2. Grath #2
"They're dead now." My voice comes out flat. Matter-of-fact. Because they are. Crushed under broken ceramic and trampled by my own stupid feet, petals scattered across her floor like evidence of how badly I miscalculate simple things.
"Yeah." She brushes a strand of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear with fingers that still smell faintly of dish soap and lavender. Her eyes meet mine, steady and assessing. "You're a disaster."
"I know." And I do. Have known it for years. But hearing her say it doesn't sting the way it should. There's no cruelty in her tone, no judgment. Just observation, tired and almost fond.
She huffs a laugh. It's small but real, and the tightness in my body eases.
"Help me finish this," she says, standing. "Then we'll talk about repayment."
I nod and follow her to the supply closet.
She hands me a broom. I take it, careful not to brush her fingers this time, and start sweeping while she fetches a dustpan.
The café slowly returns to normal. Conversations resume. Someone orders a latte. Nora emerges from the back room with a tray of pastries and shoots me a grin that I don't know how to interpret.
Maris works beside me, quiet and focused.
When the floor's clear, she dumps the dustpan into the trash and turns to face me.
"You're buying me new plates," she says, her voice firm and practical, the kind of tone that doesn't leave room for negotiation. She's still holding the dustpan, balanced against her hip like a weapon she's considering whether or not to use.
"Okay." The word comes out immediately, without hesitation. I would buy her a hundred plates if she asked. A thousand. Whatever she needs.
"And you're going to stop trying to help unless I ask." Her gaze is level, unflinching. "No more swooping in like some kind of—" She waves her free hand vaguely, searching for the word. "—well-meaning avalanche."
"Okay." I nod, meaning it. Even though the idea of standing back while she struggles makes my jaw clench, makes my hands want to reach for things to fix or lift or protect. But I'll learn. For her, I'll learn.
"And no more surprise flower deliveries during rush hour." She says it like she's laying down law, her tone edged with exhaustion and something else I can't quite name.
I hesitate, turning the words over in my head, looking for the loophole I need. "What about not-rush hour?"
Her eyes narrow, sharp and assessing, but I see it—the tiny shift at the corner of her mouth. The ghost of amusement she's trying to hide. "We'll see."
It's not a yes.
It's not a no either.
I'll take it. I'll take whatever small opening she gives me and hold it carefully, like the smooth stones in my cigar tin, like proof that something good might still be possible.
She hands me a clean rag, slightly damp and smelling of lemon cleaner. "Make yourself useful. Wipe down the tables."
I do.
She watches me for a moment, arms crossed, then shakes her head and returns to the counter.
I catch her glancing at me twice while I work.
Both times, she's almost smiling.
Rows of folding chairs squeak under people shifting, waiting. I take a seat near the back, shoulders hunched to fit under the low ceiling. The chair groans under my weight.
Maris sits three rows ahead with Nora. Her hair's in a neat bun today, no flour, no coffee stains. She's wearing a blue sweater that makes her look smaller than usual. Professional. Like she's trying to blend in.
I want to move closer but the room's packed. Standing room only along the walls. Half the town showed up.
The mayor taps the microphone. Feedback screeches and everyone winces.
"Thank you for coming," he says, too loud, then adjusts the volume. "We have an important proposal tonight. Mr. Vance from Harborside Development will present plans for the waterfront district."
A man in a suit stands. Slick hair. Expensive shoes. Smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He sets up a projector and the lights dim.
"Good evening." His voice is smooth. Practiced. "I'm here to discuss an exciting opportunity for your community."
The first slide shows drawings. Sleek buildings. Glass fronts. Boutique hotels where the rowhouses stand now.
My rowhouse.
"The waterfront has incredible potential," Vance continues, clicking to the next slide. "But the current infrastructure is outdated. Crumbling, really. We propose a full renovation. New construction. Modern amenities."
Someone in front raises a hand. "What happens to the people living there now?"
"Excellent question." Vance's smile widens. "We'll offer fair market value for all properties. Well above current rates, I assure you. Residents will have ample time to relocate."
Relocate.
The word sits heavy in my gut.
I glance at Maris. She's leaning forward, fingers gripped tight on the chair in front of her.
"How much time?" another voice calls out.
"Sixty days from contract signing." Vance clicks to a timeline slide. "We believe that's more than reasonable."
Sixty days.
Two months to find somewhere else. Somewhere that'll rent to an orc. Somewhere I can afford that's not back in the gutter districts where handlers prowl looking for fresh meat.
My hands curl into fists on my knees.
"What about businesses?" Maris's voice cuts through the murmur. Clear and steady. "The café. The bookstore. The tailor shop."
Vance turns toward her, still smiling. "Those would be relocated as well. We're happy to discuss options."
"Options meaning you buy us out and we disappear." She stands, and heads turn. "You're not talking about renovation. You're talking about erasing the neighborhood."
"I understand change can be difficult," Vance says, his tone sliding into patronizing. "But progress requires sacrifice. The town will benefit enormously from increased tourism revenue."
"Revenue that goes where?" Maris crosses her arms. "To you. Not to the people who've built their lives here."
"Ms. Smith, I appreciate your passion, but—"
"You're kicking out families." Her voice rises. "Seniors on fixed incomes. Small business owners who can't afford waterfront rent anywhere else."
The room erupts. People shouting agreement, others calling for order. The mayor bangs his gavel.
I stand.
The movement draws eyes. Silence ripples outward.
"I have tenancy," I say. The words come out rougher, too loud in the sudden quiet.
Vance turns. His smile falters when he sees me. I watch him calculate. Orc. Big. Potentially difficult.
"Legally," I continue, forcing the words into something resembling calm, "you can't evict without cause. I own this unit. I follow rules."
"We're not evicting anyone," Vance recovers smoothly. "We're purchasing properties. Your landlord is free to sell."
"Did he agree?"
"Negotiations are ongoing."
Which means no. Not yet.
"Then I'm not leaving." I cross my arms. The shirt pulls tight across my shoulders. "Not until he makes me."
Vance's jaw tightens. The smile stays fixed but his eyes go cold. "Mr—"
"Olden. Grath Olden."
"Mr. Olden, I'm sure we can reach an arrangement that satisfies everyone."
"I doubt that."
Murmurs spread. Someone behind me whispers approval. Phones come out, cameras pointing.
Maris glances back. Our eyes meet. Hers are wide, startled, but there's something else there. Pride, maybe. Or shock that I spoke up.
I hold her gaze until she looks away first.
"This is a community forum," the mayor interjects, banging the gavel again. "Everyone will have a chance to speak. Mr. Vance, please continue your presentation."
Vance does, but his voice has lost its smoothness. The slides click past faster. Numbers blur together. No one's really listening anymore.
When it ends, the mayor calls for questions. Hands shoot up. The meeting dissolves into chaos. Arguments. People crowding the front.
I push toward the exit before I say something worse.
Outside, the night air is cool. Salt-edged. I breathe deep and try to unclench my fists.
Footsteps behind me. Light. Quick.
"That was stupid." Maris's voice.
I turn. She's standing on the steps, arms wrapped around herself against the chill.
"Probably."
"Definitely." She descends until she's level with me. Still has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. "You just painted a target on yourself."
"Good."
"Good?" She stares. "Grath, these people don't play fair. You think Vance is going to just accept that you said no?"
"Don't care what he accepts."
She makes a frustrated noise. "You should. He's got money. Connections. He'll find a way to make your life hell until you leave."
"Let him try."
"You're impossible." But there's no real heat in it. She shakes her head, exhales slow. "Why did you do that?"
The answer's simple. "It's my home."
Something shifts in her expression. Softens. She looks away, down the street toward the café. "Yeah. Mine too."
We stand in silence. People trickle out of the hall, conversations loud and agitated. Someone claps me on the shoulder as they pass. An older woman nods approval.
Maris shivers. I shrug off my jacket without thinking and drape it over her shoulders.
She startles. Looks up at me. "I'm fine."
"You're cold."
"I—" She stops. Pulls the jacket tighter instead of arguing. It swallows her. The sleeves hang past her hands.
I want to touch her. Smooth the crease between her brows. Pull her close until she stops shivering.
Instead I shove my hands deep in my pockets, curl my fingers into fists where she can't see.
"Come on," she says finally, her voice softer than before. "I'll walk you back."
"Don't need walking."
"I know." She's already moving, falling into step beside me. "I'm doing it anyway."
We head down the street together. Our footsteps echo off the pavement, hers quick and light, mine heavy. She doesn't give back the jacket. Keeps it pulled tight around her shoulders like armor. The sleeves still hang past her fingertips.
The walk's quiet. No one else is out. Just us and the streetlamps casting long shadows across the sidewalk.