he said. “We just need to listen.”

And beneath the snow-packed earth, something breathed in return.

A wind stirred, though no leaves moved.

No branches bent. No snow fell.

Still, something shifted. The hairs along Ambrose’s neck prickled. His breath stilled. It wasn’t cold that touched him then, but recognition.

Across the clearing, frost began to form in the shape of hands.

Delicate. Elongated. Scrawled like ink lines on the dark earth, appearing where no footprints led. Not prints, not indentations. Negative space. The absence of warmth so precise it formed fingers, a palm, a gesture.

One hand rested near the monolith’s base.

Another, further off, outstretched, as if reaching for something long buried.

Areta inhaled sharply. “Those aren’t new.”

“They weren’t here when we arrived,” Basel murmured.

“They were always here,” Ambrose said. “We just didn’t know how to see them.”

And then, from nowhere — sound.

Not a word. Not a voice. A chord.

It rang through the bones of the trees. Through rib and root. Low, and slow, and plangent.

The frost-touched hands began to crumble.

But the gesture remained. A pose that lingered like the afterimage of a flame: one hand resting, one hand reaching.

Ambrose’s gaze narrowed.

It wasn’t warning them. Or threatening them.

It was asking.

Basel stepped back instinctively. “This isn’t residue. This isn’t a haunting. It’s a —”

“A memory,” Ambrose whispered. “One that doesn’t belong to just one person.”

Myren, silent until now, finally spoke. “A question, then.”

The monolith responded.

It wept.

From a crack near its base, dark water beaded, thick as ink, slow as sap. One drop. Two. The sound was impossibly loud against the stillness.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

The ground didn’t drink it. The snow didn’t freeze it. The droplets simply... pooled.

And in their mirrored surfaces: reflections of the four. But not as they were.

Not older, not younger. Different.

Clad in robes they’d never worn. Faces marked with sigils they had never drawn. Each reflection bore the weight of another path, a might-have-been. A choice unchosen.

Ambrose stared at his own reflection. His mirrored self did not carry a lantern. His hand was stained with ash. And his eyes…

His eyes were open.

Too open.

He looked away.

No one spoke.

The water stilled.

The hands vanished.

And the woods, now fully awake, waited for their answer.

The mirrored water remained still.

No wind stirred it. No falling snow dimpled its surface. It just... reflected. Held. Offered.

Ambrose was the first to move. He turned from his reflection, cloak stirring faintly around his boots. “It’s not trying to frighten us,” he said.

“No,” Areta said, voice thin, “but it’s not being gentle either.”

Myren crouched by the edge of the circle, his gaze fixed on his own reflection. He didn’t blink. “That’s not a glamour,” he said after a moment. “That’s a true image. Of me. But not from this timeline.”

Basel turned his head sharply. “What?”

“Not a memory. A parallel.”

Ambrose didn’t answer. His fingers tightened over the lantern's handle. It had dimmed again, not from lack of oil or spelllight, but in deference. It knew something greater had arrived. Something not bound by the rules of heat or flame or place.

A silence pressed in around them again, thicker this time.

The trees no longer rustled. Even their own breath sounded far away, like it belonged to someone else.

And then the air shifted.

No footfalls. No scent.

But the presence was undeniable.

It did not approach.

It did not descend.

It was revealed, like a film had been peeled back from the world, and beneath it was pure intention made into form.

Not a body. Not a voice. But awareness.

Vast.

Heavy.

Patient.

Ambrose felt it brush past his mind, not intruding but grazing his thoughts like a hand over tall grass. Cold. Curious. Old.

The monolith pulsed once with light, not visible, but felt. A ripple in the bones.

Then a voice, if it could be called that. Less a sound than a vibration within marrow and memory.

“Who walks with your name but not your path?”

Ambrose inhaled.

Areta stepped closer to his side, unconsciously.

“Who keeps the flame but leaves the root untended?”

The ritual dagger at his hip seemed to thrum in recognition.

“You return not to repair. You return to remember.”

Ambrose’s mouth was dry. His thoughts scattered like salt on ice. Still, he bowed his head slightly, not in submission, but in acknowledgement.

“I did not know what I left behind,” he said softly. “But I do now.”

The presence paused.

No wind stirred, but every branch above them creaked at once.

Then:

“Will you carry what was buried?”

The question hung in the air like a binding. Not forced, but offered.

Not all magic took the form of spells.

Some took the form of questions.

Ambrose didn’t answer yet.

The clearing was holding its breath.

And beneath his palm, the dagger pulsed once more, warm now.

Waiting.

Ambrose stepped forward.

Just one step. Enough to cross the invisible line between snow and bare earth. The moment he did, the air changed.

Not colder. Deeper.

Like sinking into still water.

His breath caught, then steadied. The lantern at his side flickered once, then stilled.

The others did not follow. They knew better. This part was for him alone.

He knelt by the monolith, fingers brushing the pooled ink-water. It was neither warm nor cold, but it responded, rippling faintly at his touch. The reflections didn’t vanish.

They shifted.

No longer showing alternate selves, but echoes, of this place, of others who had once stood where he now knelt. Cloaked figures. Firelit rituals. A grove blooming wildly, impossibly, under a blood-orange sky.

A tree.

There had been a tree once.

Towering, silver-leaved. Its roots wrapped around the monolith like a vow.

He remembered now, not clearly, but with the aching familiarity of a half-forgotten lullaby. This place had not always been a wound.

It had once been a wellspring.

“Will you carry what was buried?”

The voice again. Steady. Not demanding. It felt less like a question and more like a door, waiting to be opened or left closed.

Ambrose reached for his dagger

He unsheathed it with slow, careful hands. The blade was small. The etchings along its edge shimmered faintly, recognising the place like a long-lost sibling.

He held it in both hands.

“Not as a weapon,” he said aloud, voice quiet but clear. “But as a vessel.”

And he pressed the tip gently into the earth.

No blood drawn. No violence done.

Just contact.

The ground shivered.

From beneath the monolith, the pool of water split into fine, glimmering rivulets, threads of liquid memory crawling outward, circling the stone. They didn’t soak in. They etched.

Symbols appeared, glowing briefly, then settling into a dull gold. Some old. Some new. Some that formed only as Ambrose knelt with eyes closed, listening.

He could feel it now, the presence not as something separate, but something waiting to join.

Not possession.

Not power.

Burden.

And he said, “Yes.”

The trees responded first, branches creaking inward like a deep, rooted bow.

The snow stopped falling.

The dagger, still embedded in the earth, flared briefly with light.

And then the presence.

Not gone, but settled.

Not diminished.

Integrated.

The monolith pulsed once.

The voice echoed one final time, not aloud, but within:

“Tend it well, exile. Flame alone cannot warm what is hollow.”

Then silence.

Not empty.

Whole.

Behind him, the others approached slowly. Areta touched the edge of the circle first and let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

Basel looked at Ambrose. Not with awe, not with fear, but with something like respect.

Myren nodded once. “Whatever it was... it recognised you.”

Ambrose rose, brushing snow from his cloak. The dagger remained in the soil, its handle already frosting over.

“It didn’t need recognition,” he said. “It needed a keeper.”

And the woods, no longer watching, simply let them go. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ < ᴘʀᴇᴠ | ɴᴇxᴛ >

[pasthalfsquid]

「ᴄᴏsᴍᴏɢʏʀᴇ」

Somewhere beyond breath

And the syntax of stars,

A fragment spins:

not lost,

only unremembered

by the shape it once held.

Time does not move here.

It coils.

Folds into itself

like gravity reciting a prayer 

it no longer believes.

Memories flicker

like failed constellations,

names etched into stardust

then swallowed

by a silence too ancient to echo.

There are orbits made

From what we could not hold;

A single gesture,

the heat before thought.

They circle endlessly,

untouched

Yet tethered to a centre 

that no longer burns.

In the negative space,

between one collapse and the next,

the universe keeps dreaming

of itself.

Not in lines,

not in hours,

but in recursive pulses.

A rhythm without witness.

And we,

brief anomalies,

filaments of doubt,

shivering across the skin of a void,

we map our lives

onto these darkened skies

hoping

some piece of us,

remains in the pattern.

Even if the stars

no longer remember

why they shine.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

[pasthalfsquid]

『ᴛʜᴇ ʙʀᴇᴡᴋᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ』

ᴠ. sᴛɪʟʟɴᴇss, ғʀᴀʏᴇᴅ

⋮⟢ ᴀʀᴄʜɪᴠᴇ ⟢⋮

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The last of the evening light had long since vanished, leaving only the gentle glow of streetlamps and snowfall beyond the café windows.

Outside, the world was hushed beneath a soft, steady drift of snow, thickening with each passing hour, turning the cobblestones into a muted blur. Inside, the café glowed with a warm, amber light. The lanterns swayed faintly overhead, casting golden halos on the floorboards. The scent of citrus, clove, and old wood lingered in the air. Soothing. Familiar.

Ambrose moved quietly behind the counter, wiping down cups, his motions slow and unhurried. Only two patrons remained, nestled in the corner by the fireplace, murmuring in low voices over a shared slice of plum cake. They would be gone soon, and he’d let them linger. There was no need to chase warmth out into the snow.

The kettle on the back burner hummed gently, not quite whistling. Ambrose didn’t need it, not yet. But it was comforting to keep it there, just in case.

It was nearly nine. Another half hour, maybe less, and he would flip the sign, draw the curtains, and enjoy the quiet that came with closing. The deep kind of stillness that only arrived when the world outside was tucked beneath snow and sleep.

He glanced toward the window, watching snow gather thickly on the railing just beyond the door. The wind had stilled, but the air felt watchful. Not ominous, exactly. Just... alert. Like the forest holding its breath.

Something was shifting. That much he knew. He had known it for days now, though the feeling had no name, no shape. Just a hum in his bones, and a subtle prickling in the edges of his wards.

Still, he waited. The world always revealed itself.

Eventually.

And then, just as he reached beneath the counter to retrieve the “Closed” sign, the bell above the door chimed.

Three figures stepped inside. Snow curled inward on the draft that followed them. For a moment, they simply stood there, as though measuring the warmth inside against the weight of what they carried.

They were travel-worn, that much was clear. Cloaks damp and spattered with old mud, boots streaked with frost and forest debris. The one nearest the door shifted slightly, his head turning just enough to take in the café's interior: the fire, the patrons, the lanternlight humming above.

Their presence felt too dense for the space, like wind pressing against a windowpane. Ambrose felt the wards adjust themselves, nothing alarming, just a soft ripple, as if the magic itself was blinking awake.

One of the three stepped forward. Slender, slightly hunched from the cold. The hood remained drawn low, but her voice was smooth, with the clipped tone of someone used to speaking in code.

"Apologies for the hour. Might we… stay for a little while?"

Ambrose tilted his head, brushing a strand of his red hair behind his ear.

He didn’t reach for the sign.

“But of course.”

He gestured toward the hearth, now free, the couple by the fire having slipped out quietly a moment before the bell rang. “The fire’s warm. Take what comfort you need.”

They hesitated briefly, as if unused to being received without question. Then they moved. Silent, almost ritualistic in the way they shed snow and settled into the room, one of the men by the window, the other, taller one standing a moment too long near the bookshelf, and the woman, who had spoken, lowering herself closest to the hearth.

Ambrose returned to the counter, unfussed. The kettle still hummed, the cups still warm. He reached for herbs without asking what they preferred, already sensing weariness more than wariness.

But beneath that... something old. Familiar.

Magic, yes. But not wild. Not foreign.

Something that had once known him.

Ambrose moved with purpose, every gesture steeped in intention. He reached up to the shelf above the stove, fingertips brushing worn labels until they found the right jars. He opened them gently, one by one, and their scents rose like memory: sun-warmed marjoram, citrus peel dried in the late autumn sun, crushed clove, and linden blossoms gathered before the frost had taken hold.

He paused, letting the fragrance settle in the air like incense.

This was a tea he brewed rarely. It wasn’t on the menu. It didn’t need to be. This one was never for the rush of morning visitors or the chatter of early evening pairs. It was for moments like this. For people with cold fingers and colder thoughts.

He measured each ingredient by feel, not volume, pinches and curls of the hand, a slight lean into the breath of the herbs. Into a ceramic bowl, he dropped the marjoram first: green-gold and resinous. Then the linden, delicate and pale as moth wings. A thumb-sized curl of orange peel followed, sharp and bright. Cloves last, whole, dark, like tiny wooden nails. Strong enough to hold warmth together.

He reached for the pestle, carved from old tamarind wood, and began to grind; slow, methodical strokes, the sound soft against the bowl, like distant footsteps on dry earth. The herbs surrendered gradually, their scent deepening, sweetening. The warmth of the orange peel began to rise first, followed by the floral hum of linden, and finally the clove, earthy and stubborn, like the smell of old books and winter kitchens.

Steam coiled from the mouth of the kettle on the back burner. He let it boil a breath longer than usual, just enough to steep strength into the blend.

While the water rose, he selected three mugs from the back shelf. Each one different, no matching set here. One pale blue with a hairline crack near the rim, another moss-green and glazed unevenly, the third shaped like a cupped hand, clay still slightly rough to the touch. All well-loved. All chosen with care.

Into each mug, he spooned a little honey, not much, just enough to soften the edges. Then, when the kettle began to whisper, he poured the water with practised grace, letting the herbs bloom in gentle spirals.

The air filled with warmth.

Not just heat, but something older, deeper. A memory of shelter. A scent that spoke of homes left behind and hands held in silence.

He held the tray for a moment before turning, feeling the pulse of the brew settle into itself. Then, steady as snowfall, he carried it toward the strangers by the fire.

The tray made the smallest sound as Ambrose set it down on the low table between them. The cups clinked softly against each other. “Something for the cold,” he said simply, “and for the quiet.”

They didn’t reach for the cups right away. The fire crackled softly behind them, throwing gentle orange light across their cloaks. The scent of the tea drifted upward, and hung there, suspended between intention and memory.

The woman was the first to move. Her gloved hands extended slowly, wrapping around the moss-green mug. She lifted it with care, almost with ceremony, like the act itself demanded respect. Beneath her hood, Ambrose saw her shoulders ease, if only slightly.

She inhaled. Not deeply. Just enough.

“…Linden,” she murmured, the word barely audible. A recognition, not just of the ingredient, but of the moment.

The one by the window took the pale blue cup, thumb circling the hairline crack like it meant something. He didn’t speak, but Ambrose noticed the way his posture softened, how the tightness in his spine unravelled just a little as he cradled the warmth in his palms.

The last, the taller man, remained standing a moment longer. He was watching the bookshelf still, eyes roving the spines like he expected one to shift, to glow, to speak. Then he turned and took the final cup with a nod that almost resembled gratitude.

“Thank you,” He said. Not formally. Not curtly. Quietly. Like he meant it.

For a long moment, the three of them simply sat, cloaked still, steam rising gently from their cups. The air held steady, warmer now, softer around the edges.

The woman spoke again, lifting the mug a little toward Ambrose without quite revealing her face.

“You brew like someone who’s done this a long time.”

Ambrose smiled faintly, returning to the counter without fanfare.

“Long enough,” he said, his voice light, like it wasn’t worth measuring in years.

She didn’t press. Not yet. But the shape of the silence changed, curious now, not cautious.

Another pause.

Then, the man by the window remarked quietly, “This place… doesn’t feel ordinary.”

The words weren’t accusatory. More a thought spoken aloud, as if he couldn’t help it. A flicker of recognition trying to catch flame.

Ambrose didn’t answer immediately. He rinsed the bowl, dried his hands, and let the kettle cool. With his back still turned, he replied, “Ordinary isn’t always the goal.”

They settled into a hush.

Outside, the snow fell thick and slow, casting soft shadows against the frosted glass. Inside, the three visitors sat like stones warmed by the hearth: silent, but no longer strangers to the room.

The woman traced a finger down the handle absently. Her shoulders had lowered just a bit more. Not in trust, perhaps, but in permission. Permission to rest.

The man by the window leaned toward the fire, his cup nearly empty now, eyes fixed on the flicker of flame like it might answer a question that hadn’t yet formed.

The taller one, still standing, moved slowly through the café. Not wandering, not yet. But noting things. The jars of dried herbs lined above the kitchenette door. The worn edges of the books on the windowsill. The shelves behind the counter, carved not just for function but with care, quiet flourishes of leaves and runes etched in places only someone looking would notice.

His gaze settled on the dried bundles of elderflower and sage that hung beside the back door, just above a tiny, weathered horseshoe nailed into the wood.

He turned slightly toward Ambrose.

“You’ve got a lot of charmwork in here,” he said, voice casual but edged with something more focused. “Old kinds.”

Ambrose didn’t look up from where he was drying a plate. His hands moved steadily, unbothered.

“Inherited, mostly. Some were already in the walls before I arrived. This place has good bones.”

The man hummed faintly. Not in doubt. Not in belief either. Something between.

From the hearth, the woman lifted her cup again, scenting the last of the tea like it might carry a whisper of truth.

“Hearthbrew,” she said quietly, as if testing the word against the past. “Haven’t tasted that since… years. Not common anymore.”

Ambrose only smiled, setting the plate back in its rack with a soft click.

“Some things are worth keeping.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was watchful.

There was something about the way Ambrose moved, the way the light caught on his wrist where a faint, spiral scar sat like an old sigil barely healed. The way the wards embedded in the windows hummed so quietly that they could be mistaken for wind.

And the fire. It didn’t crackle like ordinary kindling.

The man by the window spoke at last, not looking at him directly. “You’re not just the keeper of this place.”

A beat.

“No. I suppose I’m not.”

No spells were cast. No revelations announced. But something shifted. An old name tugged at the edges of memory.

It didn’t come right away.

It hovered, just out of reach, like the outline of a word you’ve read a hundred times but suddenly can’t pronounce. The kind of knowing that lives in the bones before the mind catches up.

The taller man circled back toward the others, but not before pausing once more, this time by the old coat rack near the door. His hand hovered near the carved finial at its top: a twisted braid of wood and iron that bore a sigil so faint it could be mistaken for weathering. But it wasn’t.

He turned back to his companions, voice low now. “There’s a preservation charm woven into the foundation. Old dialect. Border-rooted.” He paused. “Too old for just a cafe.”

The woman didn’t seem surprised. She'd been quiet the whole time, slowly nursing what remained of her drink, her hood still drawn low. But now her fingers stilled against the mug, and she sat a little straighter.

“He’s not hiding it,” she murmured.

“Doesn’t need to. Magic this well-settled… it hides itself.”

They both looked to the third, then. He'd been the most silent. Still facing the window, though the firelight reflected faintly against the edge of their jaw beneath the hood.

His voice was soft when it came, but firm. "It’s him, isn’t it?”

No answer followed. Not immediately. Not from Ambrose. Not from the others.

Because the name hadn’t yet left anyone’s lips.

But the tension in the air drew tighter, like a string stretched too far.

And then the one by the hearth finally turned to look at him. Slowly. Like she was afraid of being wrong. Or afraid of being right.

Her voice cracked slightly with something deeper than suspicion.

“Ambrose.”

The name did not echo. It simply was, as if it had always been there, waiting.

Ambrose didn’t flinch. He didn’t smile, either. He simply met their gaze and inclined his head the smallest degree. Like tipping a lantern forward just enough to show the room had never truly been dark.

“It’s been some time,” he said.

And though he said nothing more, something shifted in the posture of the three.

The taller man stiffened, almost imperceptibly. The other, by the window, gripped his cup tighter, knuckles paling. But the woman just looked at him with a strange mixture of caution and something older.

Regret, perhaps.

Or memory.

“We didn’t know,” she said finally. “They told us this place might have residuals. A tangle in the ley lines near the woods.”

Her voice dipped, almost bitter. “They didn’t say you were here.”

Ambrose nodded once, calmly. “That was the point.”

A pause lingered after Ambrose’s last words, taut and quiet, like the moment just before snowfall turned to storm.

No one moved. The only sound was the steady tick of the old clock near the bar and the whispering crackle of the fire.

Then —

A flicker.

Ambrose felt it before he heard anything: a ripple across the wards woven into the café’s bones. Not violent. Not loud. But wrong. Like a thread being plucked from the outside.

His gaze lifted, eyes narrowing slightly as he turned toward the window.

The woman stiffened.

“Did you feel that?” she asked, voice clipped, alert.

Ambrose didn’t answer right away. He moved toward the counter, fingers brushing the edge of the jar shelf, as if feeling for vibrations in the wood itself. Something in the air shifted, just enough to raise the fine hairs along the back of his neck.

The man by the window stood up sharply, cloak rustling as he turned to face the door.

“It’s close,” he muttered. “The trail we were following… it splinters here.”

The taller man stepped forward, setting his cup down with a soft thud.

“Ambrose,” he said, quieter now, no longer distant. “Has anything crossed your threshold recently? Something that… didn’t belong?”

Ambrose tilted his head slightly, considering. His voice, when it came, was low and steady.

“Not inside. But something’s been brushing along the edge of the tree line since the first snow. Circling. Watching. I didn’t think it was looking for me.”

The wind pressed harder against the glass, rattling it faintly. The wards in the corners of the windows pulsed, once, twice, with a light barely visible to anyone not attuned to them.

“It is now,” the woman murmured.

From outside came a sudden, sharp sound. Not a knock, not a sound of someone entering, but something else entirely.

Like ice cracking beneath your feet in a place where there shouldn't be water at all.

Ambrose didn’t move from behind the counter. He only reached, calmly, for the brass-handled drawer beneath the cash register. With a soft sound, it slid open.

Inside lay a silver-scribed vial of starlight-infused salt. A dried sprig of hawthorn. And a blade, not large, but old. Ritual-forged. A last resort, rarely touched.

He didn’t draw it. Not yet.

“You might want to finish your tea,” he said quietly, eyes on the dark just beyond the windows. “The night’s about to grow colder.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .

< ᴘʀᴇᴠ | ɴᴇxᴛ >

[pasthalfsquid]

『ᴛʜᴇ ʙʀᴇᴡᴋᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ』

ɪᴠ. ᴛʀᴀᴄᴇs, ɪɴғᴜsᴇᴅ

⋮⟢ ᴀʀᴄʜɪᴠᴇ ⟢⋮

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The wind had changed.

It slipped through town in thin, whistling threads, tugging at scarves and nudging loose leaves across the cobblestones. The trees, once vibrant with amber and crimson, now stood bare-limbed and stark against a bleached grey sky. Gutters carried the last of the fallen leaves in sluggish, rain-dampened clusters, and chimneys puffed thin trails of smoke into the still air. Where autumn had once smelled of woodsmoke and damp earth, now the air was colder, quieter. It was the kind of cold that crept rather than bit, worming its way beneath coat collars and through windowpanes. People hurried home with hunched shoulders, and even the dogs trotted briskly, eager to be indoors. The season was turning. Slowly, certainly.

A new chill hung in the air, and the faint afternoon light cast long shadows across the cafe's front window. Ambrose, polishing a teacup behind the counter, paused to glance outside. He could feel it in his bones, in the slight shift of magic that accompanied the weather. Snow wouldn't be far now.

The bell above the door jingled, and Oliver stepped in, cheeks pink from the cold. Behind him followed a girl with a windswept braid and a curious expression. She looked around the cafe like she’d just stepped into a storybook.

"Welcome back," Ambrose said, smiling gently. "The usual, Oliver?"

Oliver nodded, ducking his head slightly. "Yes, please. This is Eloise, by the way. She wanted hot chocolate, so I brought her here."

Eloise grinned. "He’s told me about this place many, many times. Said it’s the quietest spot in town. I can see why."

Ambrose’s eyes twinkled. "I try. Find a table wherever you like. I’ll bring these over."

They chose a window seat near the bookshelf. Their bags hit the floor with a soft thump, and notebooks and a tablet followed quickly onto the table. Eloise leaned over a spiral-bound sketchpad while Oliver opened his laptop, tapping the touchpad with the same careful deliberation he always showed.

"You’re sure this won’t creep you out?" she asked, flipping through the pad to a page filled with charcoal sketches of trees, twisted branches, and strange symbols.

Oliver shrugged. "I don’t think it’s creepy. Just… weird."

"Weird is good," Eloise said. "And the old woods are perfect. Local folklore, unexplained disappearances, ghost stories… It’s got everything."

Ambrose appeared with their drinks, setting them down gently. He lingered just a moment longer than usual, eyes scanning the sketches before flicking briefly to the open laptop screen.

"Working on a project?"

"Local myths," Eloise replied. "We picked the old woods. Do you know any stories about them?"

Ambrose blinked once, slowly. "…What class requires you to research myths?"

Oliver looked up. "English, technically. But it’s kind of a mashup with local history and folklore studies. One of those 'interdisciplinary learning opportunities,' apparently."

"… You know, in my day, school projects were about the water cycle or the causes of the French Revolution."

Eloise snorted into her hot chocolate. "You sound like you walked straight out of one of the myths."

Ambrose smiled faintly. "Perhaps I did."

"Really? Maybe we’ll come back and interview you."

"You’re welcome anytime."

He returned to the counter, but his expression had gone still. Behind him, the kettle hissed softly. From their corner, Oliver and Eloise murmured over a digital map of the area, pointing out some strange landmark. Ambrose stood with his back to them, his hands resting lightly on the countertop. He didn’t hear the kettle anymore, not really. His mind had drifted to Cyril’s voice just days ago, low and urgent: “Something is stirring.”

The old woods. Now that he thought about it, the veil was thinning rather quickly.

His eyes shifted to the fogging window, to the tree line just visible over the hill, towards the market. That part of the forest had always been older than the rest, deeper, oddly reluctant to change with the seasons. There were places within it that even birds avoided, where the air tasted different. Magic lay there, ancient and unspeaking.

Ambrose rubbed his wrist absently, where the faintest trace of warmth still lingered from a protective charm he had cast years ago. It had flared, briefly, just this morning. Unprovoked.

Coincidence, perhaps. Or not.

He exhaled slowly, watching his breath ghost the air before vanishing. Something was shifting, yes. But it was not only in the wind.

"Ambrose?"

He turned to find Eloise standing beside the counter, clutching her empty mug. Her head tilted curiously. "Do you think any of the stories are real? About the woods, I mean."

Ambrose blinked, momentarily detached, then offered a practised smile. "Well, that depends. Real in what way?"

"Like… real real," Eloise said. "Monsters, curses, things lurking in the trees."

"Or just weird old stories that make for good fiction," Oliver added, joining her.

Ambrose folded his hands neatly, leaning forward. "Myths are often exaggerations… but sometimes exaggerations are just truth in disguise."

Eloise gave a satisfied nod. "See? That’s exactly the kind of quote we need in our report."

"If you start citing me as a primary source, I expect royalties," Ambrose said dryly.

Eloise grinned. "Can we pay in muffins?"

"Tempting. But only if they’re from the bakery on Elm. I don’t accept bribes of inferior baked items."

Oliver laughed. "We’ll start a muffin fund. Academic bribery at its tastiest."

Ambrose tilted his head, mock-serious. "Careful, that sounds dangerously close to a conspiracy."

"Only the delicious kind… Come on, haven’t you ever been tempted to trade secrets for sweets?"

"Tempted? Certainly. But I have a reputation to uphold."

"Mysterious cafe wizard with high snack standards," Oliver said.

Ambrose raised an eyebrow. "cafe wizard? That's a new one. Am I handing out potions with the pastries now?"

Oliver laughed. "I mean, the tea did fix my sore throat last week. That counts, right?"

"Coincidence and honey," Ambrose replied smoothly. "Not necessarily in that order."

"Sure, sure. Next, you'll tell me those books by the fireplace aren't secretly grimoires."

Ambrose's smile widened, but he said nothing. A beat passed.

"Wait—" Eloise leaned in, eyes narrowed. "They're not… right?"

"Strictly decorative," Ambrose said solemnly. "Except the ones that bite."

Oliver blinked. "Wait, what?"

Ambrose shrugged. "Well, how else do you think I keep unsupervised children away from the rare editions?"

Eloise laughed. "Okay, cafe wizard with a defence system. That’s getting its own footnote."

"You know," Ambrose mused, "if anyone ever took that title seriously, I’d be in trouble."

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Why? Afraid someone might show up asking for a love potion?"

"No, just afraid someone might realise I actually know how to make one."

Oliver smirked. “So the mysterious cafe wizard really does have a few tricks up his sleeve.”

Eloise nudged him. “Don’t get him started. Next thing you know, he’ll say he’s been enchanting the sandwiches.”

Ambrose waved a hand dismissively. “Enchanting sandwiches? Now, that’s a bit extreme. I wouldn’t dream of mixing magic and baking… too risky for the customers’ health.”

Eloise grinned. “Sure, sure. That’s what they all say.”

“Hush now. If word gets out, everyone will want their coffee with a side of spells.”

Oliver laughed. “Well, if anyone can help us unravel the mysteries, it’s got to be the cafe wizard.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Ambrose replied. “You’ll need all the magical energy you can get for that project. Now, get back to work. Before I start charging you tuition.”

The afternoon waned, shadows lengthening and fading across the cafe floor as Oliver and Eloise huddled over their notes and screens. The occasional burst of laughter punctuated their concentration, mingling with the soft clinking of spoons against mugs. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows with a restless insistence.

After nearly an hour, their notebooks full and questions running deep, Oliver stretched and gathered his things. Eloise gave Ambrose a grateful smile as she wiped her hands on her jacket sleeves.

“We should get going,” Oliver said, his voice quieter now. “Thanks for letting us work… and the tea.”

Ambrose nodded, returning their smiles with a warmth he didn’t quite feel. “Anytime. And remember: watch the woods, but don’t let the woods watch you.”

Eloise’s grin faltered for a heartbeat before she laughed. “That sounds like a cryptic warning. Should we be scared?”

“Maybe a little,” Ambrose said, eyes drifting to the window where the edge of the old woods was already darkening under the dusk. “Or maybe just careful.”

They stepped outside, the crisp air swallowing their voices. Ambrose watched as they disappeared down the street, their figures small and bright against the creeping twilight.

Turning back inside, Ambrose felt the familiar stir beneath the surface, the pull of something unseen shifting in the old woods, just beyond reach. He glanced once more toward the tree line, where shadows gathered like whispered secrets.

The wind whispered again.

And this time, Ambrose listened.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

< ᴘʀᴇᴠ | ɴᴇxᴛ >

[pasthalfsquid]

『ᴛʜᴇ ʙʀᴇᴡᴋᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ』

ɪɪɪ. ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇs, sᴛɪʀʀᴇᴅ

⋮⟢ ᴀʀᴄʜɪᴠᴇ ⟢⋮

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The rain had begun sometime after noon; a quiet, persistent kind of rain that softened the edges of the world and made everything feel slower, gentler, older. It drummed lightly on the cafe awning and traced delicate silver paths down the windowpanes. Inside, the warmth of low firelight and the faint scent of crushed rosehips wrapped around the room like a blanket.

Ambrose put a small box, wrapped in brown paper, on the counter. “Take this with warm water before bed. Twice daily. And rest. I know you don’t.”

The old lady across from him smiled, gathering her shawl with one hand and picking up the package with the other. “If this doesn’t work, I’ll be sending my joints to haunt you.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Tell them I accept hauntings only after closing hours.”

The lady smiled, the crinkles around her eyes deepening. “You certainly know how to charm an old hag.”

Ambrose walked her to the door, opening it for her. The rain outside seemed to be continuing steadily. “I know how to respect one.”

“Same thing,” she muttered, stepping out and shaking open her umbrella. “Cheeky brat.”

The door shut with a chime, and Ambrose lingered in the quiet that followed. The café was still, save for the faint crackle of the stove and the gentle drip of rain beyond the windows. For a moment, he simply stood by the counter, fingers brushing over the polished wood, letting the silence settle.

He crossed to the windows and adjusted a small pot of thyme on the sill, nudging it slightly to catch more of the grey light. The plant had been drooping lately; too much shadow, not enough song, maybe. Ambrose made a note to talk to it later.

He moved through the space like someone walking through a familiar memory. Straightened a chair. Refilled a jar of dried hibiscus petals. Tilted the old copper kettle just a little on the stovetop. Everything had its place. Every place, a purpose. It had taken years to build this rhythm, cup by cup, kindness by kindness, until the quiet felt like something alive.

A lull in the rain made the ticking of the wall clock more noticeable, steady and slow.

Ambrose glanced around. There were still herbs to sort, jars to label, and a new blend he’d been meaning to test, a calming draught with lemon balm and fennel, for the girl who always came on Wednesdays after market day. But he didn’t move right away. Instead, he stood still in the soft golden hush, letting time slip by like steam from a teacup. This was the life he had stitched together out of exile. No grand gestures, no sweeping incantations, just warmth, ritual, and the sacredness of small things.

He was reaching for a book of old tea lore from the shelf when the door creaked open again.

Ambrose didn’t look up at first. “Back to haunt me already?” he called lightly.

No answer. Only the faint squelch of wet boots on wood.

His gaze lifted.

A man stood in the doorway, taller than most, shoulders squared under a rain-slicked cloak. His presence was undeniable, carried like a burden, not a gift. And his eyes… those eyes were the same.

Ambrose’s voice dropped, flat and quiet. “You’re late.”

Cyril pushed back the hood, revealing damp hair darkened by rain and time. “Didn’t know I was expected.”

“You’re not.” Ambrose turned, reaching for a towel. “And yet, here you are. Dripping all over my floor.”

Cyril hesitated, then stepped inside, shrugging off his cloak and hanging it with an odd sort of care, like he was still trying to be polite in a place he no longer belonged. “This is yours?”

Ambrose didn’t look at him. “Every inch of it.”

There was a silence. Not a comfortable one. The kind that thickens behind the ribs.

“It’s… warm,” Cyril offered, finally.

“Took me a while to get it that way.”

Cyril stood awkwardly near the door, as if unsure whether to sit or keep standing, whether he had any right to this space at all. Ambrose moved past him without a word, stepping behind the counter with the ease of muscle memory. His hands reached for the kettle, the cups, the dried herbs, all in silence.

He was halfway through selecting ingredients when he paused, fingertips grazing the edge of a small wooden drawer.

“Still prefer dandelion and sage when you’re upset,” he murmured, not looking up.

Cyril’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t ask for anything.”

Ambrose didn’t smile. “You didn’t have to.”

He opened the drawer and began measuring out the blend, each motion deliberate, almost meditative. The scent of crushed leaves and the faint sweetness of clove began to fill the air. Rain whispered against the windows. Cyril watched him with a look he hadn’t worn in over a decade. Like he was trying to remember someone he used to know.

When Ambrose added a hint of valerian, his hands slowed.

Then he spoke, not unkindly, but not gently either. “Why are you so… so conflicted?” He picked up a sprig of dried rosemary and stared at it a moment before setting it down again. “Upset? Regretful? You voted in favour of throwing me away.”

Cyril flinched. Just slightly. But enough.

Ambrose turned to face him fully now, fingers still dusted with crushed herb. “So why does it feel like you’re choking on the weight of that choice now?”

The silence that followed was taut.

“I didn’t think they’d actually go through with it,” Cyril said finally. “I thought… I thought someone else would vote against. That it wouldn’t be unanimous.”

Ambrose’s laugh was soft and bitter. “Cowardice makes a poor apology, brother.”

“I know.”

Ambrose stared at him for a long moment. Then he turned back to pour hot water into the pot. The scent bloomed: earthy, sharp, oddly soothing.

Cyril shifted his weight, uneasy, before speaking again, more hesitant now. “I came to warn you.”

Ambrose’s hand froze on the handle of the kettle. Slowly, he turned.

“There’s unrest,” Cyril said. “Inside the coven. Something’s… shifting. We’ve been finding signs… wards faltering, old protections unravelling. Something is stirring beneath the old woods. Something dark.”

Ambrose raised an eyebrow. “And what does that have to do with me? The council made it very clear I’m no longer their concern.”

Cyril looked away, jaw tightening. “They don’t know I’m here.”

Ambrose blinked. “So this is a betrayal, then. That’s new.”

“I’m not here for them,” Cyril said quickly. “I came because— because whatever is waking… it won’t stay contained. It doesn’t care about bloodlines or exile. And you—” He hesitated. “You’re unprotected. No circle. No shield. You live too close to the seams in the world. If it finds you first—”

Ambrose’s laugh was sharp and bitter. “Then let it. Maybe it’ll write the final chapter for us all.”

But Cyril didn’t flinch this time. He stepped forward instead.

“You���re not just vulnerable, Ambrose. You’re relevant.”

Ambrose tilted his head, brows lifting.

“You’ve done things they can’t explain,” Cyril said. “You healed a dying witch with no name and no allegiance. You built a sanctuary from scratch using techniques the archives don’t even record. There’s magic in this place that shouldn’t work, but it does.”

Ambrose crossed his arms. “And now they’re curious?”

“They’re desperate,” Cyril corrected. “And I—” He exhaled slowly. “I’m scared. Because I think you’ve always seen the shape of what’s coming better than any of us. Even when we didn’t listen. Especially then.”

Ambrose studied him for a long moment. Then, very softly, “You voted to cast me out.”

“I know.”

Ambrose turned back to the counter, picking up the kettle again.

“You’re still bitter,” Cyril said quietly.

“I’m not bitter,” Ambrose replied. “I’m busy. There’s a difference.”

But he still brewed the tea. Three minutes of tense silence later, he poured a cup and slid it across the counter.

Cyril didn’t reach for it. “Yet… you still made this for me.”

Ambrose met his gaze finally. “I make things for people who are in pain.”

“Then I suppose you’ll be making tea all night.”

Cyril took the concoction, finally, wrapping both hands around the cup as if he could anchor himself in its warmth. 

The steam curled between them like something alive, fragrant and warm. The way shared memory sometimes was. He took a careful sip. The tea was perfectly brewed, familiar and strange all at once, like a half-remembered melody hummed in a different key.

Ambrose didn’t speak. He had turned to wipe down the counter, slow and methodical, as if this too were a ritual, as if the shape of a rag in his hand could steady the tremble beneath old wounds.

Outside, the rain had thinned to a soft mist. The sky beyond the windows was shifting toward twilight, brushed with the first bruises of evening. Streetlamps flickered to life in the distance, one by one.

“I could help you lock up,” Cyril said after a while, quiet but not tentative.

Ambrose paused, cloth in hand. His gaze lifted to Cyril, unreadable.

A beat.

Then a nod. “Chairs, if you must. Not the shelves.”

They moved in near-silence: Ambrose with the calm precision of habit, Cyril with the uncertain care of someone trying not to disrupt a life he no longer belonged to. It wasn’t comfortable, not yet. But it wasn’t unbearable either.

When the last chair was turned and the last lamp was turned off, Ambrose reached for the keys by the door.

“Do you have somewhere to stay?” he asked, without looking.

Cyril hesitated. “I can find an inn.”

Ambrose didn’t answer immediately. He opened the door instead, stepping out onto the narrow porch, the scent of wet earth and old stone rising to meet him. The wind carried a chill now, barely there, but insistent. A change on the edge of the season.

He turned back, eyes meeting Cyril’s.

“There’s a cot upstairs,” he said. “Clean linens. Don’t touch the cat.”

“I thought you didn’t have a cat.”

“I thought so too. She simply disagrees.”

A flicker of something, amusement, maybe, passed between them.

Ambrose stepped back inside and turned the sign on the door.

Closed.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

< ᴘʀᴇᴠ | ɴᴇxᴛ >

[pasthalfsquid]

『ᴛʜᴇ ʙʀᴇᴡᴋᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ』

ɪɪ. ᴄᴏᴍғᴏʀᴛ, sᴛᴇᴇᴘᴇᴅ.

⋮⟢ ᴀʀᴄʜɪᴠᴇ ⟢⋮

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The wooden stairs creaked softly as Ambrose descended from his upstairs quarters, stretching his arms above his head with a slow sigh. The warmth of the hearth from last night still lingered downstairs, but the wood beneath his feet had long turned cold. He rolled his shoulders, shaking off the last remnants of sleep. With a quiet flick of his fingers, the broom in the corner stirred to life, sweeping gently across the cafe floor. Ambrose hummed contentedly as he moved around the cafe, opening the windows to let in the crisp morning air, before finally padding towards the counter. He had only just reached for the kettle when a sharp, indignant mrrp! rang out beneath him. 

“Ah, Bear—!” He jerked back, but it was too late. The cat darted out from underfoot, tail puffed with offence. Ambrose was kneeling within seconds, hand outstretched in a beseeching manner. “I’m sorry, dearest. I didn’t see you there.”

Bear nipped at his hand in retribution. She flicked her tail dramatically, her amber eyes narrowing with clear reproach as she leapt onto the counter, claiming her usual spot. Ambrose sighed, scratching behind her ears in apology. “You wound me, truly,” he murmured, watching her displeasure fade under the weight of his affection. 

Satisfied that he had earned her forgiveness, he turned back to his morning preparations. The cafe would open soon, and his first guest would surely arrive. Well, not a guest quite yet perhaps. Ambrose had merely seen him before; a student, always hesitating for a good while near the entrance but never coming inside. He didn’t pressure the boy, knowing he would take his time to get comfortable enough.

As the clock struck seven, the blur of a navy blazer passed by the window as it always did. Today, however, his lingering felt different. He stood closer to the door, shifting his weight, glancing through the glass every now and then as though debating whether to enter. Ambrose glanced at Bear, who simply blinked at him, then set about preparing a drink before the bell above the door could chime. Something warm and steadying— a bit of chamomile, a hint of cardamon, honey to soften the edges. A brew that asked no explanation, only offered quiet understanding.

At last, the door opened, and the student stepped in, his movements careful and measured. The weight of his school bag dragged at one shoulder, and his uniform was slightly rumpled as though he had dressed in a hurry. His eyes flicked towards Ambrose, then away just as quickly, as if uncertain whether to acknowledge him or remain unseen. Ambrose didn’t press, nor did he start with his usual pleasantries. Instead, he simply placed the steaming mug on the counter, sliding it forward just enough to catch the boy’s attention. “For you,” he said, his voice as soft as the first rays of morning light filtering through the windows.

The student blinked, looking from the cup to Ambrose with a surprised expression. Slowly, he approached, wrapping his hands around the warmth of the mug without a word. He perched himself on a stool by the counter, staring at the steaming beverage.

Ambrose busied himself with wiping down the counter, giving the boy space. He had long since learned that silence could be its own kind of conversation. It was an invitation, not an absence.

After a few minutes, the student finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you…”

Ambrose glanced up with a small smile. “Anytime.”

The cafe settled into a peaceful rhythm; the quiet clink of cups, the slow swirl of steam curling toward the rafters. Outside, the world rushed on, but within these walls, time stretched, softened, made space for those who needed it.

And as the boy took his first sip, his shoulder uncurled just a bit.

Ambrose continued his work, tending to the smaller morning tasks that set the cafe in order. He refilled sugar pots, checked the tea stock, and wiped down the empty tables, all while allowing the student to sit in undisturbed silence. Yet, he kept him in the periphery of his mind, aware of the slight shifts in the boy’s posture, the way he hesitated before taking another sip, lost in thought.

Finally, the student exhaled, a breath that sounded heavier than it should have. His fingers traced the rim of the mug. “... I feel like I don’t belong,” he murmured.

Ambrose paused, letting the words settle between them before turning back to the student. He leaned against the counter, his expression calm, patient. “What makes you say that?”

The student hesitated, then spoke, his voice tight with underlying frustration. “My family… they’re all so talented. My brother paints like he was born holding a brush, my sister is amazing at sports, and my parents—” He shook his head, a small, sad laugh escaping him. “They’re just… good. At everything. And me? I’m just— I’m trying so hard, but I don’t think I’ll ever be as good as them.”

Ambrose listened without interruption, his eyes warm. He let the student sit with his words, feeling them fully before responding. “And yet, here you are, showing up, working hard, pushing forward. Doesn’t that say something about you?”

The boy frowned slightly. “I don’t know. It just feels like no matter what I do, it won’t be enough. Like I’m just pretending I belong in a world where everyone else has already earned their place.”

Ambrose’s gaze softened. “It sounds to me like you’re measuring yourself against expectations that were never yours to carry. Sometimes, we convince ourselves that we’re falling behind, when really, we’re just walking our own path at our own pace.”

The boy looked down at his mug, his grip loosening just a little. “But what if my path doesn’t lead anywhere?”

 “All paths lead somewhere. The question is whether you’re allowing yourself to walk it, or spending all your time looking at someone else’s.”

For a long moment, the boy was silent. Then, with a small nod, he took another sip of the drink. It wasn’t some instant revelation, nor did the weight on his shoulders suddenly vanish. But something had shifted, just a fraction, just enough. 

“... Oliver,” the boy said, turning to Ambrose. “... my name’s Oliver.”

Ambrose’s smile widened just a bit. “Oliver. It’s a lovely name.” He returned to his work, letting the cafe hum around them once more.

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The bell above the door chimed, its light tone seemingly folding into the cafe’s warmth rather than disrupting it. Ambrose glanced up from the counter, his hands still busy wiping the freshly washed mugs. He smiled at the newcomer, a woman in her early thirties, who entered with her shoulders hunched against the chilly autumn breeze. Her coat hung heavy on her frame, as though it carried more weight than just the weather’s.

“Welcome,” he greeted her, his voice low and warm. “What can I get for you today?”

The woman’s hesitance was evident from the way her gaze darted around the shop. The wall behind the counter was cluttered with jars, labelled neatly with handwritten, curling scripts— cinnamon and cardamom, jasmine and bergamot— all sorts of herbs and spices. Potted plants filled the corners and lined the windowsills, their verdant leaves gleaming in the setting sun that streamed through the windows. A fluffy black cat lounged in a cushioned chair by the small bookcase at the back of the shop, idly grooming itself. 

“I��m… not sure,” she admitted finally. Her eyes lifted to meet Ambrose’s, and the weariness in them was evident to him. “Something strong. Something… to take off the edge.”

Ambrose studied her, his keen gaze catching the slight tremble of her hands. He nodded once, turning to the mismatched mugs on the shelf behind him. They seemed to jostle for attention as his fingers ran over them, and eventually, he pulled out a lovely ash-grey ceramic. He reached up for the myriad of jars, choosing with purpose: a measure of dark, curled leaves, a dash of dried petals that smelled faintly of citrus, and a pinch of a dark powder which resembled bitter chocolate. Each ingredient met steaming water with the precision of a quiet ritual, the aroma wafting through the small space. The woman’s breath caught as the scent reached her, the tension in her shoulders softening like wax under a gentle flame.

“Long day?” Ambrose asked, setting the concoction aside to steep. His tone, though casual, held genuine interest.

“Long month,” she replied with a short, humourless laugh. “Feels like everything’ just… slipping through my fingers.” 

Ambrose hummed softly, running his thumb along the mug’s handle. “I suppose we all like that now and then,” he said quietly. “The trick’s just to take a step back. You don’t always have to look at the bigger picture. Take a break, enjoy the smaller things. Sometimes, all it takes is one little thing— a moment, a taste… just something simple— to remind us that not everything’s terrible.”

He poured the tea over a dollop of honey, stirring it thrice before sliding the mug across the counter with a knowing smile. The liquid inside gleamed amber, a thin layer of white form swirling into a transient flower on its surface. The woman cradled the mug in both hands, her fingers tightening around its warmth as she brought it to her lips. The first sip drew her eyes wide, and a soft sound escaped her: a hum of surprise, perhaps something more akin to wonder. “This…” she began, pausing to savour it further. “This is amazing…”

“Glad to hear it,” Ambrose said, leaning back against the counter, his expression as easy as the light slanting through the windows. “It’s a special blend. For clarity.”

She didn’t ask what that meant, and he didn’t offer to explain.

A comfortable silence fell between them as Ambrose returned to wiping down the rest of his mugs and the woman continued to nurse her drink. With each sip, her face softened, the lines carved by stress and worry fading like shadows retreating from dawn. By the time she emptied her cup, a small smile had made its way onto her face. “I needed that. Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

The bell chimed again as she left, the sound brighter this time, resonating like a note of hope. Ambrose watched her leave, a small smile tugging at his lips as turned towards the window. The sun sat lower in the sky now, dying the horizon the same deep crimson as his hair. A flick of his wrist caused the lights in the cafe to slowly come to life, and he began to put his mugs away.

Thursdays at the cafe were ever so slow.

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