Glimmers, Part 1

The hotel was still, as if holding its breath.

Midmorning sun slanted through the tall windows and found every corner of the Inner Gardens, but there was no one arguing over the benches, no high-velocity laughter or even the usual nervous energy. The only motion was the breeze sneaking in from the terrace, and Marissa, who sat alone at a stone table in the half-shade of a jasmine archway, flipping through the thin pages of her notepad. She felt the quiet in her bones, in the way her pulse seemed to slow to match it.

Then, a few yards off, Laura’s selves appeared—side by side, as always, mirror-twin in step and posture. She paused at the mouth of the far path, both sets of hands tucked in jacket pockets, heads angled just so, not quite hiding the fact that she was watching the rest of the world watch her.

For a long minute, Marissa just observed. Every conversation along the flagstone path—Chloe's low hum as she weeded the planters, Sam's staccato laugh in the distance—went hush as Laura drifted closer. No malice, no outright fear; just a pulling-in, a not knowing what to do with someone who didn’t belong to the timeline of their friendships, or even to their decade. The dinner last night had not quite helped, and Laura’s accidental night with Andy (something several of the girls had figured out) had not helped matters either. The effect on the newly resurrected was easy enough to read. Laura hunched in on herself, hands balling in the jacket fabric, as if she could collapse her doubled presence into something less alarming.

Marissa smiled, not with teeth, but with the little squint at the corners of her eyes that meant she’d noticed something interesting. She straightened, and with a voice pitched just loud enough to travel, said, “You look like you’re casing the place. Planning a heist?”

Both of her startled, then did an awkward half-spin, trying to act casual and failing even at that. She mumbled, in stereo, “Busted,” and she moved toward the table with the cautious approach of a deer negotiating its way onto a new trail.

Marissa patted the seat beside her, then pointed to another across the table. She had, for reasons no one had ever been able to pry out of her, a way of making you feel like you were being welcomed to a VIP lounge, even when all she had to offer was a bottle of water and half a protein bar.

Laura took the seats. “Sorry,” Laura said, voice clipped. “I’m still getting used to the… everything.” Both faces colored, as if the word “bodies” was lurking in there somewhere and got caught before it escaped.

“Totally understandable,” Marissa said. She leaned back, arms loose at her sides, and allowed her voice to do the thing it was best at—soft, inviting, just a hint of warmth on the finish. “Are you settling in at all?”

Laura shrugged, then gave an honest shake of the heads. “Not really. I keep thinking it’s going to go back to normal, and then I catch a reflection and…” Both sets of hands gestured, synchronized. “Not normal.” Her twin laugh was almost a cough.

Marissa nodded, sympathetic. “Would it help to have some distraction? I was just about to head to The 88 Club.” She didn’t mention that she had been planning to head there anyway, or that the half-finished song in her notebook was clawing at her brain. “If you’d like to join me, I could use a co-conspirator.”

Laura blinked, surprised. “You want me to come with you?”

“I was hoping you would,” Marissa said. “If you’re comfortable, of course.” She saw the answer in the way both bodies drew in a tight, hopeful breath.

Marissa stood, collecting her notebook and pen, then started toward the side door that led to the 88 Club, trusting that Laura would follow. She did, both forms keeping step, their footsteps nearly silent on the garden path.

“Is it weird?” Laura asked, once they were out of earshot of the others. “I mean, having me here?”

Marissa didn’t answer at once. Instead, she led them through a narrow corridor that smelled faintly of lemon oil and sun-warmed wood, then paused at the threshold to the 88 Club. It was empty, the lights low, the black baby grand at center stage casting a long, curved shadow across the polished floor.

Marissa turned to Laura, catching both sets of eyes. “It’s not weird,” she said, “but I think it is… new. Which is not the same as bad. It’s just that most of us have been here for a couple months, and you’re the first to join the harem in a way that wasn’t—” She hesitated, hunting for the right word, then found it: “—standard.”

Laura stood very still, hands gripping the back of two chairs so hard her knuckles went white. “It wasn’t really standard for any of you either, was it? You just woke up here and had to figure out what to do with it.”

Marissa nodded, impressed. “You catch on fast.” She took a seat at the piano bench, patting the spots beside her. Laura hesitated, then sat, both bodies moving in unison. Marissa flipped open her notebook and slid it toward Laura. The sheet was dense with cross-outs, half-melodies, fragments of chord progressions. “I got stuck here,” she said, nonchalantly, tapping the point where the lines cut off. “Thought maybe you’d have an idea.”

Laura’s hands hovered over the keys for a second, both sets, then settled lightly, her left index and the other’s right index poised above the same note. “When I used to play,” she admitted. “I was never very good. You saw that. I liked inventing stories more than practicing.”

“Then invent a story,” Marissa said, her tone low and encouraging.

For a moment, Laura hesitated, but then she pressed a note, soft and sustained. The other body’s hand joined in, echoing it an octave up. The sound filled the room, not quite in tune, not quite discordant, but alive. Laura frowned, then shifted both hands, trying a new chord. When she found something she liked, she smiled in stereo—just a little.

Marissa leaned into it. “That’s better than what I had,” she said, and meant it. “Let’s try from the top?” She counted in, then played the part as she’d written it, letting Laura fill in the lower and higher octaves. Laura’s twin sets of hands didn’t always agree, but instead of correcting her, Marissa let them both play, the chords thickening and thinning, the lines crossing and diverging like two siblings fighting over a favorite toy.

They ran the song twice, each time different. The third time, Laura stopped, both sets of fingers on the keys, and said, “I keep hearing what you want it to do, but then I have to change it.”

Marissa’s voice went soft. “Is that a bad thing?”

Laura shook her head. “I think it’s just… how I work.”

“That’s not so bad,” Marissa said. She scribbled a note in her notebook, then met Laura’s eyes. “Sometimes when things break, they don’t go back to the way they were before. But that doesn’t mean the new thing is worse. Sometimes it’s just different.”

Laura looked away, silent, then said, “Andy told me that once. He said nothing ever really gets fixed, it just gets changed, and then you have to decide what to do with the new shape.” She looked at her hands. “I always hated that. I wanted things to be… perfect.”

Marissa smiled, her gaze gentle. “Maybe it’s okay to have both,” she said. “To want it perfect, and also to like the mess. There could be a perfection there you simply haven’t noticed yet.” She let that hang for a beat, then changed the subject. “Can I ask you a question?”

Laura nodded, cautious.

“What did you think of the piano here? I know it’s not the best, but it’s got history.” Marissa noticed Laura’s startlement. She had expected a personal question. “Or, the original one, on Earth, does. The man who built this room played with only three fingers on his left hand. The rest were lost in a construction accident, but he never let it stop him.”

Laura’s eyes widened. “How do you know that?”

“I read a lot of plaques,” Marissa said, deadpan. Then, softer, “And I ask a lot of questions. It’s a habit.”

Laura smiled, this time for real. “You’re good at it.”

For a few minutes, they just played, Marissa keeping the rhythm, Laura filling in the melody with two sets of hands at once, sometimes matching, sometimes fighting, sometimes producing something so weird and wild that they both had to laugh. There was no audience, but Marissa felt the room grow lighter, the air less tight. Even the faraway clatter of plates from the Banquet Hall seemed to ease up, as if the world outside was letting them have this.

When they finished the song, Marissa closed the notebook and turned to Laura, her posture straightening with purpose. “Do you want to talk about Andy?”

The question came out so cleanly, so calmly, that Laura was caught off-guard. Both bodies tensed, then relaxed. “Yes. I think I do.” She made a motion with her twin left hands, two little anxious spirals. “I want to know how he was. After… me. If it’s okay.”

Marissa nodded. “Some of it is covered by patient privilege,” she said, not as an excuse but a statement of respect. “But what I can tell you is that he was… completely unprepared for the world without you in it. It was like he broke in half, but instead of putting the pieces back together, he just got really good at pretending the missing half was never there.”

Laura was quiet. “He told me he never stopped thinking about me. That he kept trying to find a way to fix it.”

“He did,” Marissa said. “But it hurt him, every time. I’ve never seen someone who wanted to do the right thing so much, but had no idea what the right thing even was.” She gave Laura a sidelong look. “He’s still like that, you know.”

Laura thought about it, then smiled, sad. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Marissa took a breath. “After we got here—the HH—I saw him try to take care of everyone. He found ways to keep all of us safe, even when it put him at risk. Like in the first Challenge, when he rigged the vote so no one would have to go home. He gamed the system to let everyone tie. It was a huge gamble.”

Laura’s heads snapped up. “He did that twice?”

Marissa nodded. “He can’t stand to see anyone left behind. I think he still believes, deep down, that if he keeps everyone together, he can make up for losing you.”

Laura was silent for a long stretch, both faces turned down, studying the ridges of the piano keys. Her hands hovered, not playing, but instead tracing the contours as if they might offer an answer. Marissa saw the flicker of tension run through both bodies—shoulders tight, breath shallow, a ripple that matched the old trauma she’d seen in dozens of patients over the years. But she also saw the stubborn resolve that was uniquely Laura’s: a refusal to look away, even from the worst parts.

“I thought—” Laura started, then cut herself off, regrouped, and said, “I thought maybe he’d just… forget. Or want to. It’s been so long. I keep thinking I should be glad he even remembers, but part of me is angry that he never let it go.” The last words came out more raw than she meant, and both sets of hands curled into fists on her knees.

“Why does it make you angry?” Marissa asked, her voice even softer now.

Laura looked up, twin sets of blue eyes bright and wet but unflinching. “Because I’m not worth it,” she said. Then, almost immediately, “Because I was a mess. Because that’s not how it’s supposed to work. People are supposed to move on. Not break themselves for a ghost.” She laughed, bitter, both mouths twisting in sync.

“You’re not a ghost,” Marissa said, but she didn’t **** it. Instead, she shifted in place, closing the notebook and folding her hands in her lap. “And you don’t have to be grateful for every bit of affection that comes your way. You get to be angry. And sad. And everything else. That’s real. You’re real.”

As she spoke, Marissa shifted closer without quite noticing—an absent, instinctive adjustment, her body angling toward the closest of Laura’s selves. One arm came around Laura’s back, light at first, then firmer, settling between her shoulders as if it had always belonged there. She pulled Laura’s body to her, breasts squished against the black-haired girl’s upper arm.

Laura startled—both bodies stiffening for a fraction of a second—but then something in her posture softened. Her breath, which had been sharp and uneven, slowed. She didn’t pull away. Instead, her hugged self leaned into the contact; the other followed, a beat later, sharing the same feelings thanks to Shared Overflow.

Marissa noticed the other self’s movement, realization landing a beat too late. “Oh,” she said. “I’m—sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Laura snorted, but it came out shaky, half a laugh. “Is that… part of the Hotel?” she asked. “Or just you?”

Marissa blinked, finally registering where her arm was. She didn’t remove it. “Comfort Cuddling,” she said. “Or—well. Sort of me. I don’t always notice when it happens.”

Laura tilted her head slightly, testing the closeness, then let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “It’s… weird,” she said. “But it helps.”

“Yeah,” Marissa said quietly. “That’s the problem.” She started to pull back. “I’m sorry.”

Laura’s hands lifted, hesitated, then one body caught Marissa’s sleeve while the other nodded, quick and embarrassed. “No. It’s okay. Just—warn me next time?”

Marissa let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “I’ll do what I can.” She adjusted, easing the contact into something less enveloping but still present, conscious now of every inch of space. “I meant what I said, however. Before the, uh, cuddling.”

That made Laura snort, but it was closer to a real laugh this time. “You sound like the school counselor.”

Marissa grinned. “She must have been a genius.”

Laura managed a smile, then let it fade. “What do I do now?” she asked, not to anyone in particular.

“Anything you want,” Marissa said. “That’s the point of the HH, as far as I can tell. There are rules, and there are games, but the only thing that matters is what you want to do with your time.” She watched as Laura digested this, both bodies drawing in, then slowly unwinding as if the air had finally warmed.

“You really believe that?” Laura asked.

Marissa nodded. “I do. It’s why most of us haven’t killed each other by now.” She let the joke land, then added, “You’re not in competition with anyone here, unless you want to be. You can just… be.”

Laura stared at her, as if searching for some trick in the words, then finally let herself accept them. She shifted on the bench, both bodies turning to face Marissa, and said, “That’s going to take getting used to.”

“I know,” Marissa replied. “But you have already friends here. Riley, Emi. That’s more than most of us had, when we arrived.”

For a while, they sat like that, the thick silence between them no longer oppressive but companionable. Laura’s fingers danced on the keys, no real song but a wandering melody that sounded, to Marissa, like someone learning to breathe again.

They played for an hour, maybe more. Sometimes Marissa would sing a bit under her breath, sometimes Laura would try a different chord or drop a snatch of a memory-song into the mix. There was no agenda, no endpoint, just the slow accretion of comfort through repetition and presence.

When Laura seemed truly at ease, Marissa said, “Want to hear what the others are up to? It’s pretty different from how it was when we first got here.”

Laura shrugged, then nodded, both bodies leaning in as if she expected gossip but got something sweeter.

“Well,” Marissa began, counting off on her fingers, “Chloe has taken over a hidden spot in the Inner Gardens. She and Dawn set up a little nursery with every herb and edible flower they could find, and Chloe treats it like a cross between a science project and daycare.”

“Chloe,” Laura repeated, as if tasting the name. “It’s so strange to see her here, like this.”

“She’s shy, but stubborn,” Marissa said. “She makes a kind of weird peace with everything, even the stuff that should upset her.” She paused. “She also makes the best lemon bars I’ve ever tasted. If you have a problem, she’ll show up with baked goods and a five-minute summary of every way you’re going to be okay.”

Laura smiled at that, then asked, “What about Dawn?”

Marissa’s eyes softened. “She does a lot of the cooking now. I think Mildred has been evicted from the kitchen, for the most part. Dawn’s quiet, but she’s sweet, kind, and she’s the best listener on the island. People come to her when they don’t want to be fixed, just fed. She’s a little lost sometimes, but she never lets it show.”

Laura nodded, processing. “And Sam?”

Marissa laughed, a low, genuine sound. “Sam is Sam. She’s got everyone on a rotating schedule of hikes, Pathfinder games, and scavenger hunts. She still thinks she can outsmart the hotel, so she’s mapping every inch of the place. She and Liesa are partners in crime—literally. I’m pretty sure they smuggled a bottle of tequila into the contestant bedrooms last week.”

Laura let that land, then, “What about Erin?” The way she said the name was careful, loaded.

Marissa’s expression shifted, a shadow flickering behind her eyes. “Erin is… tough. She pretends she doesn’t care, but she cares more than anyone. After your return, she started working in the Gardens.” Marissa studied Laura, then said, “I think she’s scared of hurting you, or being hurt by you. She’s been through more than most of us.”

Laura let out a long breath, both bodies relaxing at the same moment. They drifted into silence again, but this time it was the warm, post-laughter kind. The room was still, but Marissa could feel the pulse of possibility in it—like the pause between the last note and the encore.

After a while, Laura said, “How long have you all been here?”

Marissa considered. “For most of us, it’s been a little more than two months, I think. Some days it feels like a year, others like a week.”

Laura looked at her, searching for something in the lines of her face. “Is it getting easier?”

Marissa thought about it, then shrugged. “It didn’t, for a long time. Each round, a new Contestant would join. Chloe, then Riley, then Myra.” She knew Laura would catch the subtext. Then you. “Each arrival reconfigured the equilibriums of the group. Sometimes softly, like in Chloe’s case; sometimes explosively, like in Riley’s. And there was always the threat of elimination after each Challenge. Now… Now we have a chance, a real one. No more Contestants, no more eliminations until the end.”

Laura laughed, and the sound was different this time—less brittle, more alive. “Do you miss anyone? From before?”

The question caught Marissa by surprise, and she let herself sit with it. “I miss my sister,” she said at last. “She’s the only family I have left. I keep wondering if she’d even recognize me, if I ever go back.”

“You will,” Laura said, both voices so sure it startled Marissa. “You’re not the kind of person who disappears.”

For the first time in ages, Marissa felt herself blush. She ducked her head, not quite hiding her smile. “Thanks,” she said. “That means more than you know.”

They played one more round at the piano, this time a simple duet—nothing fancy, just the comfort of two people (three bodies) moving through the same song at the same time. Marissa let Laura set the pace, following the changes, adapting to the rhythms, not pushing but not holding back. There were mistakes, but they sounded intentional, like the kind of jazz that was more about the spaces than the notes.

After a while, Laura stood—both bodies moving as one—and said, “I’m going to go for a walk. Try to get used to being… like this.” She didn’t sound ashamed. Just resigned, but with a hint of curiosity underneath.

“Can I join you?” Marissa asked, not because she felt obligated, but because she wanted to.

Laura smiled. “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

Erin worked in the garden through lunch, and when the others trickled by the kitchen window she barely noticed the motion inside. She was up to her elbows in new black dirt, half-reclined on a foam kneeler, carving out shallow trenches for a bed of basil seedlings. She hadn’t planned to spend so much of her day here, but the sun felt too good to ignore and, with her transformation, every ray seemed to land directly in her bloodstream.

She paused, pushing a handful of hair out of her eyes, and surveyed her progress. The dew on her back dried almost instantly in the bright heat, leaving her skin mint-green and dappled with dark splotches of soil. It was impossible not to notice the difference: photosynthesizing made her feel almost high, a low-level hum of energy that left her lightheaded and weirdly aroused. Erin had to admit, as transformations went, it was hard to complain.

It had been nearly two hours since she started, and she realized her shoes were caked with mud. That was the only thing she ever wore anymore. After the second round, Arabella’s little “wardrobe malfunction” meant clothing was a nonstarter, and the best she could manage was a pair of hiking shoes for working outside. The breeze tickled her everywhere, but after the first week, she had stopped noticing, and at least she didn’t really feel the cold or the heat.

She straightened, brushed her palms together, and noticed someone watching from the garden gate. It was Dawn, half-shadowed under the arch, a wicker basket slung on her forearm and her long ears tipped back with interest. Erin waved, and Dawn stepped forward.

“Hey, Green Thumb,” Dawn said, grinning. “You going for employee of the month, or just hiding out?”

Erin snorted. “Can’t hide from you, Dawnie.”

Dawn wiggled her nose. “I brought you something. Chloe made too many cuttings again.” She offered the basket, filled with tiny herb pots and trailing bits of rosemary, thyme, and what looked like a bundle of chamomile flowers already in bloom.

Erin accepted it, running her fingers over the leaves. “Smells amazing,” she said. “Thanks.”

Dawn crouched beside her, dress pooling around her legs, the cottontail at her lower back wriggling with each motion. “You know, you could start a stand. Sell bouquets by the elevator, charge people for the fresh stuff.”

“Not a bad idea.” Erin eyed the basket, already picturing where to tuck the new arrivals. “You’d be my first customer.”

Dawn smiled, and for a second, neither spoke. Then Dawn asked, “Are you going to do the challenge? Arabella’s thing, I mean.”

Erin shrugged, a motion more philosophical than evasive. “I don’t know. I keep saying I’m not going to, but...”

Dawn’s expression was equal parts surprise and understanding. “You don’t have to,” she said. “Nobody’s making you.”

“I know.” Erin dug her heel into the dirt, staring at the line of green where the basil would grow. “But it’s weird. Last night, I thought I’d finally figured things out. And then—”

Dawn finished for her. “Laura came back.”

Erin nodded, jaw set. “Yeah.” She flicked a pebble from under her knee, watched it roll. “It’s not that I don’t want her here. I just… I don’t know what I’m supposed to be now.” She gestured at herself—at her body, her bare skin, the way every part of her seemed greener and softer in the sunlight. “I already feel like a different person. Now it’s like I’m not even a character in my own story anymore.”

Dawn put a hand on her arm, soft and warm. “That’s not true,” she said, earnest as always. “You’re still you. Even if you’re growing extra leaves.”

Erin laughed, but the sound was brittle. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just the next version. Like when you overwrite your old save file and hope this one doesn’t get corrupted, too.”

Dawn tilted her head, ears drooping in a way that managed to be both tragic and adorable. “You can always go back, you know. Or not. It’s your call.”

Erin shook her head. “Going back isn’t an option. You know that as well as I do.” She lifted a handful of soil and let it run through her fingers, enjoying the earthy grit, the sense of control over something—even if it was just dirt.

They were silent for a bit, listening to the hum of insects and the faint gurgle of the garden’s little fountain. Dawn seemed content to just sit, but eventually she said, “You never answered my question. Are you okay?”

Erin looked up, the words catching in her throat. “Not really. But I’m not worse, either. I just have to get used to the new normal.”

Dawn nodded, accepting this. “If you need anything, I’m always around. I mean it.”

“Thanks,” Erin said. “I appreciate it.”

Dawn blushed—actual color in her cheeks—and looked away. “Chloe says it’s my superpower. ‘Making people feel better even when you don’t know how to fix them.’” She snorted, but her eyes were kind.

Erin decided to change the subject. “What about you? Planning to do the challenge?”

Dawn shrugged. “Probably.”

Erin smirked. “If you do, you’ll win. No question.”

Dawn gave her a skeptical look. “Have you seen the competition?”

“Yeah,” Erin said. “But you’re the only one who makes people feel fed even when you don’t cook.”

Dawn laughed. “That’s very specific.”

She stood, brushing dirt from the back of her legs. “I should get this to the kitchen before the heat kills it.” She lifted the basket, then paused, looking at the neat row of basil Erin had just planted. “You did a good job. I bet by tomorrow, you’ll see new leaves.”

Erin nodded, but something about the way Dawn said it stuck with her. “Thanks for coming by,” she said, almost shy.

“Anytime,” Dawn replied, and turned to go.

As she left, Erin went back to her work, kneeling by the little trench and patting the seedlings into place. She let out a long breath and, without really thinking about it, began to hum—low and steady, the kind of wordless tune she used to fall asleep to when her thoughts got too loud. She kept her hands moving as she hummed, smoothing soil, pressing roots in place, the rhythm giving her something solid to hold onto.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sun soak into her skin, the hum of photosynthesis and breath and melody lining up into something calm.

When she opened them, she noticed something odd.

The line of basil she’d just finished had put up new buds—dozens of tiny, bright green shoots where before there had only been leaves. As she reached for the next plant, the whole patch seemed to surge upward, all at once, the buds swelling and then blooming with almost visible speed.

Behind it, the older bushes of dog rose trembled.

Erin stopped humming.

The roses burst into color—pink and white and shades between—turning toward her, heavy with sudden bloom. Erin jerked her hand back, heart lurching.

From the gate, Dawn had stopped, half-turned. “Erin,” she called. “Did you—did you see that? Did you do that?”

“Yeah, I saw,” Erin said, breath unsteady. “I didn’t—” She shook her head. “I didn’t do anything.”

Dawn stared at the flowers, then at Erin. Her ears twitched, uncertainty plain. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Because that was not normal.”

Erin swallowed. “No. Not even for me.”

There was a beat. Then Dawn’s mouth curved, tentative but bright. “Still,” she said. “Kind of amazing.”

Erin huffed a laugh, half disbelief. “Don’t start.”

But she bent, picked a few of the new blossoms, and twisted them together into a quick, uneven garland. She jogged to the gate and placed it on Dawn’s head, right between her ears. “For luck,” Erin said, a little embarrassed.

Dawn touched it like it might vanish. “I’m keeping this forever.” They laughed—real laughter, startled and a little breathless. Dawn waved and left, the crown bobbing as she went.

Erin watched her disappear, then turned back to the garden. The sun was hotter now, the air thick and sweet with crushed leaves and new flowers. She looked at the basil again, then at her hands, flexing them slowly. “Okay,” she muttered. “That’s… new.”

She knelt back down, pressed her palms into the soil, and went back to work—careful this time not to hum, but unable to stop smiling just a little as she did.

Sam, Riley, and Myra had commandeered the west terrace table, which—depending on who was reporting—was either a display of girlboss energy, a freakshow for the midday staff, or the last refuge of nerds at the end of the world.

The late-lunch sun glared on their mess of books, dice, and torn notebook pages. Sam had gone full Dungeon Master: Pathfinder handbooks stacked to her right, a scuffed, overstuffed binder to her left, a tray of dice the color of radioactive fruit at dead center. She sat with her feet up on a deck chair, glasses on, the tip of a highlighter bristling between her teeth. To her left, Riley hunched over a battered character sheet, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth as she tallied numbers and shaded the boxes with a mechanical pencil.

To Sam’s right, Myra ran a finger along the edge of the table, counting the indentations as if they might spell out a secret code. She was nervous, but hiding it—her tail was wrapped tight around the chair leg, the way someone might wrap their ankle around a desk to keep from drifting into space. Her cane rested against the table leg within easy reach, not leaned away like an afterthought; every time the terrace wind shifted, her free hand found it for half a second, then let go again.

A few feet away, Dawn and Chloe chatted over iced tea at the next table, their laughter and small talk drifting over every time the breeze shifted. The world here was lazy and slow, a Sunday in the shape of a weekday, the only urgency belonging to the women at the Pathfinder table.

“Okay,” Sam announced, “stat rolls for everybody. Remember: you roll four dice, drop the lowest, and that’s one stat. Rinse and repeat six times. I am enforcing honest rolls here—Riley, don’t think I don’t know about your reroll loopholes.”

Riley snorted. “If you wanted honest, you’d have banned bards.”

“My table, my rules,” Sam replied. “Bards are the soul of every campaign, you just can’t handle nuance.”

Myra, still tracing the table’s pattern, asked, “What am I supposed to do if I can’t see the dice? Or the sheet?”

Sam had anticipated this. “You’ll roll and I’ll tell you. And for the sheet, I can fill it out or guide your hand to the boxes if you want. Up to you.”

Myra hesitated, then said, “I want to try it myself first.”

Sam beamed at her. “Hell yeah, you do.” She snapped a blank sheet down in front of Myra, then slid a mechanical pencil into her palm. “I’ll call out the lines. You just do your best. We’ll clean it up after.”

Riley shook her head in mock despair. “Teaching the fox to minmax. This is what I get for volunteering for social hour.”

Myra rolled her eyes—at least, the blind version of rolling her eyes, which involved a dramatic tilt of the head and a flutter of lashes. She picked up her dice with both hands, as if trying to feel their structure. “Can I start?”

“Go for it, ace,” Sam said, already opening her mouth to tease Riley, but Myra had already rolled. The four dice clattered, and Sam said, “Six, five, five, four,” picking the lowest die and moving it away.

Riley whistled. “Showoff.”

“Total’s sixteen,” Sam said. “Write it down in the top left box, right there.” She reached over and tapped Myra’s finger against the box. Myra wrote, her numbers small and perfect, the pencil dancing in her hand like she’d been filling out forms unseeing since birth. She paused once to re-find the edge of the paper with her nail, then kept going without asking for rescue.

Riley was next. Her dice hit the table with a whap, and she scanned the result, face falling as she added. “Two, three, two, one. Wow. That’s garbage.”

“Seven,” Sam said. “Try again.”

Riley’s tail twitched. “You sure you’re not weighting these?”

Sam shrugged, smiling. “Maybe I just believe in narrative symmetry.”

They went around the table, Riley growing more and more incredulous with every roll (“This is statistically impossible,” “Someone test these dice for hexes,” “Is this the dice tray of Dorian Gray?”), Myra focused and methodical, never once showing off, just rolling and having Sam call out the numbers.

By round four, Riley’s luck was so legendarily bad that even Dawn had migrated over to spectate. Chloe hovered at the edge, mug in hand, her curiosity drawn by the ping-pong of curses and gloating.

“Myra, what do you have so far?” Sam asked, voice gentle. She was keeping an eye on Myra’s tension—the tightness in her jaw, the way her hands hovered when she had to make a choice.

Myra thought about it, frowning. “Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, eighteen, eighteen, fourteen.” She recited them with the faintest smile, just barely turning the edge of her mouth.

Riley slammed her hands on the table. “That’s not even—no one has two eighteens and nothing below a fourteen. What even is this?”

Sam grinned. “It’s called natural selection, Riles. Myra’s got the spirit.” She turned to Myra. “Want me to fill them in for you?”

“Thank you,” Myra said, “Can you just guide me where to write them?” Sam helped her, and she slid her finger down the sheet, paused, and wrote the numbers in, as if the lines were raised. Sam watched, impressed. Myra’s hands only hesitated when she had to move to the next box, but after Sam helped her, she did it.

Riley glowered at her own sheet, which read something like 8, 11, 9, 5, 7, 10. “Fuck,” she grumbled, “there goes character twenty-one.”

Sam reached over and patted Riley’s arm. “If you want, you can reroll one last time. But after that, it’s final. You have to play the stats you get.”

Riley eyed the dice, suspicion written across her face. “Fine. One more. But if this is another curse roll, I’m switching to Warhammer and painting a mural of your failures.”

She rolled. The dice came up: “Six, six, four, three.”

Sam did the math. “Sixteen. That’s better.”

Riley nodded, grudging. “Okay, keep going.”

They finished up, Riley ending up with one decent stat but nothing close to Myra’s spread. As she filled out the sheet, she grumbled, “I’ve made like, twenty-two characters today. There’s got to be a law against this.”

Sam asked, “Did you ever have more than a combined +4?” She flicked her highlighter at Riley’s sheet like it was a wand. “Like—two or three stats above 11, and the rest not actively cursed?”

“No,” Riley admitted. “I had a character with one 18, but she also had three fives and one four. So, no.”

Sam cackled, then held up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Final pass: Myra, do you want to assign your numbers?”

Myra thought about it, tail twitching. “Can I assign them?”

“Absolutely,” Sam said. “That’s the fun part. You get to build whatever you want.”

Riley shook her head, muttering, “Some people have all the luck. Okay, what are you making?”

Myra lifted her eyes up, eyes bright and fixed somewhere in the distance. “I think I want…” She tapped the pencil against the paper, listening to the tiny click like it could help her decide. “Something that doesn’t rely on seeing an enemy across a field.” She paused, then added with a faintly defiant tilt of her chin, “Something that can still be useful if everything goes wrong.”

Sam’s expression went intent—interested, not pitying. “So. Support? Control? Healing? Or do you want an animal buddy and the right to be dramatic about it?”

Riley, without looking up, said, “If she takes an animal companion at level one, she needs to remember it takes actions to command it. One action each round. Don’t build around it if you won’t use it.”

Sam blinked at her. “Since when do you know action economy?”

Riley’s pencil didn’t pause. “Since always. I just didn’t feel like bonding with you people during Round Three.”

Myra’s mouth twitched. “I want the animal buddy,” she said simply. “And maybe… plants. Or nature. Something that makes the world listen back.”

Sam nodded, already flipping pages. “Okay, that’s either Ranger-with-companion or Druid-with-companion. Druid’s easier for ‘plants listen back,’ and it’s very beginner-friendly.” She pointed the highlighter at Myra like it was a microphone. “Druid it is?”

Myra grinned, a little self-deprecating. “Druid,” she agreed. “If I’m going to be stuck on a magical island, I might as well commit.”

Sam’s expression warmed. “You’d be great at that.” She nodded, then turned to Riley. “And you, O Mistress of Suffering?”

Riley arched a brow, lips quirking. “I’m building a rogue, obviously. Preferably one who can hide decently, since I can’t seem to roll above a twelve.” She jabbed her pencil at the sheet with the aggression of someone who had read the book and been personally betrayed by probability. “Also, I’m taking the skill package that lets me do everything, because if the dice hate me, I’m at least going to be competent on paper.”

Sam opened her mouth, then closed it again, caught between pride and irritation. “I hate that you’re right. Names?” Sam asked, readying her highlighter to immortalize the choices.

Myra hesitated, then said, “Saelis.” She spelled it out, careful with each letter.

Riley didn’t miss a beat. “Ix,” she said. “Short for something unpronounceable. Female, but ugly as an ox. Goes by ‘hey you, stop stealing my gold.’”

Sam wrote them in, the names bright on the top of each sheet.

The rest of the character-building went like that: Riley attempting to sandbag the dice with low expectations (“Here we go, Snake Eyes,” she’d mutter, then roll exactly that), Sam dispensing DM wisdom and pep talks in equal measure, and Myra quietly beating the table average with each roll, until Riley started accusing her of cheating by “willpower alone.” Myra took it in stride, careful never to gloat, just smiling each time Sam read out a new stat and helping herself to the cold ginger ale Chloe kept refilling at their elbow.

It took nearly forty-five minutes to get the characters set, not because anyone was slow, but because every time Riley rolled a new minimum, she would pause the game to narrate a scene of her character failing upward—“One time, Ix attempted to scale the parapet, promptly faceplanted into a torch sconce, set her sleeve on fire, and only escaped by slapping herself repeatedly while swearing in four languages.” Sam would threaten to deduct XP for “excessive snark,” which only emboldened Riley further.

Myra’s approach was more deliberate. She asked questions—“What’s the difference between Wisdom and Intelligence?” “If I want to shoot a bow, do I need Dexterity or Strength?”—and Sam answered each one with patience, providing explanations on how combat worked, or what stats were best for the character she wanted to make. Occasionally, Myra would go silent, chewing on the tip of her pencil, then make a wild guess and ask if it made sense. Sam encouraged her, gently guiding her towards the correct way of doing things if she strayed too far. While Myra had never played before, she was a quick study.

“Okay,” Sam said at one point, tapping the sheet. “In this system, you don’t spend ‘skill points’ the old way. You pick trained skills—your class gives you some, your background gives you some, and then you’ll get increases as you level. We’ll handle it together.” She angled the paper toward Myra and guided her finger. “You tell me what you want Saelis to be good at, and we’ll make the sheet match.”

At some point, Dawn migrated over, her curiosity impossible to contain. She watched from the edge, ears perked, occasionally tossing a comment over the game wall—“Don’t let Riley cheat, Sam!” or “You know, Myra, you could build a healer instead, if you like helping people.” Chloe hovered in the periphery, collecting used glasses and drifting through with trays of cookies, but she stayed out of the main action.

Eventually, Sam announced, “Okay, Myra, time to pick your feats and skills.” She picked up a thick laminated chart, heavy with post-it tabs, and said, “I’ll give you some ideas, no need to read you the whole table. Just tell me what sounds cool, and I’ll build the rest in.” She rattled off some classics for the uninitiated: “There’s an Animal Companion option, which means you can have an animal partner you command in combat—takes one of your actions to direct it.” She flicked her highlighter again. “Or you can focus on plant-y spell stuff and battlefield control. Or healing, if you want to be everyone’s favorite.”

Myra considered, tail curling and uncurling, then tapped the chart. “The animal one. I want that one.”

Riley grinned, setting down her pencil. “See, that’s the difference between the newbies and the pros. I always take the feats that guarantee maximum disaster, then milk the aftermath for pity points.”

“Explains so much,” Sam said, but it was affectionate.

They worked through the rest—filling in background stories, arguing about vibes and principles (Sam called it ‘alignment,’ Riley called it ‘a scam,’ and then Sam muttered something about the remaster and stopped herself mid-rant). They debated what animal companion would best suit Myra’s new character (Sam talked her out of a fox, citing “self-insert cliché,” so Myra picked a wolf instead). Riley’s rogue, “Ix,” was built to be so catastrophically bad at social skills that she would be “chased out of civilization the moment she opened her mouth.” Sam just shook her head and wrote “Team player, but make it tragic” in the margin of her notes, next to Riley’s name.

It was only when Myra signed her name to the bottom of the sheet (her real signature, not the character’s) that she realized she’d enjoyed herself. The sharpness in her chest had faded. She was still nervous, still unsure how she’d manage the actual campaign without being able to read or see the board, but something about the repetition—roll, write, listen, ask—had made her feel more centered than she had in a long time. She slid her fingertips along the bottom edge of the paper once more, as if memorizing where “done” lived.

Sam sensed the shift. “Ready for the adventure, Saelis?” she asked.

Myra smiled, small but real. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Riley leaned back, crossing her arms behind her head, and said, “I give you two sessions before you’re ruthlessly addicted and start quoting rulebooks in your sleep.”

Myra, deadpan: “I wouldn’t bet against you.”

The game wasn’t scheduled to start until a few days later, but the four of them lingered, going over character quirks, sharing stories from previous campaigns, and—at Sam’s gentle prodding—making lists of things they’d want to do if they were actually adventurers, not just pretending for points.

When the table finally broke up, Riley and Sam walked together down the terrace steps, talking shop—what the previous adventures had looked like, party composition, about haunted underwear (“Don’t ask,” Sam advised sagely) and what happened to the Orchard of Willowmere (“Won’t be a problem anymore,” Sam quipped, “ever again.”). Sam was mildly surprised to find Riley was such an avid player, just as much as Riley was surprised that Sam was an even bigger nerd. Myra followed behind, her cane gliding just above the stone, tail trailing like a banner.

She paused at the top of the stairs, took a breath, and let herself smile. Even the wind felt good, all at once. She liked the way that felt.