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I dreamt of many things.
I dreamt of climbing a mountain, but when I got to the very top, a scarlet-eyed goddess pushed me to the bottom again.
I dreamt of being an amnesiac, but when I got to the cusp of making new, happier memories, they were ripped away from me once more.
I dreamt of anabolic and catabolic processes, and I dreamt of faces that were not there.
And I dreamt of heroes. So, so many heroes.
The sun shines down on me. I didn't notice a sun last night. On the ceiling, a planetarium Sun rotates around. It must have been set to turn on sometime this morning.
Except, the sun is golden. It must be a different planet then.
A smell wafts into the room, a slow set of lazy, ungraceful waves. Tinged with an oddly comforting odor. The scent of potatoes frying in butter, but. . . laced with something else. A scent I can't place, though it stirs something like hunger in my chest.
It drifts through the room, coaxing me awake with a warmth that fills the space before my eyes fully adjust. There is art in the smell, and there is art in the wakeup routine.
Slow sit-ups. Attempt after attempt. On the last rung, the blanket slips off my shoulders, and I drift open into the faint flickers of the sunlight. My night's companion, the small bulb plugged into the far outlet, is off. I wonder if the woman turned it off for me.
The room is beset with shadows dim and soft, and I let myself linger in the quiet warmth that pulsates from the wallpaper, the air clinging in a heavy cloak. I reach over, fingers brushing the switch, and the light clicks on, flooding the room.
The room is exactly as I left it. Figures and toys, the husky in the corner, the small drawings on the wall that look back at me all familiar and distant. The smell hangs heavier now, urging me forward. I stretch the stiffness from my limbs, and cross over to the husky.
"Boof."
I'm happy with that response.
I stride to the door handle, pausing only briefly, a little enamored by the quiet hum of sounds and smells beyond. I give a little shove to the door and push it open, stepping into the soft light of the living room. She's there, at the stove, her back to me, her silhouette as commanding and still as it was last night. Her hair spills over her shoulders in vibrant spools against the dark material of her jacket, a strange choice in the humidity of this room. The kitchen holds heat like a breath, warm and close, clinging to my skin. The outfit she wears is for cold weather. Striking. Tailored. Snug, exuding a kind of power that feels at odds with the domesticity of her movements when she works the stove. The dark clings to her figure, framing her in a way where each line and curve stays polished and sharp, and yet there's an ease in the way she stands, a calmness in her stance who somehow makes the whole ensemble feel softer. A bit more natural.
A pack of cigarettes lie open on the counter, and beside it, the coffee brews steadily, bitter scent blending with the earthy smells wafting from the pan. She moves with a quiet grace, rough and ragged hands stirring the food, head tilting slightly as she listens to the sizzle. Her gaze shifts, catching mine, her eye a flash of that molten red-orange, sharp and unreadable, something just barely restrained. But, there's nothing to fear, is there? It's warm. A homey kitchen. The room radiates with that nice agreement, pressing against me in gentle waves.
"Coffee?" she asks, her tone scratchy yet gentle, with a touch of that morning rasp that feels both lived-in and worn, replaying the scritch of a familiar record. A record?
A record.
I shake my head, surprised at the way my neck catches and cracks. "I, uh, don't like the taste." I don't know why I say it like it's something I need to defend. She only shrugs, a half-smile, half-heartedly born at the edge of her lips as she sticks a cigarette between them, striking a match with a flick that feels almost artful.
"More for me, then."
She turns back to the stove, the thin line of smoke curling around her head in a cartoonish fancy, dissipating in the soft light of the kitchen. For a wooden cabin, the kitchen is nice. Fashionable, even. And for a cabin-dweller, her movements are oddly familiar with the act of morning. She seems like a mineworker, some sort of hard labor. I imagine people like that eat eggs raw and drink coffee right out of the crunch of the beans. But, she's so kindly deliberate, so gentle with those bear-like claws. Practiced, like she's made breakfast a thousand times a thousand different mornings. I guess, there's something strange there. An undercurrent to her movements. A fatigue. Lack of practice, or overdoing of it.
"You like boxtys?" she asks after a beat, her voice smooth, almost teasing. "Blackberries?"
I frown, swallowing embarrassment in my saliva. "I. . . don't think I've ever had either." The admission sounds absurdly small. Infinitesimal in the quiet, warm room, yet she nods without comment, accepting it as though it were perfectly natural. Breakfast sounds nice, though. So, I accept the offer. Food. Good food. New food. I like food.
In a daze, I drift toward the living room, my uncertain arms hanging at my sides without much direction. My gaze lands on the details scattered around like food on a scattered plate. I think I'm feeling a bit hungry. The soft chairs, worn and faded, feel like they could tell stories if they only had a voice. The lights are rather warm. Dull. A little dim. Old. The couch, gaudy and weathered. I let my fingers brush the fabric of it, his texture rough and uneven, patched with thin spots where the upholstery has worn away entirely like an old coat where the holes inside have begun to expand. The cushions sag in places where they've absorbed years of weight and warmth. Still thinking of food. Old cushions are pretty gross though. I bet they smell bad.
I spot an old glass ashtray on the coffee table, edges chipped, flecked with traces of grey powder, almost orange in the soft morning light of the lanterns. Next to it, a small stack of magazines, their covers faded and curling at the edges, lie untouched. Lines of dust surround the borders. The top one has a headline boasting 'The Future of Console Gaming.' Each magazine is similar.
I glance over to the entertainment stand in the corner, where the television sits atop an old wooden cabinet, squat and wide, the screen faintly reflective, casting a dim outline of the room back at me. An 'Okay-Station 3' rests beneath, its surface scratched and scuffed, surrounded by three controllers. Each controller has been handled to the point where the plastic has lost its sheen. I touch one, the buttons slightly sticky as if they've absorbed a thousand hours of eager hands. I set them down, and wipe my hands on my new clothes, sticking my tongue out with a slightly disgusted sound. There's a stack of games beside the console, their covers designed from black to colored, but all worn, tiny worlds waiting in chipped cases, each one promising an adventure I'm sure no one has taken them up on in years.
I look back to the kitchen. Sticky fingers make me slightly less hungry.
Where the woman hums, the air is smoky. Cabinets above her are lined with jars, some filled with things easily marked, sugar and flour, labels peeling, others holding preserved things, deep purples and amber tones that catch the light and stick to it like dust on old glass. There's a square tin box beside the stove, its edges dented, a faded label reading Tea Assortment. The handwriting is small. Minimal. A different handwriting than the jars.
On the dining table, a vase with a single dried flower stands sentinel, petals browned and curling. She's all posed up, a lifeless bloom. Next to it, there's a single plate, and a tightly folded cloth napkin with faint stains of old spills. Yucky. The fork and knife are arranged neatly beside the plate, gleaming faintly in the light, polished with a care that feels almost ceremonial. The child's seat has been removed, and now, a slightly larger chair sits next to the others, but not nearly as big. I bet the chair's a little sticky. Gross.
From behind me, her voice floats over, low and casual.
"Feel free to turn on the TV if you want. Breakfast won't be long."
I glance back at her. Cigarette still dangling from her lips, the slight upturn of her mouth as she catches my look. She's calm, entirely at ease in this space, and I can't help but feel like an intruder in a place that remembers me.
I nod in response, letting the quiet settle between us, and move towards the television. The remote feels warm and worn in my hands, the buttons smoothed down, each click a little sticky, a little hard to move. But, regardless, the screen flickers to life with a soft hum, filling the silence with a dim, comforting glow.
"We don't get cable," she says, almost an afterthought, her back still turned to me as she flips something on the griddle. The cigarette in her mouth bobs slightly as she speaks, and a thin plume of smoke curls up toward the ceiling, escaping through a metal vent. "But we've got UsTunnel. And Squishyroll, if I remember correctly."
I scroll through the options, flickering past titles. Thumbnails hazy and pixelated, snapshots of a world that's somehow managed to fade without ever truly disappearing.
My thumb hovers over one of them, something titled 'The Jaffa Factory - Episode 1' by a channel called the Yogscast. The thumbnail shows a few cartoonish characters. The title feels warm. Everything feels warm. Peculiar, unusual, yes. . . but warm. It's all promising. Wants to give me something small and ordinary, yet sweetly magical. So, I click it, almost on instinct, feeling an odd thrill as the video loads, a flicker of excitement that I can't fully explain.
The woman glances over her shoulder, and a soft laugh slips from her lips, barely more than a breath. "Good choice."
That gentle laugh is wonderful. It adds a texture to the room I hadn't noticed before. Something relaxed, another art that spreads through the space like sunlight slipping through a crack in the blinds. All these little spots of art.
The video begins, the voices filtering through the room, lighthearted. I settle into the couch, feeling its softness mold around me, and reach for a cushion resting beside me. A pillowy frog, its round eyes staring up in mute contentment. I place it in my lap, its softness grounding me as I lean back, letting myself sink further into the atmosphere of the room.
The time spent on the screen is enjoyable, sacred in its simplicity. And for a moment, as I sit here with the frog cushion nestled in my lap, the warmth of breakfast on the stove, I let myself relax, letting their voices carry me somewhere else, somewhere where the world is soft and small and gently absurd. In that moment, everything feels just. Everything feels, almost right. I don't know what the final nudge needs to be for me to feel whole. If it's the voices from the screen, the warmth of the frog cushion, or the quiet satisfaction that lingers in the room like an aftertaste that needs a little more. . . something needs more. Something more than the faint hum of old voices, a promise of breakfast, and the soft rhythm of an ordinary morning. Something a little more affirming.
The minutes pass in a strange, timeless way. The room shifts a bit as I sit there, letting the low sounds of the TV wash over me, the happy sitting frog cushion still settled in my lap. This small bubble of a morning could last forever, stretched thin, suspended on the edge of something faintly unreal. I lose track of the time entirely; there's no clock here, no ticking to mark the minutes as they drift by. It's just the soft murmur of the video, the gentle clinking of dishes from the kitchen, and the smell of something warm and unfamiliar filling the air.
Then her voice breaks the silence.
"Breakfast's ready."
I blink, coming back to myself, the spell dissolving as I reach for the remote, turning off the TV. The screen fades, the room falling into an uncomfortable quiet, and I stand, leaving the cushion behind as I head to the table.
"Can I help?" I ask, not quite knowing what else to say, a small ease stirring at the thought of contributing something, however small, to this strange sense of home.
She shakes her head, her voice soft and low. "Appreciate the offer," she says, her tone flat yet somehow kind, a gentleness nestled within the monotone. She moves with practiced ease, each step measured as she reaches up, opening one of the cupboards.
From where I stand, I catch a glimpse inside: two glass cups on the shelf, each one with a small strawberry pattern traced along the rim. Next to them, a mug catches my eye. Small, with a blue cat character staring out, red ovals for eyes, its body oddly geometric. There's a strange charm to it. I think it's holding a bass guitar?
She reaches past them, pulling out two other mugs. Both black. One is marked with an elaborate looping "L" that sprawls across the side with an almost excessive elegance, while the other is covered in lines of tiny, white writing, slanted at an odd angle, the letters almost sliding off the ceramic.
The woman pours coffee into the mug with the writing, adding a long stream of something from a bottle labeled "Jameson," and something else labeled 'Bailey's." The scent of it wafts into the air, deep and sharp, cutting through the aroma of the coffee. She fills the other mug with a red liquid, something rich and fruity, the color blending in with the black ceramic.
She moves with an efficiency ritualistic, plating the food with precise, deliberate motions. The pancakes- boxtys, I remember her calling them- look dense and golden, a little crisp on the edges, stacked neat with dark berries scattered across the plate, their surfaces gleaming like polished onyx. I like how she drops the berries, almost like someone salting food, a little rubbing of the fingers and the drop of the fruits. She grabs two silver forks, two silver butter knives, and with a flick of her wrist, adds a cascade of syrup and a generous dollop of whipped cream to each white plate. There's a care to it, a quiet reverence in the way she places everything, each piece falling into place with a kind of practiced grace. I love the artform.
Finally, she brings the plates to the table, setting one in front of me with a small, kind smile, a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. I can see something else there—a flicker of pain, a hint of something buried and bruised. But there's also a kind of contentment in her face, a quiet satisfaction, as if this small act of breakfast has brought her somewhat closer to peace.
I sit across from her. She watches me, her eyes steady, waiting for me to take the first bite. I pick up the fork, feeling the weight of her gaze, and let myself settle into this strange, unexpected ritual. She wants me to taste test. That's fine.
I take a bite, letting the taste settle on my tongue. The flavors are rich, buttery, the texture dense and warm, a crispness at the edges cooked into her kindness. I pause, savoring it, letting each bite linger, and for a moment, I let myself sink fully into the quiet, surreal breakfast. The sweetness of the syrup, the cool, slight bitterness of the berries, it all blends together, something both strange and deeply comforting, something I didn't realize I'd been waiting for.
Across from me, she watches in silence, her gaze steady, unreadable. There's a stillness to her, a restraint of utmost reverence, as if the act of watching me is something polite she has to do. Her eyes follow each motion, every lift of the fork, every small, grateful nod, but she herself doesn't touch her plate. Her food sits untouched, the whipped cream softening at the edges, the syrup pooling beneath the boxtys, set there not to be eaten, but simply to exist.
Instead, she drinks. Her mug stays close to her, the lines of white text barely glinting in the soft light each time she brings it to her lips. I notice the small shifts in her expression, the slight tightening around her eyes, the way her mouth relaxes after each sip, as if it's the drink alone that's keeping her grounded, keeping her tethered to this small, fragile moment. The smell of her drink threads through the warmth of the food, layering over the sweetness with something darker, something that makes her presence feel both comforting and distant. I'm not sure where her cigarette went. The ashtray is still empty. I wonder if she just ate it.
I eat slowly, savoring the taste. She's offered this morning to me as something whole, something just for me. And as I finish my plate, the flavors lingering on my tongue, I glance up to see her still watching, an almost motherly expression soft but guarded, a thin veil over something that feels like pain, yet sits calmly in her eyes as though she's evernearing an approach to peace with it.
My plate empty, I set down my fork, feeling the warmth settle in my stomach, spreading a calm that's as unfamiliar as it is welcome. She lifts her mug again, taking a long sip, her gaze never quite leaving me. There's a truce between us in this room filled with quiet shadows and memories that don't yet belong to me. A truce to be quiet. I want to belong to it, want it to belong to me.
I sit back, feeling the weight of the meal settle in my stomach, a warmth spreading through my chest that I can't quite explain. The food is gone, my plate nearly licked clean, and the quiet between us seems to deepen, stretching out in the soft light of the kitchen. Her gaze holds steady, though now there's a faint trace of something else there, something thoughtful, as if she's considering what to say next, her eyes sharp and assessing. Her voice is low and careful,
Tongue tapping the teeth in order to measure each word.
"I hope you weren't hurt last night. The woods can be dangerous. Especially in the later evenings."
I looked up at her, puzzled.
"No, I'm alright. I didn't get scratched up or anything."
"Your hands look a little scuffed, and you were bleeding. Are you sure?"
I forgot all about yesterday.
"I'm fine."
She tilts her head, trying to smile, but it comes out toothy, how I imagine a wolf's would.
"You don't have to lie to me. I mean you no harm."
The wolf woman smiles at me, a little more forced, a little wider.
"I am Androktasiai. I live in this cabin and take care of these woods."
I smile back.
"I'm Jesse. Jessaline Huayna Abetta. I live nowhere."
"You live here now," she says, happily.
I wasn't sure what to make of that.
"Oh. Uh, thank you?"
She shifts in her seat.
"To make you feel more at home though, I have to ask. What kinds of things are you interested in?"
My first thought seems like such a ridiculous thing to say. I shift in my seat, feeling the words catch in my throat. 'I. . . I want to be an artist,' I think to myself.
Finally, almost surprised at how easily it slips out, I land on the words,
"I like art."
I've never said it like that before, never so simply, without the usual qualifiers, the cautious edges I've worn to make the words safe. Here, in the warmth of her gaze, it feels honest. Real. Even after her ridiculous question. She deserves a ridiculous answer.
The woman nods, her expression thoughtful, and something almost tender flickering in her eyes before it's gone. She takes another long sip from her mug.
"Huh." she says, the faintest trace of a smile pulling at her mouth. "I'm not really one of those touchy-artsy types, but I'll see what I can do."
Her words are, almost unreal as if she's trying to relate to a younger generation as an oldhead. They don't quite sink into me, but I can feel my chest tighten slightly, the ache of wanting something I'm still learning to put into words. It's so. . . off-putting. Every breath of it. "Do you know anything about art?" I ask.
Her laugh is soft, more breath than sound. "I don't know anything! But, I know someone who knows a few things."
She lifts her gaze to me, and there's a gleam of something playful in her eyes.
"Tell you what. I'll teach you what I know, until I introduce you to them. To the best of my abilities, anyway."
A giddy feeling rises in my chest, something I haven't felt in a long time.
"Really?"
She nods, and there's a gravity in her face now. A solemn firmness that seems to hold a thousand unsaid things. "But there are rules. Ground rules, if you're going to stay here." She sets her mug down, leaning forward slightly, hands folded together as she weighs each word in her palms. "First," she says, "don't go into my room without permission. There's nothing for you in there, and you'd probably just end up making a mess."
Her voice is calm, almost gentle. I nod, sensing that this rule is a small one, a formality more than anything else. She continues, her fingers tapping lightly against the ceramic of her mug. "Second, don't drink my Jameson. It's a taste I don't expect you to understand just yet."
The ghost of a smile flickers across her face, and for a moment, I feel almost relieved. But her eyes narrow, and her tone shifts, settling into something colder, steadier, as she leans back, the light catching on her dark jacket, her gaze fixed on mine.
"And third, this is the one that matters most," she pauses. There's a warning in her tone, a bladed certainty to her words.
"Don't leave the cabin without my permission. No matter what."
Her words hang in the air. She watches me, her gaze unyielding, waiting for me to show her that I comprehend.
I nod slowly, swallowing against the sudden tightness in my throat. "I understand," I murmur, my voice barely a whisper. And somehow, I know I mean it, even though a flicker of curiosity tugs at me, that small, nagging part of me that wonders what lies beyond the safety of these walls. I want to see that city. If, it exists.
She watches me a moment longer, her face softening just slightly, the edges of her mouth lifting into a kind, if tired, smile. "Good. Then you're welcome to stay. Do whatever you like here. I don't care much for rules, so you can break the other two without too harsh of consequences. But. . . that last one matters. Remember that."
The room doesn't take long to settle again. She takes another sip, eyes drifting back to the window, and I feel a strange peace fall over me. I like her dining room. I like the kitchen, the living room, and the television. I enjoy my food, and the weight of the utensils in my fingers. I want to hold onto this moment, to press it so deeply into my memory, it'll stay with me forever. It will be embedded in me like an etching on stone. The kitchen hums so softly. It's a fragile peace. One that I can't quite name, but feel woven into every heartbeat, every little sound that bounces against the walls. I can't let it go. I don't want to.
But she's already moving.
She reaches for the plates.
Mine's empty, hers still full, untouched. She takes mine to the sink. She runs the water over the plate. She wraps her food in clear plastic. She places it in the fridge, closes the door. And, she pulls another cigarette from the open pack on the counter, fingers darting forth. She lights it with a flick of her wrist, the silver lightbox already out in the other hand, flaring briefly before it closes in her fingers, and, she lifts it to her lips, drawing in a breath that fills the room with every exhale.
"I'll be back in a few hours," she says. She doesn't look at me. Her gaze is distant, already somewhere else. "You're free to do whatever you want. But, please don't open the door. Not for anyone."
I want to say something, something that might capture this moment, something warm to tell her I appreciated breakfast, the roof over my head, her washing my dish– anything at all. "Alright. Thanks," is all I can manage. My voice is quiet, quieter than I meant it to be. I try to add something more- something about everything, about how much it meant to me, but the words stumble in my mouth, and she's already moving toward the stairs. She hesitates, one foot on the first step, and for a moment, it's as if she's listening. The cigarette dangles from her fingers, a thin wisp of smoke trailing up like a ghost. I see her pause, her head turning slightly, and I almost think she's going to turn back, to say something, to stay with me. But, then she moves again, her footsteps final on the stairs, leaving me alone in the empty kitchen.
The front door closes with a quiet click. It's louder than I thought it'd be. And, there's something hollow in my chest. I stare at the spot where she'd been standing just moments before. The kitchen feels colder. Darker. All the warmth left with her.
I can taste the cigarette smell lingering in the air.
Remnants of breakfast scents.
I run my fingers over the table, feeling the faint grooves in the wood, the worn patches where years have softened the surface. I don't know how long I sit there, listening to the quiet, feeling the emptiness settle deeper, the weight of it pressing down on me until I can hardly breathe. The scents are gone already.
I want to move, to do something.
All I can manage is to put my head in my hands.
For a moment, I imagine her coming back, her footsteps on the stairs, the soft clink of her mug as she sets it down on the counter. I imagine her laughter, faint and soft, drifting through the room like the smoke she leaves behind. But the silence only deepens, swallowing the thought, and I'm left alone in the empty kitchen, the weight of her absence pressing down upon me like a shadow that lingers long after she's gone.
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