Michael woke to sunlight and the sound of something brass and jubilant echoing up from the street.
For a few seconds, he didn't know where he was.
Then the ceiling fan creaked overhead, the air was warm, and powdered sugar dusted the sleeve of his jacket where he'd tossed it over a chair. The smell of coffee—real coffee, not whatever he usually made at home—seemed to cling to the room.
New Orleans.
He lay still, staring at the ceiling, letting the night replay itself in fragments.
Cafe Du Monde.
The river.
Louis's voice—calm, patient, impossibly steady.
You're surviving something you haven't named yet.
Michael exhaled slowly and sat up.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. No messages. No missed calls. The world, apparently, had not noticed anything unusual.
He showered, dressed, and headed downstairs, joining the morning crowd like nothing had changed.
But it had.
Daylight softened the city without dulling it.
The French Quarter was louder now in a different way—less music, more conversation. Cleanup crews worked methodically along the streets, sweeping beads and debris into neat piles. Shop owners opened doors, the smell of fried dough and coffee drifting outward like an invitation.
Michael walked with no destination in mind.
He found himself replaying the night in small details. The way Louis had moved through the streets without hesitation. The way he'd listened—not just heard, but listened. The way he'd looked at the river like it was an old friend who had outlived too many others.
Michael stopped near Jackson Square, leaning against the fence again, just as he had the night before—only now the square was bright and busy.
It felt different.
Not worse. Just… thinner.
He shook his head at himself and kept walking.
He spent the afternoon doing ordinary things.
He ate too much. He bought a cheap sketchbook from a street vendor and sat near the river, painting the curve of a wrought-iron balcony until his hand cramped. He watched a woman read tarot cards for tourists, her voice theatrical but her eyes sharp.
At one point, he could've sworn someone was watching him from across the street.
When he looked, there was no one there.
The feeling didn't unsettle him. It just… registered.
That night, he didn't go back to Cafe Du Monde.
Instead, he wandered again, quieter this time. He found himself tracing the same path Louis had taken them on, step for step, without quite realizing it until he stood before the small, gated park.
The gate was closed now.
A simple chain hung loose across it, almost decorative. Michael rested a hand on the iron bars, peering in. The river beyond looked the same—dark, patient, endless.
"You came back."
Michael turned.
The voice was familiar—but not Louis.
A woman stood a few feet away, leaning casually against a lamppost. She wore dark clothes despite the warmth, sunglasses perched on her head like she'd forgotten they were there. There was something sharp about her posture, alert without tension.
"Sorry," Michael said. "Didn't mean to trespass."
She smiled faintly. "You didn't."
"Do you know if this place opens later?"
"Sometimes," she replied. "Depends who's asking."
Michael frowned slightly. "You work around here?"
"In a way."
That answer again.
"You look like you're looking for something," she said.
"I don't think so."
She studied him for a moment. "That's usually when people are."
Michael shifted his weight. "Do you know a guy named Louis? Dark hair. Talks like he's lived a lot of lives."
Her expression flickered—fast, controlled. "I know a few men like that."
"Figures."
She pushed off the lamppost. "Be careful," she said lightly. "This city doesn't always give things back the way it took them."
Michael met her gaze. "Neither do people."
She smiled at that. "True."
Then she walked away, heels clicking softly against the pavement.
Michael stood there a long moment, then headed back toward the lights.
The rest of his trip passed quietly.
Too quietly, maybe.
On the flight home, Michael stared out the window as clouds rolled beneath the plane, thinking about how easily the night had slipped into him. How it hadn't demanded anything, only offered.
He didn't know what to do with that.
Back in his apartment, the familiar walls greeted him like old acquaintances. He unpacked, tossed his clothes into the wash, and set the sketchbook on his desk without opening it.
That night, he dreamed of a river that spoke in a language he almost understood.
Weeks passed.
Life resumed its usual rhythm—work, errands, sleep. Michael fell back into his routines. He read before bed. He painted when the mood struck. He skated late at night when the streets were empty.
But something had changed.
He noticed things more.
Moments lingered longer. Conversations felt heavier, as if words carried weight beyond their meaning. Sometimes he caught himself listening—to rooms, to silences—the way Louis had.
Once, while gaming late at night, he paused mid-match, heart racing for no reason he could name.
You're surviving something you haven't named yet.
He shut the console off and went to bed.
Far away, Varaek observed without interference.
He did not push. Did not pull.
He knew better.
Change, when forced, broke.
Change, when invited, answered.
Michael O'Garra stood at the edge of a life he did not yet recognize, and the universe—fictional and real, mythic and mundane—was beginning to lean, just slightly, in his direction.
And this time, Varaek allowed himself a thought that tasted dangerously close to hope.