Two customers in the last hour. Two. One was an old man who ordered a single pizza, ate it standing at the counter, and left. The other was a woman who came in, looked at the menu for five minutes, and ordered a cup of water before leaving without drinking it.
I don't know what that was about. Maybe she was casing the place. Maybe she was thirsty and changed her mind. Maybe she just wanted to stand somewhere warm for a minute. I didn't ask, and she didn't offer, and that was the kind of transaction this evening seemed to specialize in.
Either way, slow night. I checked the system interface. Orders served: 14. Total for the day was fine — lunch had been busy — but the evening had died like a candle in a closed room.
"Slow," I said.
Al was already putting lids on the prep containers. "Dead."
"Dead's a strong word."
"Three hours. Two customers. Dead."
I couldn't argue. The dough I'd prepped in the morning sat in its bowl, rising slowly, unaware that it was about to have a very quiet evening. I glanced at Al. He glanced at me. We both knew what was coming.
---
I closed early. Not dramatically — I didn't flip a sign or turn off the lights mid-service. I just... stopped. Cleaned the remaining prep. Wiped the counters. Locked the front door at the hour when the dinner crowd usually started trickling in.
The street was quiet too. A few people walking home. A dog sniffing a lamppost. The usual evening sounds of a town winding down.
I poured two glasses of wine from a bottle I'd bought three days ago. Local stuff, made from grapes I didn't recognize, aged in barrels I couldn't identify. It wasn't good. It was slightly sharp, a little thin, with a finish that tasted vaguely of grass. But it was wine.
I set one glass in front of Al. He looked at it. Looked at me. Picked it up.
We sat at the corner table, the one the grey-cloaked woman had used. Al in her seat. Me in mine. The wine was growing on me. Or I was growing numb. Hard to tell.
Al held his glass by the stem, which surprised me — I'd expected him to wrap his fist around it like a beer stein. But he held it like someone who knew what he was doing.
"You know," I said, "I've never asked what you did before this."
He took a sip. "Nothing interesting."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the answer I'm giving."
I let that sit. Nodded. Drank.
---
"I heard the baker's cat had kittens," I said.
Al sipped his wine. "Had them three weeks ago."
"Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"You didn't ask."
I let that sit. "How many?"
"Four. One didn't make it."
"Oh."
He nodded. Drank. Set the glass down. We sat in silence for a while. The wine was growing on me. Or I was getting used to it. Hard to tell.
"I think the neighbors are having an affair," I said.
Al raised an eyebrow. "The ones above the tailor's shop."
"I've seen them sneaking looks at each other. They're not married to each other."
He considered this. "Could just be friends."
"Friends don't look at each other like that."
"You'd be surprised."
I didn't have a response to that. We sat some more. The wine level dropped. I watched a moth orbit the nearest lamp, drawn to something it could never reach. The pizzeria creaked around us, settling into the evening the way it always did.
"The cat that didn't make it," I said. "Did it have a name?"
Al was quiet. Then: "Didn't name it. Didn't seem right."
I nodded. Understood.
---
The bottle emptied. The street got darker. A wick-keeper passed by, his long pole tipped with a flame, reaching up to light each lantern in turn. The cobblestones clicked under his footsteps as he left pools of orange light behind him.
I realized I hadn't thought about Earth all day. Not once. No memories of my apartment. No wondering if anyone had noticed I was gone. No comparing the architecture to something I'd seen in a history documentary. Just... the pizzeria. The dough. The sauce. Al's silence. Velysara's gold coin in my pocket.
I rolled the coin between my fingers under the table. This world was starting to feel like home. Not because it was familiar. It wasn't. Every day brought something new — a strange ingredient, a cryptic note, a spy across the street. But familiar wasn't the same as home.
Home was the rhythm. The counter I knew the height of. The oven that had taught me its moods. The chair that creaked in the same spot every time.
Al finished his wine. Set the glass down. "I'm going to feed the cats."
"Which cats?"
"The baker's. She asked me to watch them."
I blinked. "You've been watching kittens?"
"For three weeks."
"And you didn't tell me?"
"Didn't come up."
He stood, grabbed his coat, and walked to the back door. "I'll be back before dawn."
"Don't let the cats eat you."
He snorted and stepped out into the night.
I sat alone in the pizzeria, the last of the wine warm in my glass. The lamp light flickered through the window. The kitchen was clean. The dough was proofing for tomorrow. I didn't think about Earth. I thought about the dough. The way it felt in my hands. The way it rose and breathed and changed. The way it didn't care about spies or dragons or system interfaces. It just was. Flour, water, salt, yeast. Four ingredients that didn't know they were in another world.
I thought about that for a while. Then I locked up, checked the oven one last time, banked the embers, and headed upstairs. The gold coin was warm against my thigh.