The moon was a cold, silver coin pressed against the velvet black of the sky over the Mag Mell Memorial Grounds. Eris stood in her usual spot, a small clearing where the shadows from the great oak pooled deepest. The air was still, carrying the damp, earthy scent of turned soil and old stone. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the crunch of gravel under her sneakers sounding abnormally loud in the silence.
Her brow furrowed. No rustle of leaves, no disturbance in the air, no familiar shape detaching itself from the gloom. She took a slow, deep breath, the chill seeping through her jacket.
"Maybe he's just running late," she mumbled to the headstones, her voice small. "Yeah, that's it. Just late. He'll be here."
"Why, good evening to you, Miss Eris."
The voice, genteel and slightly faded, like old parchment, made her turn. Benjamin Johnson stood by a weeping angel, his form faintly shimmering. He was dressed in his usual mid-19th century attire, his coat neatly buttoned, his expression one of gentle concern. "It is a little chilly for a late-night stroll, if you don't mind my saying."
"Hey, Ben," she said, offering a weak smile. "I'm just… waiting for someone."
"A gentleman should not keep a lady waiting," Ben declared, his ghostly chest puffing out slightly. "Might I beg your indulgence and join you? To ensure your comfort?"
"Sure," Eris replied, the word feeling hollow. She hugged herself a little tighter.
Ben launched into a rambling monologue about the weather, the proper construction of a carriage spring, and the lamentable state of modern manners. Eris nodded absently, her eyes scanning the darkness. With every passing minute, the hopeful knot in her stomach loosened, replaced by a cold, heavy weight of rejection. He wasn't coming. After everything, after the shared laughter and the terrifying moments and the feel of his forehead against hers… he'd just left.
Her miserable thoughts were shattered by a sudden drop in temperature and a surge of static that raised the hairs on her arms. The air in front of her warped, and Captain Robert J. Templeton materialized with the imposing force of a cannon shot. He stood rigid in his stained Confederate grey coat, his mustache bristling, his eyes burning with possessive intensity.
Eris's heart sank. "Oh, for… he must have attached himself to me," she cursed under her breath. She was in no mood for his antiquated dramatics.
"Eleanor!" he boomed, his voice echoing with the ghost of a long-lost battlefield. "What is the meaning of this? What are you doing out here, unaccompanied, at this hour?"
"I am not Eleanor," Eris said, her voice weary. "How many times?"
Ben immediately interposed his translucent form between Eris and the Captain. "I say, good man, that is no way to speak to a lady! Such a tone is uncalled for!"
Captain Robert's eyes narrowed, his spectral form seeming to grow denser, more solid with outrage. He pushed his chest out, a gesture of pure, unadulterated arrogance. "Eleanor is my wife, and I shall speak to her as I see fit. And who, pray tell, might you be? Some milksop boy to lecture me on propriety?"
"I am Benjamin Johnson, sir, and I will not stand by while you harass this young woman with your… your barbaric assumptions!"
The two ghostly men squared off, their argument escalating into a whirlwind of historical indignation. "Your impertinence knows no bounds, you preening dandy!" Captain Robert thundered.
"Your conduct is that of a common ruffian, not an officer!" Ben retorted, his voice cracking with unaccustomed boldness.
Eris felt a hot prickle at the corners of her eyes. She sniffled, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. A soft, furry pressure rubbed against her leg. She looked down to see Casper weaving figure-eights around her ankles, his purr a low, rumbling engine in the night. She scooped him up, burying her fingers in the warm, living softness of his fur, scratching behind his ears.
"I wish I could talk to you," she whispered, her voice thick. "Did he… did he leave a message for me? Anything at all?"
Casper looked up at her, his green eyes unreadable in the dark. He let out a long, low meow that trailed off into a grumbling growl.
Eris sniffled again, a single tear escaping to trace a cool path down her cheek. She nodded, hugging the cat close. "Yeah," she whispered. "I think I get the message."
Casper butted his head against her chin, a small, futile gesture of comfort from a creature who understood disappointment far better than he could ever express.
After a moment, she took a shaky breath and gently set him back on the ground. The two ghosts were now in a full-blown, circular argument about honor, duty, and who had the right to court whom in 1863. They didn't even notice as she turned away.
"I think I'm going home," she announced to no one in particular.
She started back down the path toward her apartment, the gravel sounding even louder under her slow, defeated steps. Casper fell in beside her, a small black shadow matching her pace, a silent and sardonic sentinel for a heart that felt suddenly, terribly hollow. The sounds of the ghostly quarrel faded behind them, swallowed by the vast, indifferent night.
*****
The room smelled of stale popcorn and despair. Buried beneath a vibrant comforter patterned with the grinning face of Monkey D. Luffy, Eris was a lump of misery. On the television screen, the world government's flag at Enies Lobby fluttered in a manufactured breeze. As Luffy gave the order, "Sniper King… shoot down that flag," Eris's breath hitched. A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path through the lingering salt of previous ones. When Robin screamed her desperate, soul-wrenching plea—"I WANT TO LIVE! TAKE ME WITH YOU TO THE SEA!"—it echoed the hollow ache in Eris's own chest.
The bedroom door flew open with the force of a small hurricane.
"Alright!"
Clara Thompson stood framed in the doorway, a vision of structured concern in a cream-colored cashmere sweater and dark-wash jeans. Abigail Graves hovered just behind her, a stark contrast in an oversized hoodie and beanie, her thumbs flying across her phone screen.
Eris tried to lean around Clara's form. "Clara, move, this is the best part!"
Clara planted her fists on her hips, a general surveying a disastrous battlefield. Eris's room was a cataclysm of discarded track clothes, textbooks, and empty water bottles. "No! I don't know what happened, but I know I need my friend back. You have too much at stake to throw it all away wallowing in this… this biohazard."
Abigail leaned against the doorframe, not looking up from her phone. "Yeah, dude. I mean, what's the runtime on this depressive episode? The code's gotta be inefficient. How is hiding in here optimizing for a better outcome?"
Eris sniffled, pulling the comforter tighter. "It's not." Her voice was muffled by the fabric. "I don't want to talk about it. I just want to…"
"We know what you want to do," Clara interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. She marched over and, with a decisive yank, snatched the One Piece comforter away, tossing it onto the floor where it landed with a soft whump. The sudden exposure made Eris flinch. Clara's expression softened marginally. She let out a long sigh, the sound of someone who had scheduled this emotional intervention between Organic Chemistry and a study group. "So. You had a breakup."
Eris sighed, the fight draining out of her. She sat up, her hair a wild nest of tangles. Abigail, sensing a shift in the scenario's variables, finally pocketed her phone and came to sit on the edge of the bed.
"It wasn't really a breakup," Eris mumbled, picking at a loose thread on her sheet. "We weren't even dating. We didn't even… kiss. But…" She trailed off, the unspoken but hanging in the stale air.
"But you just got each other," Abigail finished, her blunt logic somehow hitting the mark with more accuracy than any sentimental platitude.
Eris nodded, a fresh wave of tears welling up as she attempted to smooth her hopeless bedhead.
Clara sat beside her and put a firm, comforting arm around her shoulders. "Those are the worst kind," she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. "But," she added, leaning back and wrinkling her nose with surgical disdain, "you really, really need to take a shower. And do your laundry. Eris, I'm being serious, the funk in here is achieving sentience. We're at defcon three levels of stank."
A wet chuckle escaped Eris. Just then, her phone buzzed on the nightstand, skittering towards the edge.
Abigail snagged it. "Your friend Otto is texting. Says it's a 911 and he needs to talk to you right away."
"It's always a 911 with Otto," Eris replied, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
"Hey, your mom is texting, too," Abigail continued, her eyes scanning the screen. She looked up, a rare spark of genuine interest in her bloodshot eyes. "Hey, can I ask her to send cookies?"
Eris managed a weak smile. "Yeah. I already did."
"Sweet." Abigail nodded, approval granted.
Clara gave Eris a final, bracing squeeze. "I know it sucks right now. I do. But this," she gestured at the darkened room, the paused screen, the general aura of defeat, "isn't making it better. Get up. Shower. And let's get some dinner."
"Yeah, let's get ramen," Abigail suggested. "And sushi."
Clara rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in their sockets. "Abigail, you need to eat a vegetable that hasn't been freeze-dried into a seasoning packet."
"There are green onions in ramen," Abigail countered, her logic impeccable.
Eris let out another small chuckle, the sound rough from disuse. "Okay. Just… give me a few."
Clara looked her up and down, a clinical assessment. "Girl, I know you haven't looked in a mirror lately, but you may need more than a few. We're talking a full-scale decontamination protocol." She stood, pulling Eris to her feet with a determined grip. "Now. March. We'll be here when you're human again."
For the first time in three days, the weight in Eris's chest felt a little less like a stone, and a little more like something she could actually carry.
The rich, salty steam of tonkotsu broth still hung in the air around them, a comforting fog that clung to the warm wooden interior of the ramen shop. Eris swirled the last of her noodles with her chopsticks, feeling a genuine, if fragile, sense of calm for the first time in days. Across the table, Abigail was meticulously dissecting a piece of chashu pork, while Clara sat with perfect posture, looking immensely pleased with the success of her intervention.
Then Eris's phone buzzed again, skittering across the table with a persistent, angry vibration. It was the seventh time in the last hour.
"Just answer it," Abigail said without looking up from her food. "Otto's algorithm is stuck in a panic loop. He's not going to terminate the process until you acknowledge him."
Eris sighed, the sound lost in the din of the restaurant. She looked at her friends—Clara with her organized compassion, Abigail with her blunt support—and felt a surge of gratitude. "You're right. And… thanks, guys. I really needed this."
Clara sat a little taller, a small, triumphant smile on her lips. "I know. My bedside manner is impeccable. It's a gift."
"Yeah, but your cooking isn't," Abigail retorted, finally looking up. "Your 'healthy' quinoa stir-fry has the texture of wet gravel."
"Just because you think a potato is a vegetable doesn't mean my culinary skills are lacking!" Clara shot back, her voice rising in mock offense.
As the two launched into their familiar, comfortable bickering, Eris smiled and pushed her chair back. Slipping out of the booth, she weaved through the crowded restaurant and pushed the heavy door open, stepping into the cool night air.
"Hey Otto, what's up? How was—"
"We don't have time for that!" Otto's voice was a tinny, high-pitched shriek in her ear, vibrating with pure, undiluted panic. "Where have you been? I've been trying to get a hold of you! It's been a three-act tragedy of missed connections!"
Eris leaned against the brick wall of the building, a wry smirk touching her lips. "Well, a lot has—"
"It doesn't matter!" he cut her off again, his words tumbling over each other. "We have a problem! A cataclysmic, end-of-days, the-veil-is-not-just-thinning-it's-unraveling-level problem!"
Eris's smirk faded. "Okay," she said, her voice cautious. "What is it?"
"I'm at the gate and—"
"The gate?" Eris straightened up, her grip tightening on the phone. "Otto, what are you doing at the gate? It's not safe!"
"That is currently the least relevant piece of data in this entire cosmological equation!" he cried, his voice cracking. "Just get over here! And hurry! I think…!"
A cold knot tightened in Eris's stomach, all traces of her brief respite vanishing. She ended the call, the image of her warm ramen bowl and bickering friends feeling a million miles away. With a resigned sigh, she turned from the comforting glow of the restaurant and hurried into the waiting dark.
If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider giving The Oak and the Apple: Huntsman and the Hounds a Power Stone! It helps the novel climb the rankings and get more eyes on our story!