(WLTK) B2 - Chapter 44: "Farewell."

This chapter is longer than normal.

Though trigger warning; you might cry.

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Friday, October 14th, 2253 — 11:23 AM

The Mystical Menagerie

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Rain whispered against the front windows, tracing pale ribbons down the glass before gathering in small pools along the sill. Beyond the pane, the street blurred into a watercolor of umbrellas and drifting mist. Inside, the Mystical Menagerie held its own quiet warmth — air thick with the scent of cocoa and roasted beans, damp earth from the beetle terrariums, and the faint tang of alchemical polish Jeremiah had rubbed into the counter the night before. The mingled aromas made the little shop feel lived-in, almost content, while the steady rhythm of the rain filled the silence between heartbeats.

Lewis’s ‘garden class’ had taken refuge from the drizzle not long ago — a dozen children in mismatched coats now scattered around the café’s round tables. Mud clung stubbornly to their boots, stamping dark smudges across the floor despite Lewis’s weary scolding and futile efforts to maintain order. The autobrooms whirred to life with mechanical indignation, their brushes scrubbing furiously at every new footprint. Before long, several of the younger children had turned the cleanup into a game, giggling as they took turns dripping fresh clumps of mud onto the tiles, sending Uno and Dos spinning in frantic pursuit.

Their flushed faces glowed against the golden light spilling from the hanging lamps, laughter bubbling up between sips of steaming cocoa. One older boy was attempting to balance a marshmallow on his spoon like a circus act, while a girl at the next table tried to imitate him, snorting laughter as her drink sloshed over the rim. The rich sweetness of chocolate and milk mingled with the smell of rain-soaked wool and freshly turned soil, softening the edges of the room until even the steady patter outside felt like part of the shop’s gentle rhythm.

Jeremiah stood behind the front counter, elbows resting on the polished wood as he watched the shop hum around him. Soft murmurs drifted through the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the faint clatter of mugs against saucers. The steady rain outside added its own rhythm, a gentle percussion that blended with the low hiss of the espresso machine and the occasional creak of the floorboards.

He flicked a finger lazily, eyes on the blue pen of the Twin Boundaries lying on the counter. It rocked forward without a touch, rolling a few inches before slowing to a stop, the motion so subtle one might have thought it had been caused by a stray draft.

A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He crooked his finger again. The pen rolled smoothly back, tracing the same line across the polished wood until it settled neatly where it had started. Jeremiah’s grin widened.

It wasn’t a spell — not a real one, anyway. Ulrick had been clear about that. Most mages wouldn’t even call it a cantrip, just a child’s exercise in control. But that didn’t matter. For Jeremiah, it was still magic — honest, deliberate, his. No System trick, no glowing prompt or enchanted trinket doing the work for him. Just focus, breath, and will.

The soft sound of the rain and the low chatter of the children blurred together into a background rhythm as he repeated the motion — forward, back, forward again — until the little roll of the pen matched the beat of the drizzle. Small or not, it was his first step, and for the first time in weeks, it felt like enough.

Mero’s voice slipped through the hum of the shop, smooth as smoke. “Havin’ fun, kid?”

Jeremiah didn’t even glance up as the fairy appeared next to him, perched on the counter as if he’d always been there. He had long since stopped reacting to Mero’s sudden appearances; surprise had become as pointless as trying to stop him.

The pen wobbled, then came to rest at the edge of the counter. Jeremiah exhaled through his nose and gave a small, content nod. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Kinda.”

Mero propped one elbow against his knee, chin resting on his palm, wings giving a lazy twitch. “Well, don’t let me spoil your fun. I just figured business must be dead if you’re sitting here practicing parlor tricks during store hours.”

Jeremiah’s gaze drifted toward the window. Rain traced thin silver lines down the glass, the street outside blurred to watercolor. “It’s been a quiet week,” he said, his voice low. “Feels strange.”

Mero tilted his head, a shimmer catching in his eyes that might have been laughter. “Strange, huh? You sayin’ you miss the chaos?”

Jeremiah snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. He gave the pen a final nudge, watching it glide in a smooth line before coming to rest against the counter’s edge. “Not exactly,” he said. “It’s just… the first couple of weeks were nothing but fires to put out. One problem after another. Then last week… nothing. Not one major issue. Feels weird, like I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Then enjoy the calm while it’s here,” Mero said, straightening. His wings gave a slow, deliberate hum. “Trust me, chaos doesn’t need an invitation.”

He had barely finished the sentence when the store’s front door exploded open.

The heavy oak slammed into the wall hard enough to rattle the glass, wind howling through the sudden gap. A dozen heads turned at once — the kids near the tables froze mid-giggle, cocoa dripping from forgotten spoons. Uno and Dos skidded to a stop mid-clean, brushes whirring uncertainly.

A streak of tortoiseshell fur shot across the floor.

Sissy’s terrified yowl cut through the stunned silence as she bolted for the far end of the room, claws scrabbling on the tiles.

Jeremiah’s head snapped toward the doorway. A figure stood framed against the rain — tall, dripping, shadowed by the pale wash of daylight from outside. Mud clung to their boots, and each breath came sharp, fast, like someone who’d run all the way here.

The shop fell utterly still.

Jeremiah turned toward Mero, frown deepening. The fairy had both hands raised, palms out, expression wide-eyed and far too innocent.

“Don’t look at me,” Mero said, wings flicking once. “I didn’t do anything.”

The man filled the doorway like a landslide, blocking out the gray light and dragging the smell of rain and cold air in with him. Water streamed from his jacket, pooling on the tiles. For a breath, Jeremiah didn’t recognize him.

Then the man lifted his head, and recognition hit like a pulse.

It was the same customer who had wandered in nearly every day since the shop opened — the big, quiet man with the rough hands and worn coat, who always bought the same thing: a can or two of cat food, nothing more. He never lingered to chat, never caused trouble. A brief nod, then gone again.

But the look in his eyes now wasn’t the steady, neutral calm Jeremiah knew. They were wide, wild panic sitting raw beneath the surface.

The sight sent a warning bell through Jeremiah’s head.

He straightened behind the counter, every instinct sharpening. Had the man been casing the shop all this time? Waiting for a moment like this?

Rain hissed through the open door, and the warm hum of the café faltered. Lewis stiffened where he stood, instinctively stepping in front of the cluster of children, while Jina herded the youngest toward the back tables. Out of the corner of his eye, Jeremiah caught a flicker of movement — a shadow darting across the rain-slick courtyard window. Maddie. The lynx’s silhouette rippled once before vanishing upward toward the roof.

The shop fell quiet but for the rain and the soft mechanical whir of the autobrooms idling mid-motion.

Jeremiah stepped out from behind the counter, careful, composed.

“Sir?” His voice came out steady, the practiced calm of the Shopkeeper’s Regalia wrapping around him like armor. “Can I help you?”

The man looked up at the sound. His eyes locked on Jeremiah, wild and pleading, and then he was moving across the floor in quick, stumbling strides. Jeremiah’s first instinct was to retreat, hand twitching toward the Twin Boundaries lying on the counter, but something in the man’s posture stopped him cold.

He wasn’t reaching for a weapon. He was cradling something.

When he got close enough for the light to catch, Jeremiah’s stomach twisted. A cat — old, thin, its fur a patchwork of faded browns and greys — hung limp in the man’s arms. The creature’s ribs shifted with each shallow breath. Its eyes were half-open, glazed, the pupils slow to respond.

“Please,” the man rasped. His voice cracked like gravel. “You’ve got to help her. Please.”

Jeremiah stepped out from behind the counter, the sound of his own heartbeat loud in his ears. “Let me see.”

The man lowered the cat onto his forearm, holding her as if afraid she might break. Jeremiah knelt slightly, careful not to startle her. The smell hit him first — that faint, sweet scent of age and sickness that lingered on dying things. He laid a hand near her flank, feeling the shallow flutter of her breath, the faint tremor of effort behind each exhale.

No blood. No wounds. Just the stillness that came before the end.

He exhaled slowly, and the weight of it sank into his chest. “She’s not sick,” he said quietly. “She’s just old.”

The man blinked, confusion clouding his panic. “Old?”

Jeremiah nodded once. “Her body’s done all it can. I’m sorry, but…” He hesitated, searching for gentler words, and found none. “There’s nothing left to fix.”

The man’s face twisted, disbelief tightening his mouth. “No. No, I’ve seen the things in this place.” He gestured wildly to the rows of equipment, the faint glow of a rune-etched jar on the shelf. “You do magic. I’ve seen it. You’ve got—” His voice broke into a half-growl, half-plea. “You’ve got to have something!”

Jeremiah met his eyes and shook his head. “Not for this. Magic can mend wounds, soothe pain, sometimes even cheat death for a moment. But if there’s any magic that can fight old age… I don't know of it.”

The man’s shoulders sagged, then shook. His breath hitched once, twice, before breaking entirely. “She — she’s all I have,” he whispered, the words tearing out of him. “Since my wife passed, it’s just been me and her. I can’t just—”

Jeremiah’s throat tightened. He let the man’s words fade into the hush of the shop, waiting until the worst of the tremors eased from the man’s shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I can’t save her. But there’s one thing I might be able to offer.”

His gaze drifted toward the display case behind the counter. The glass reflected the lamplight in wavering gold, casting faint ripples across the paper talismans within. Each slip of parchment shimmered softly, their dark edges lined with precise brushstrokes that looped and folded into intricate calligrams. The ink seemed alive — symbols shifting in the corner of the eye like they carried thoughts of their own.

The man lifted his head, eyes hollow but searching, the old cat limp against his chest, panting. “What kind of thing?”

Jeremiah hesitated, weighing the moment, then stepped behind the counter. He placed his hand against the display. The Twin Boundaries pulsed to life, a faint blue shimmer running along the glass like water over ice. With a soft click, the case unlocked.

Inside, dozens of Beast Talismans rested in quiet order — some edged in gold, others marked in black or silver. Each bore its own small power: mercy, strength, shelter. Jeremiah’s eyes moved across the rows until one caught his attention — a pale ivory sheet bordered in soft blue, its calligram depicting a mother cat curled around a sleeping kitten.

He paused, fingers brushing the edge before lifting it free. The parchment felt warm, the ink faintly raised under his thumb. He’d never used this one before, personally, though it had become rather popular with the mothers in the neighbourhood over the last week.

He returned and knelt beside the man. The cat let out a weak, raspy mewl, and the man’s hands trembled as he steadied her.

“This one’s called A Mother’s Sacrifice,” Jeremiah said, holding the slip of paper up so the lamplight traced the delicate inkwork. The talisman’s lines shimmered faintly, the brushstrokes woven with tender precision. “It won’t save her,” he added quietly. “But it can make things easier. Ease her passing.”

The man’s eyes flicked between Jeremiah’s face and the talisman, disbelief and hope colliding in his expression. “Easier?” he asked, voice rough.

Jeremiah nodded. “It’ll take away her pain. Let her go peacefully.” He paused. “But there’s a cost.”

The man’s voice broke before his next breath. “I don’t care what it costs!” he burst out. “Please — if it can help her, I’ll—” He stopped short, his throat tightening as he fumbled into his jacket pocket, searching for his wallet with trembling hands.

Jeremiah reached forward and caught his arm, firm but gentle. “Not like that,” he said. His gaze dropped briefly to the fading cat cradled against the man’s chest, then back to the man’s eyes. “For the talisman to work, you have to share her pain. Not all of it — just enough to let her rest.”

The man froze, his breath shallow. He looked down at the small, shivering form in his arms, his thumb tracing the matted fur between her ears. His hand shook as he swallowed hard. Then, with a sudden, quiet resolve, he lifted his gaze.

“Do it,” he said hoarsely.

Jeremiah met his eyes once more, then pressed the slip of paper into his hands. “Hold it close to her heart. The talisman will do the rest.”

The man nodded, trembling. He shifted the cat carefully in his arms and placed the talisman against her chest. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the ink began to glow — soft gold bleeding outward through the paper, lines of the mother cat and kitten brightening until they seemed alive.

The calligram flared once, and the paper dissolved into light, sinking into both of them.

The man gasped, eyes squeezing shut as the light seeped into him. Pain flickered across his face, the sharp, silent kind that came from somewhere deeper than flesh. His jaw tightened, a low groan escaping, as Jeremiah could see visible black lines creeping up the man’s neck from under his collar.

For a moment, Jeremiah’s heart rate spiked. Had he made a mistake? The talisman was meant to help a parent bear the burden of illness, not death. Was it too much for the magic?

Then, slowly, the cat stirred.

Her eyes fluttered closed, her muscles relaxing by degrees. The trembling in her chest stilled, replaced by an easy rhythm, softer than before. Her claws, which had been pressed tight into the man’s sleeve, uncurled. Her breathing deepened once, then slipped into stillness.

Jeremiah stayed where he was, silent, the light from the dissolved talisman fading to nothing between them.

When it was done, the man let out a shuddering breath. “She’s… sleeping?”

The man cradled her closer, pressing his forehead to her head. “Thank you,” he murmured, voice raw.

Jeremiah swallowed the lump in his throat. “There’s a quiet nook in the back,” he said gently, nodding toward the curtained alcove near the café tables. “Take as long as you need.”

The man nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He rose slowly, still holding the cat close, and walked toward the corner. The children parted for him without a word.

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The minutes that followed passed in the low hush that always seemed to linger after grief.

The shop’s warm light pressed against the gray rain outside, blurring the windows into pale smears of gold and silver.

Lewis eventually gathered the children who were old enough to walk back to the Maddock apartments, ushering them out in twos and threes beneath a canopy of umbrellas. Their laughter, quiet now, faded down the street until all that was left were the faintest echoes and the whisper of drizzle.

When the door closed again, only Jeremiah, Mero, Jina, her twins, and the man in the corner nook remained.

For a long while, no one spoke. The autobrooms resumed their slow patrol, their brushes humming softly over the tiles. The man sat with his back to the wall, shoulders hunched, the shape of the small cat curled motionless in his lap. Jeremiah busied himself behind the counter, wiping down the same spot more than once, giving the stranger time to be alone. Even Mero stayed silent, wings drawn close.

Eventually, the man stood. His face was pale, his eyes rimmed red, but his hands were steady as he gathered the limp body against his chest. When he stepped back into the open, Jeremiah looked up. The fur that had been ragged and dull now lay smooth beneath the man’s fingers. The little creature looked peaceful — sleeping, almost.

Jeremiah said nothing. He only met the man’s eyes. The man gave a faint nod, gratitude and exhaustion etched deep in the lines of his face, and turned toward the door.

A soft tug stopped him.

He looked down to find Jill standing beside him, half-hidden by her mother’s skirt. She held a small umbrella — bright pink, patterned with tiny white cats. Its handle was chipped where the paint had worn thin.

The man blinked. “What’s this?”

Jill’s voice was small. “It’s raining.”

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then he glanced toward Jina, uncertain. She gave a slow, encouraging nod.

His throat worked once before he crouched, careful not to jostle the bundle in his arms. He accepted the umbrella with both hands, his voice rough but soft. “Thank you.”

The child smiled, shy but sure, and stepped back to her mother’s side.

The man lingered there a moment longer, fingers brushing over the umbrella’s curved handle. Then, without another word, he opened it. The pink canopy bloomed above him, a bright patch of color against the dim light.

The bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped out into the rain.

For a while, Jeremiah watched the pink umbrella drift away down the street, until it blurred into the gray and was gone.

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Friday, October 14th, 2253 — 10:12 PM

Market Street

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The rain had stopped hours ago, but the world still held its breath in the quiet that followed.

Jeremiah walked with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, boots whispering against the damp pavement. The air smelled clean — cold and sharp with the scent of wet stone and soil — and every step sent small ripples through the shallow puddles that still clung to the gutter. Above him, the streetlights painted the road in hazy amber, the mist catching the glow like smoke.

He didn’t rush. The night was calm in a way it hadn’t been for weeks, and the cool air against his face eased something deep in his chest he hadn’t realized was knotted. The image of the man leaving the shop stayed with him — the hollow weight in his eyes, the way he’d carried the cat as if afraid to let her go. It was a look Jeremiah knew too well, one that echoed in the quiet places memory still refused to leave.

He rounded the corner, the sound of dripping eaves fading behind him, and slowed as something caught his eye.

At the edge of the road, tucked into a patch of grass where the curb broke into soil, lay a small pile of stones. They’d been stacked carefully, almost tenderly — the kind of patience only grief could shape. Propped above them, half-collapsed from the evening wind, stood a small pink umbrella.

Jeremiah stopped. The fabric fluttered faintly in the breeze, scattering drops of water that gleamed like tiny beads of glass. Beneath it, the stones glistened dark and smooth, each one chosen and placed with deliberate care.

He stepped closer, his throat tightening. For a long moment, he said nothing. The night pressed close around him, all quiet except for the faint rustle of the grass.

Jeremiah crouched beside the little shrine, the earth cool beneath his palms. He let his eyes trace the shape of it — the careful stack, the umbrella tilted just so — and felt a quiet ache settle in his chest.

“Rest well,” he murmured, voice barely a whisper.

Then he stood, hands slipping back into his pockets, and started toward home, the soft pink glow of the umbrella fading behind him into the dark.