Elias stood in the garden his grandfather had spent most of his afternoons. Golden light streaked through the tree branches, illuminating the tiny dust motes that drifted around like small constellations. There was a longing that settled at the base of his stomach but somehow, the world felt right. Everything felt muted as he took in the surroundings. He had not been here since he was a kid.
"Elias."
He turned to see his grandfather, standing there. He looked much healthier than Elias had remembered him in recent years. Not the bedridden, frail version that somehow existed in his memory even now.
He looked younger. Stronger even. The way Elias remembered him from the countless summers he had spent with him.
His grandfather stood there—not the frail, hospital-bed version from three weeks ago, but younger. Stronger. The way "Grandpa?" Elias called out, his voice coming out smaller than he had intended.
His grandfather smiled but there was a hint of sadness on his lips.
"You've got to do better than me, kid." He spoke in a clear voice, without the rasp from the pneumonia that had taken him. "I'm sorry I couldn't explain before. But you'll do better than I did. I know you will."
"Do what? Grandpa, what—"
The next moment felt like falling endlessly. Elias stretched his hands, trying to take hold of the man who was now smiling resolutely.
"The stories need you, Elias. Take care of them."
"Wait—WAIT—"
Elias jolted awake, gasping as his hand shot out instinctively, reaching for what was no longer there.
He was here. In this shitty apartment. He lazily stared into space, before he was interrupted by the sound of the leaky faucet in the bathroom and the water stain on the ceiling he'd been meaning to report for the last six months.
He dragged both hands through his hair—God, when had it gotten this long? It fell past his eyes now, greasy and unkempt.
He had stopped paying attention or caring about anything around month three of unemployment.
His fingers caught in a tangled patch of hair as he tried to slick it back, squinting at the floor to find where his feet should go.
The dream was already fading. He could still recall fragments. His grandfather and something about stories.
Stories.
Right. His grandfather was gone. The funeral was today.
Elias felt his stomach sink deeper than when he had gotten the news of his grandpa's demise.
He sat there for a moment, hands still tangled in his hair, staring at the pile of dirty laundry that had become furniture. The overdue bills on the desk. The half-empty ramen cup from... yesterday? Two days ago?
He had to get up.
He stood, hearing his knees buckle slightly. He was twenty-five and his body already felt like they needed oil to grease his joints every single time. Guess we don't die in a day. It starts slowly.
Time to bury the only person who'd ever given a damn about him.
The service was painfully small. Considering how amazing his grandfather was.
It was an open casket service with a pitiful bouquet of flowers on the side and people who looked too bored to shed a single tear.
Elias stood at the back of the gathering, observing the procession of people. His hands showed deep into the pocket of the one black suit he owned to keep anyone from seeing how they were constantly trembling.
His mother, who had not spoken to him for months, was giving the show of a lifetime as she dabbed her eyes with a tissue. The performative grief was astounding, considering she had not seen him in nearly a decade nor did she bother coming to the hospital to check on him.
His father on the other hand did not bother to hide his feelings, checking his watch twice in the last five minutes.
Claire, his sister, was on her phone, taking photos of herself in a black dress with her tongue out as she resumed punching texts into her phone.
Marcus glanced over to his direction before returning to face the service. At least he was paying attention. He was everything Elias wasn't. According to his family. But he had never cared about their opinions.
The priest droned on about "a life well-lived" and "cherished memories." None of them knew his grandfather. Not really.
Elias barely heard it.
It was time for the final goodbyes.
He stared at the casket, trying to form some emotion but nothing.
No, that wasn't true. He felt hollow. Like someone had scooped out his insides and left just enough to keep him standing upright. Yes, that seemed like the right feeling.
His grandfather had been the only one who never looked at him with disappointment. Who never asked "So what's your plan, Elias?" with that edge of judgment. Who just... listened. Let him exist without expectations.
And now he was gone.
Last one who gave a damn.
The service ended. People dispersed quickly like life went on.
Elias turned to leave.
"Mr. Grimm?"
He stopped. An older man in a grey suit approached, carrying a leather briefcase. Sharp eyes behind his horn rimmed glasses..
"I'm Gerald Finch. Your grandfather's attorney."
Elias blinked. "His... attorney? I didn't know he had one."
"He was a very private man." Mr. Finch responded almost instinctively as he reached into his briefcase. He retrieved a small envelope and an old looking key. "He left specific instructions for you. Just you." Mr. Finch added as though to buttress his point.
The envelope was sealed with actual red wax. His name was written on it in his grandfather's careful handwriting: Elias.
"What is this?"
"The key to his cottage. And..." Mr. Finch hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Instructions. He insisted you go alone. Tonight, if possible. He was very particular about the timing."
Elias turned the key over in his hand. It felt cold to touch. Definitely not made in this century.
"That's it? Just the cottage?"
"There's more inside. But I was instructed not to explain further." Mr. Finch's expression was unreadable. "I'll be honest with you, Mr. Grimm—your grandfather was an unusual client. What he asked me to arrange was... unconventional. But he paid well and seemed of sound mind." He paused. "Mostly."
Mostly. Great.
"He also asked me to tell you something, if you seemed hesitant." Mr. Finch met his eyes. "He said: 'The stories remember you, Elias. Even if you've forgotten them.'"
A chill ran down Elias's spine. He had no idea what that meant but the dream he had this morning was starting to look real.
"...Thanks. I think."
Mr. Finch nodded, handing him a business card, and left.
Elias stood there in the emptying cemetery, feeling more lost than ever.
His mother's voice cut through his thoughts. "Elias! Are you coming to the reception?"
Reception. Right. More forced small talk. More "so what are you doing these days?"
He was all burnt out from barely socializing with people who acted like they gave a damn about him or grandfather.
"I'm good, Mom. I've got... something to take care of."
She frowned, not hiding her disappointment, as always but she didn't push. "Fine. Your father and I are flying back tomorrow. Call if you need anything."
She wouldn't answer. She never did.
Elias watched his family leave. He quickly hailed himself a cab and got in. He opened the envelope.
Inside was a single handwritten note:
Elias,
If you're reading this, I'm gone. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you everything before—it would have sounded insane, and you would have thought the dementia finally got me.
Go to the cottage. Use the key. Trust me one last time.
The world needs Custodians, kid. It always has. And whether you know it or not, you've always been meant for this.
Protect the stories. We need them.
— Grandpa
Elias read it three times.
It was similar to what his grandfather said in the dream.
"...What the hell does that mean?"
But he pocketed the note and the key anyway.
What else did he have to do?