Lost in the Sauce

         “Mayor! Welcome back!” she chirps. “How did everything go with the house?”

         “Well considering Mr. Nook was kind enough to give me these-“ jingling the keys, you have a natural smile creep up on your face, “-I would say we’re on the right path.”

         “Perfect! That would just leave the tree planting ceremony!” The shih tzu pops up from the counter, with a shake of her head as you walk up. “Don’t worry though, I understand you wanted to wait until you were better situated. If Bellwood’s waited this long for a mayor, I’m sure it will survive a few more days.”

         You hesitate, fingers drumming lightly against the edge of the counter. While Isabelle’s tone is light–The folder marked CEREMONIES sits just where the two of you left it earlier, its tab peeking out from a stack of other, less exciting paperwork.

         “Actually-” you say, hearing the words form a split second before you commit to them, “-about that...”

         Isabelle’s ears perk, whole body going alert.

         “I know I said I’d rather wait until I’d updated my wardrobe and, you know, looked more ‘mayoral’.” You glance down at your luggage-wrinkled clothes; the scuffs on your shoes… “But… screw it. This is what I look like right now. This is who I am. Maybe it’s better if everyone meets that version first instead of some polished stranger.”

         Her eyes go wide, and then she lights up like someone flipped a switch inside her.

         “Y-you mean… you’d like to hold the ceremony now?” she asks, almost breathless.

         “Yeah,” you say, feeling the decision settle in your chest. “Let’s do it. Tonight. If that’s even possible.”

         Isabelle practically vibrates in place. “Possible? It’s more than possible!” She whirls around, snatching the CEREMONIES folder off the stack and hugging it to her chest before slapping it down on the desk. “I’ll make the announcement right away!”

         “But what about all that?” you ask, nodding to the piles of paperwork you spent hours helping her tame the previous night.

         She glances at them once, then shakes her head so fast her bells jingle. “The paperwork can wait. This is much more important! A tree-planting ceremony is a really big deal, Mayor! It’s your first official act for the town!”

         Before you can protest further, she darts to the side of the room where a small, somewhat battered microphone rests on a stand beneath one of the wall-mounted speakers. She clears her throat, flips a tiny switch, and the overhead system crackles to life.

         “Ahem… Testing, testing… Is this thing on?” Her voice echoes faintly through the building before she steels herself and speaks with practiced cheer. “Attention, all Bellwood residents! This is Isabelle from the town hall. I’m happy to announce that our new mayor has decided to hold the tree-planting ceremony this evening in the event plaza!”

         You swallow, suddenly very aware that the whole town can hear every word.

         “If you’re available-” she continues, “-please make your way to the plaza shortly to help us welcome this new chapter for Bellwood. Thank you!” She clicks the microphone off, then spins back to you, tail wagging in excited little bursts. “I’ll grab the sapling and the tools right away. Let’s go, Mayor!”

         There’s really no time left to overthink it. Isabelle disappears briefly into a back room and returns with a small wooden crate tucked in her arms, a single young tree nestled in a burlap sack. It makes sense she would have one ready, but the sight of it still surprises you. She balances it carefully, nose scrunching in determination as she nudges the door open with her shoulder.

         You follow her out into the fading light, hoping that your sudden confidence lasts for more than a day.

⋆⋄✧⋄⋆

         The event plaza is a simple enough area.

         A shallow, raised plot of earth has already been prepared in the center of the square, ringed by simple stone edging. The soil is dark and freshly turned, waiting. It seems as if someone made short work of the previous mayor’s tree, or perhaps it had been removed long before today. Warm lamplight spills in from the paths as villagers trickle in from every direction, drawn by Isabelle’s announcement.

         Purpose hums in the air.

         You step up onto the raised plot beside Isabelle, trying not to look as awkward as you feel with your hands wringing the bottom of your shirt. The hush that falls over the plaza is soft, expectant.

         At least you recognize most of the crowd. Savannah stands near the front, hooves folded loosely in front of her. Her blue ombre dress is simple and neat, and her expression is open, curious, the kind of quiet interest that makes it feel like she’s really seeing you. Agnes watches with a small encouraging smile that says ‘I’ve got your back’ even from across the square.

         Tank is easier to spot—broad-shouldered in a sleeveless shirt, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he’s waiting for the starting gun of a race. Every time you glance his way, he flashes you a big grin and a pumped fist, like he’s mentally cheering let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!

         Closer to the back, a squirrel with soft brown fur and a tidy little dress (Sylvana, if you remember Isabelle’s brief on the walk over serves right) hovers half behind the eagle who was part of the welcoming party yesterday. Peeking around his legs, her tail flicks nervously, eyes wide as she studies you, then dart away whenever you almost meet her gaze.

         In front of her, tall and unmistakable in his sharp lines and folded wings, stands Apollo. The eagle’s beak is set in a firm line, heavy brows casting his gaze in a naturally stern shadow. He doesn’t look hostile, exactly, but there’s a weight to his stare that says he’s taking your measure and filing away every impression.

         “This is everyone!” Isabelle whispers, clutching the sapling crate. After straightening, she nods. “Okay, deep breath.”

         You don’t know if she’s saying that for your sake or to steady herself, but you end up following the order as she steps forward, raising her free paw.

         “Ahem–Thank you all for coming on such short notice!” she calls, her voice carrying clearly across the plaza. “As many of you know, today marks a very special moment for Bellwood. Our new mayor has decided to hold the traditional tree-planting ceremony!”

         There’s a soft murmur through the crowd: Savannah’s smile widens, Tank gives a little whoop that makes Agnes elbow him in the side (though she’s grinning as she does), Apollo’s expression doesn’t change much but his wings shift, settling more firmly at his back, and Sylvana edges a tiny bit closer, clutching her paws together.

         “As is tradition-” Isabelle continues, “-this sapling will grow into a symbol of our town’s future—of growth, of community, and of the fresh start we’re all creating together.”

         She turns to you, eyes bright. “So…please take this sapling!”

         Offering it up to you with both paws, tail wagging in small excited bursts, you reach out and accept it. The little tree is lighter than it looks, but the moment it rests in your hands the weight of what it represents sinks in.

         So much has been decided for you in the last twenty-four hours–this is the physical representation of your newly chosen path.

         After retreating her paws, Isabelle nods, voice softer but no less firm. “Okay, Mayor. Now plant the sapling by hand. Put your heart in it!”

         Everyone watches expectantly as you carefully step forward. The center of the plot already holds a neat, pre-dug hole, dark soil crumbling softly at the edges. You lower yourself into a squat, your feet sinking slightly in the fresh soil, and ease the sapling down into place.

         For a second, you just hold it there—one hand steady at the base of the trunk—the other feeling the roughness of the burlap. The faint give of the soil and the way the crowd’s attention gathers around you like a held breath keeps you frozen for just a moment.

         Then you push the earth back in, firming it gently around the young tree. As you stand straight and clap your hands clean of dirt, the plaza erupts in applause.

         Savannah claps with her whole heart, face lit up. Tank lets out a loud cheer and a triumphant “Yeah, Mayor!” that echoes off the surrounding buildings. Agnes whistles between her teeth, grinning wide. Even Apollo brings his wings together in slow, measured claps, and Sylvana flinches at the noise only to clap shyly along a heartbeat later.

         Isabelle is applauding too, eyes shining as she looks up at you like you’ve just done something monumental instead of basic gardening.

         When the applause finally tapers off, the plaza breaks into smaller currents of motion. Tank jogs a little circle to burn off extra energy; a couple of villagers drift away, already chattering about dinner plans and tomorrow’s weather.

         You step down from the raised plot, then turn and offer a hand to Isabelle. She accepts with a soft “Oh!” of surprise, cheeks tinting as you steady her to the ground beside you.

         Before you can say anything else, a shadow falls across you two.

         Up close, Apollo is even more imposing, his broad shoulders and sharp beak outlined against the dimming sky. Even at a careful distance away—close enough to talk, far enough not to loom deliberately–he is still well over a head taller than you. His expression is as serious as ever.

         “So,” he says, voice a low rumble, “you’re the new mayor.”

         There’s no question in the statement, just a simple, blunt assessment.

         “This ceremony should prove that well enough.” you answer, trying for steady rather than flippant.

         He studies you for a long moment, eyes narrowed slightly, taking you in from scuffed shoes to travel-creased clothes to the dirt still dusting your palms.

         “You’re young,” he says at last. “You’ve got a lot on your plate. Bellwood’s been through… a stretch without much direction.”

         You resist the urge to shrink under the weight of his gaze. “I’ve heard a bit about that.”

         Apollo exhales through his beak, the sound halfway between a sigh and a huff. “I’ll be watching,” he says plainly. “To see whether you’re really up for the task.”

         The words land with more gravity than threat. It’s not a warning so much as a promise: he cares enough about this place to pay attention. You square your shoulders, feeling your pulse climb but choosing not to back down.

         “Watch all you want. I’m going to prove I’m the real deal.” You say.

         One of his brows ticks up a fraction, like he hadn’t expected such a direct answer. He grunts, neither approving nor dismissing.

         “We’ll see,” he says, giving a small, almost imperceptible nod. Then he lifts a wing in a brief, curt gesture that might be as close to a wave as he gets. “Don’t make me regret giving you a chance.”

         He huffs, the corner of his beak twitching like he might be suppressing the ghost of a smile. Without another word, he turns and strides off toward the path leading home, wings tucked neatly at his sides.

         You watch him go, the sting of his scrutiny lingering but not as sharp as it could have been.

         “Don’t take him too hard,” a small voice pipes up near your elbow.

         You look down to see Sylvana, half-hidden behind her fluffy tail, fingers twined together in front of her dress. She flinches a little when you meet her eyes, but doesn’t bolt.

         “He’s just… like that,” she says quietly. “Very serious. Very… loud, even when he’s not shouting.” Her ears flick. “But he cares a lot. About everyone. About the town.”

         “I got that impression,” you say, softening your tone. “I don’t mind him being cautious. Honestly, I would be in too in his shoes.”

         She ducks her head, smiling nervously. “Still, um… sorry if it felt harsh or anything, Mayor. I know it can be scary having someone stare at you like that. I kind of wanted to hide behind the plaza sign.” She laughs weakly. “I almost did.”

         “You and me both,” you admit. “But I meant what I said. I want to earn that trust. His, and everyone else’s.”

         Sylvana’s eyes widen at that, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. “O-oh. That’s… that’s good. I’m sure you will. I mean, you already planted the tree and everything.” Her tail flicks again, softer this time. “That’s a good start, doncha think?”

         “I hope so,” you say.

         For a heartbeat, you both stand there, the silence edged with her shyness. Then she startles, as if remembering something important.

         “Ah—um—I should get going!” she says, stepping back. “I told Savannah I’d help her with dinner prep tonight. If I’m late, she’ll just make everything herself, and then I’ll feel bad.”

         She gives you a swift, earnest little bow. “Welcome to Bellwood, Mayor. I’ll… I’ll talk to you more once I’m less likely to panic and run away.” Her cheeks warm under her fur, and she gives you a tiny smile before scurrying off down the path, tail bouncing behind her.  You watch her disappear around the bend, the plaza slowly emptying until it’s just you and Isabelle standing amid the lamplight and the newly planted tree.

         Isabelle steps closer, paws clasped in front of her chest.

         “Well,” she says, eyes sparkling, “it’s official now. You’re not just the mayor on paper anymore.” Her smile widens. “You’re officially the mayor of Bellwood.”

         You let the words sink in this time, feeling them settling differently now that they’re anchored to a moment, a place, and a tiny tree with your fingerprints in its roots.

         “Guess there’s no backing out now,” you murmur.

         She laughs softly. “If you ever did try, I think a few of the villagers might follow you just to drag you back.”

         “Intimidating.”

         “Comforting,” she counters gently.

         You glance at the tree, then back at her. “So… what now? I’ve planted the symbol. What’s the next step in the ‘being a mayor without messing everything up’ plan?”

         Isabelle’s tail gives a thoughtful twitch.

         “Now,” she says, “you should use the rest of the day to get familiar with the town. Talk to people. See where they work, where they live, what they like.” She taps a claw lightly against her chin. “Re-Tail is a great place to start—it’s a bit of a walk toward the shoreline, but very important for recycling and resale. The Roost, our coffee shop run by Brewster, is also wonderful if you need a quiet place to rest and meet more residents.”

         She points down one of the adjoining paths. “You could also explore the beach if you want. Some villagers like to walk there in the evenings, and it’s a good way to clear your head.”

         You nod slowly as she speaks. “Re-Tail first, then maybe tomorrow I’ll check out The Roost. You think they have a limit on caffeine intake?”

         Isabelle giggles behind her paw. “Definitely not, or Brewster would have cut me off ages ago. I’ll finish up here and return to town hall to log today’s events and schedule a follow-up on the town rating tomorrow.”

         “Always working,” you say, half-admiring, half-exasperated.

         She ducks her head modestly as she turns. “Just trying to keep up.”

         Then she looks up again, expression bright. “If you get turned around on your way to Re-Tail, just check your map. I made sure to jot down important landmarks. Or you could always ask for directions, most folks are more than happy to walk with you part of the way.”

         As Isabelle leaves you to return to town hall, you think of Savannah’s warm smile, Tank’s booming enthusiasm, Agnes’ steady presence somewhere in the crowd. You give the tree one last look, you decide to pull out the map from your back pocket. You already had to cross the river to get to your house–and it seems the shop is a straight-shot down from it, nestled right next to the cliff side.

         May as well start there.

⋆⋄✧⋄⋆

         The building itself is closer to the shoreline that you surmised form the map–quite a ways from both the train station and town hall. It’s a wonder that you haven’t spotted it before, given the bright pink wood paneling and teal, sloped roofs. A steady stream of what looked like heart-shaped puffs were slowly rising from the curved chimney spout. A charming chalkboard sits outside the door, the small light illuminating the chalk writing on its surface. The heart shaped window on the door was a cute touch—you had a feeling the owner had to be a big fan of pastels.

         The door sports a similar jingle to the one you heard at both Nook’s Homes and the Able Sisters’ shops. As you get your bearings, it seems you’ve walked into the tail-end (no pun intended) of a conversation–

         The pastel-pink alpaca wearing a red overall-type apron which makes her look like she’s stepped out of a storybook. She’s chatting with a young tanuki who has handed over what looks to be a small stack of items: a couple of cushions, a lamp, and a slightly scuffed end table.

         “–and this one is perfect for upcycling,” The pink alpaca says, eyes shining. “Cyrus is going to have a field day with them when he get’s back in town.”

         The tanuki bobs his head enthusiastically. “We really appreciate you working with us, Reese! Every little bit helps the shop grow, you know?”

         “Thank you. With your help, we’ve been able to recycle and refurbish so very many things. If your customers keep bringing you items like this, feel free to come and sell them here!”

         “Of course! Well then, I’ll be off…”

         Turning, both animals notice you. You feel a bit awkward, not meaning to intrude. The tanuki boy addresses you first. He offers a polite bow before speaking.

         “Ah, hello! …we haven’t met, yes? My name’s Timmy. My brother and I run a shop in the shopping district called Nookling Junction.

         You hover a moment, half out of politeness and half out of surprise. He’s one of the shop runners for Nookling Junction? You assumed they would be at least high school age, but he barely looks old enough to be in middle school, let alone old enough to be handling ledgers!

         Timmy continues, undeterred by your shocked silence. “If you have time, stop by our shop sometime! I’m pleased to have made your acquaintance!” As he makes his way past the door, in a smaller voice he says, “Good to meet you!” before finally pattering out.

         There’s no time to dwell on that piece of information as Reese coughs, brushing off her apron in a smooth motion.

         “Sorry to have kept you waiting. Welcome to the recycle shop, Re-Tail! Oh! Would you happen to be the new mayor?” Her voice is sweet and warm, like she has never met a stranger in her life. “I’m so happy you decided to stop by our humble little shop! What an honor! My name is Reese. My husband Cyrus and I run this shop together.”

         “Nice to meet you,” you say, finally finding your voice.. “Agnes mentioned your shop to me. Custom furniture and… resale?”

         “Exactly,” Reese says, delighted. “Our shop buys items and furniture to resell here. We’ll also pay a premium for any high-value items listed on the board in front of the shop. If you’ve got anything you don’t need—old furniture, extra items, even things you find around town—we’re happy to take a look. And Cyrus can give things a second life with a bit of refurbishing.”

         That sounds like just the store you need given the money-making methods that have been mentioned to you. There are a few items on display as you look around the shop, like a proper bed that catches your eye. Maybe you can return the old cot to Isabelle sooner than you thought…

         “So, Mayor-” Reese says gently to pull your eyes back to her, “-if you have something you no longer need, please feel free to bring it by for a fair price!”

         “Thank you, Reese.” You introduce yourself properly and give her a firm handshake before looking at her wares.

         While the big potted plant right near the entrance did catch your eye, your aching back is gravitating towards the simple looking bed behind it. “How much for this?”

         “Ah yes, the common bed. I believe that is put up for sale by Agnes.”

         “Agnes put this up for sale?”

         “Oh, I was so excited the mayor came by I didn’t explain our services properly! My apologies…in addition to selling to us outright, you can set your own price and put items on display for others to buy. Think of it as a flea market space–though no actual fleas please, that would be Blather’s department.”

         “So–Agnes put this up for sale and I’m about to buy it from her?” you ask, a little amused.

         Reese giggles, the sound soft and airy. “That’s right! She brought it in yesterday. Said she’d ‘upgraded her vibe’ and didn’t need two beds. Thought it might find a good home with someone new.” She tilts her head. “If you’d like it, the price is set at 200 bells. All of that will go straight back to Agnes, of course.”

         You look at the bed again. It’s simple, sturdy, and—most importantly—not a camping cot. After being slightly sore from one night on a canvas cot, you didn’t want to find out what happened after more. This felt like a necessity you could splurge a bit on, anyways.

         “I’ll take it,” you say, already reaching for your bell pouch.

         Reese’s face lights up. “Wonderful! Agnes will be thrilled.” She rings you up with practiced ease, grabbing the recept from the printer it on a receipt spike. Reese looks to you as she jots something down in a small paper pad.

         “Would you like it delivered to your home? We offer same-day within town-limits.”

         You blink. “You deliver?”

         “Of course,” she says. “No need for the mayor to drag a bed across half of Bellwood. It’s a new system we have in collaboration with the postal office—a little bit of shop synergy to keep everyone afloat. Now, just confirm your address for me?”

         You give her your newly claimed house location—the old mayor’s place, now yours in paperwork if not yet in spirit.

         Reese nods as she scribbles. “Alright, we’ll have it sent over before the end of today. Cyrus will make sure it’s set up properly...when he wakes up that is” She smiles, a little conspiratorial. “We’ll also take care of moving out whatever temporary bedding you’ve got in there. No sense tripping over an old cot.”

         “Isabelle will be glad to hear that,” you say. “She loaned me one.”

         “We’ll handle it gently and have it returned to town hall,” Reese assures you. “You won’t have to lift a hoof—er, hand.”

         With that, you leave Re-Tail feeling lighter, picturing the bed waiting for you instead of an echoing, half-finished room. A small thing, but a real step toward this place being home.

         Speaking of, now was the perfect time to see what you quite literally signed up for.

⋆⋄✧⋄⋆

         The sky is painted in soft blues and golds, and the town has settled into that calm, between-hours quiet. The walk itself is quiet pleasant, aside from the slight cramping of your stomach making your non-existent eating for that day properly known. Doing a quick look around, you decide to swipe one of the plump peaches from a tree nearby and snack on it as you meander back.

         The juice exploding on your tongue as you bite down is near heavenly. As you munch away, you see there are several more trees bearing fruit. Aside from a free snack, you’re sure that Reese would buy them from you for a fair price. You make sure to lean forward to avoid getting any juice on your clothes, careful not to bite down on the actual pit.

         You’re almost at your place when the peach is finished. Unsure of what to do with the pit, you end up tossing it near a different peach tree. It is natural after all, otherwise you would have held it till you got home. A quick rinse of your hands in the river, and you’re nearly to the house!

         –it seems you aren’t the only one aiming to check out your newly refurbished home as you spot movement ahead: two figures on the path, wrestling something rectangular up the gentle slope toward your front yard.

         As you get closer, the details sharpen. Two pelicans in matching green postal uniforms, each with a neat little cap perched between their feathers, are maneuvering a wrapped mattress and frame in a kind of awkward sideways-shuffle.

         The one at the front is white with a yellow bill, broad-shouldered and steady eyes narrowed in concentration as he backs up the last step. The one at the back is a rich plum color with white-tipped feathers, beak split in a wide grin as he cranes his neck around the bulk of the bed.

         “Careful, Perry, careful—left, your other left—” the plum one says.

         Perry grunts, adjusts his footing, and the bed manages to get through the banisters with ease.

         You raise your hand as you approach. “Uh…evening?”

         The plum pelican looks up and brightens instantly. “Oh! Hello there!” he says, nearly letting his end of the bed slide before Perry tightens his grip with a pointed look. “Oops, sorry, sorry.”

         You wince in sympathy. “Don’t let me distract you. I’d feel pretty bad if your first impression of me is a broken foot.”

         Perry sets his end of the bed down gently and straightens. Up close, his expression is calm, unreadable but not unfriendly.

         “Evening,” he says, voice low and simple. “Delivery for you.”

         Plum feathers steps around the bed, dusting off his hands. “Right! Official business and all that. I’m Phillip, by the way,” he says, giving you a little half-bow. “This is Perry. We handle deliveries and pickups for the post office and now for Re-Tail. You must be the mayor everyone’s been chirping about.”

         “That’s me,” you say, doing a mock curtsy with your arms. “You’re delivering my bed?”

         “One common bed; mattress, frame and sheets included. Very important for a quality sleep, I say.” says Phillip.

         Perry nods once, solemn.

         You glance past them to your house—your house—and stop on the bottom step.

         Last time you saw it, the place was a sagging, splintered wreck, all peeling paint and cracked glass and floors that felt like they might sigh themselves apart. Now… it’s not that.

         The walls are straight, the siding repainted in fresh, clean lines. The porch boards no longer groan when you put weight on the first step. The windows are whole, clear panes catching the evening light. It’s still simple, still small, but the shift is so dramatic it feels like you’ve walked onto a film set.

         “Let me get the door for you then.” You take the steps slowly, almost afraid to test them, then reach for the front door. The key Mr. Nook gave you feels heavier in your hand than it has any right to. There’s a brief, suspended moment where it could all still be a misunderstanding, a dream, a cardboard façade as Agnes mentioned.

         You slide the key into the lock.

         For a second, there’s resistance—then a solid, satisfying click.

         You exhale and push the door open.

         The inside is a total 180 from what you remember. The floors, once dust-caked and uneven, have been scrubbed and patched. The walls are still bare but no longer flaking; someone has sanded away the worst and given them a fresh coat of neutral paint. The air smells faintly of sawdust and something citrusy—cleaner, maybe? The broken glass is gone, replaced by intact panes that let in soft light instead of drafts.

         “Mr. Nook might actually be a magic tanuki.” You think in bewilderment.

         “Not bad, huh?” Phillip says behind you, clearly proud on someone else’s behalf. “Nook’s crew doesn’t mess around.”

         “Yeah,” you breathe. “No kidding.”

         Perry hefts his side of the bed again. “Where?” he asks you simply.

         You step aside and gesture to the main room. “Against that wall, if that’s okay.”

         Between the two of them, it’s short work angling the bed through the doorway without dinging any fresh paint. The pelicans slide it into place, straighten it, and step back to admire the fit after removing the protective plastic. It already makes the room feel less like an empty shell and more like a place a person could actually live.

         Perry steps forward and produces a small clipboard from under his wing, flipping it open. “Signature if you please,” he says, offering you the pen and form.

         You take it, reading the neat lines: confirmation of delivery, receipt of one common bed. Official, tidy, binding in a way that feels oddly comforting. You sign your name in the designated space and hand the clipboard back.

         Perry glances at it, nods once in approval, and tucks the pen away. “All set,” he says. He tips his postal hat to you—a small, respectful gesture—then turns toward the door.

         Phillip lingers a step longer, leaning on the door frame with an easy smile. “Looks good on you,” he says.

         You blink. “The… bed?”

         “The house,” he clarifies, a little grin tugging at the corner of his beak. “Mayor with a place to crash. Very official. Very ‘I run this town but also know where my pajamas are.’ You’re gonna do fine here.”

         Warmth creeps up your neck at the unexpected compliment. “Thanks?” you say. “I’m… still figuring it out. But this helps.”

         He winks. “If you ever need forms picked up, packages sent, or just someone to complain to about how heavy ordinances are, you know where the post office is.”

         He straightens, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle in his uniform. “For now, get some rest, okay? A mayor needs their beauty sleep.”

         “Phillip.” Perry’s voice floats in from outside, dry but not unkind.

         Phillip sighs theatrically. “That’s my cue.” He gives you a final two-finger salute. “Welcome home, Mayor.”

         Before he can tack on anything else, Perry appears in the doorway, free wing hooking lightly in the back of Phillip’s collar. With an efficient, practiced motion, he tugs the plum pelican out onto the porch.

         “Work,” Perry reminds him.

         “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Phillip laughs, letting himself be guided away. He twists just enough to call back over his shoulder, “Sleep well!”

         You’re left standing in the doorway feeling a bit odd from the conversation, unsure of what to start doing first. Even after closing the door, you can do little but look at the space. The room is still sparse, the walls still bare, but the bed is real and solid and waiting. Outside, their footsteps fade, and the evening settles around Bellwood like a soft blanket.

         . . .maybe just taking a seat is a good place to start.

         Sitting on the edge of the bed, you let the silence finally catch up to you as you sink down ever-so slightly.

         Uneven flashes of the past two days bombard the quiet of the room—train brakes shrieking, Isabelle’s hopeful eyes, Tom Nook’s steady voice, Mabel’s laugh, Agnes clinging to your sleeves, the signed loan, the key turning in the lock. For a second, you’re not sure whether you’ve built something new or just stacked more weight on your shoulders.

         Either way, you’re here.

         You try to sketch out a plan in your head but your thoughts keep fogging over, slipping sideways. Whatever momentum you’ve been running on all this time feels like it’s leaking out of you in slow, invisible drips.

         Your stomach cuts in with a loud, insistent growl. Seems that the singular peach you devoured wasn’t filling enough for you. Perhaps it would be better if you began by bringing in what little belongings you do have from the tent. You’re sure Isabelle would want that cot back that she loaned you.

         With some effort, you manage to get yourself up from the bed and get to the door. Opening it, you step out to see that where your tent should be is empty.

         A spot of panic surges through you, but it’s quickly quelled when you see your backpack and suitcase sit neatly beside the door along with the lamp gifted by Isabelle, aligned like someone measured the distance from the wall with a ruler. A folded slip of paper is clipped to one strap, which you peel off and flip over to read:

         Nook requested we collect the tent as soon as you were home. Don’t worry, the cot will be returned to Townhall promptly and without harm.

         …followed by a simple doodle: a lopsided bird—duck? pelican?—with one eye squeezed into a wink and a goofy, exaggerated beak. The lines are clumsy but energetic, as if whoever drew it did so quickly and happily.

         “A self-portrait, huh?” you say under your breath, picturing Phillip with a pen and a moment of no supervision. It seems to be a common trait that animal folk work freakishly quickly and quietly.

         You smile despite yourself, tucking the note into your pocket. There’s a convenient hook for you to place the lamp on, which you do with some effort. After you’re positive it won’t fall and shatter, you drag your luggage inside.

         The house is small but workable. A main room that will eventually be a living space stretches out from the door, with the new bed claiming one wall. To the right, a compact kitchenette: a little counter, a narrow sink, a couple of cabinets that creak when you test them and a fridge. To the immediate left a tiny bathroom sits—just enough room for a shower, toilet, and a mirror that catches you off guard when you see your own face in the reflection.

         Two closets flank opposite sides of the door. One is clearly for coats and shoes; a modest clothing rack waiting patiently. The other closet is a shallow space with built-in shelves. You don’t exactly have an expansive wardrobe to worry about so folding will have to do for now.

         You start unpacking on autopilot.

         Shirts and pants get folded and stacked. A pair of worn shoes goes on the closet floor. You line up your toothbrush, travel-sized toothpaste, and the small bottle of face wash along the bathroom sink, trying to make it look less like a stranger’s hotel room and more like a place you might actually live.

         Reaching into suitcase, your fingers brush against something that isn’t plastic or cloth—a smooth, familiar resistance. Your hand closes around it before your brain has time to catch up.

         You pull out a modest self-bound book. The leather cover is scuffed on the corners, the edges softened where hands have held it a hundred times. Straps of darker leather wrap around to keep it shut. You thought you had eft it behind with everything else–

         –the field journal.

         You remember making it together with…cutting and stitching the pages, arguing about the right paper weight, laughing when the first attempt came out crooked. Memories of long walks cataloging plants and birds and little things you thought you’d always share were logged in those pages. Pressed leaves, handwritten notes, in-jokes scribbled in margins.

         Back when “we” felt like an adventure and not a trap.

         Your thumb strokes the spine out of habit. The urge to open it flares up—just a peek, just to see what’s inside, to remind yourself that there were good days once, that you weren’t always… this.

         You catch yourself and freeze.

         Hell no.

         You know how this goes. One page becomes two, then two becomes five, and five becomes you crumbled up on the floor of your knew house reliving a reel of every apology you swallowed, every excuse you made for him, every time he used the “good times” as a leash to keep you in check.

         “Not now,” you say, quietly but firmly, to no one in particular.

         Carefully, you turn away from the bed and carry the journal to the closet with the shelves. You reach for the highest one, stretching on your toes until your shoulder twinges, and slide the book all the way to the back where you can’t see it without effort.

         It lands with a dull little thump.

         You grab your now empty suitcase, flip it closed, and hoist it up; placing it directly on top of the hidden journal. Extra weight. Extra distance. If you discover it later, it will have to have been on purpose.

         For now, that part of your life is not invited into this house.

         Your stomach grumbles again; louder and less patient.

         “Message received,” you mutter.

         Back at your backpack, you dig through the pockets until your fingers close around the crinkled plastic of the off-brand pretzels and the squashed but intact snack cakes you picked up before everything went sideways. Not exactly a balanced meal, but at this point, you need fuel more than anything. Besides, a quick walk outside could get you more peaches if you were truly that desperate.

         You demolish the pretzels first, ignoring how stale and dry they are. Every few bites, you have to stop and rub at your chest, but you keep going until the bag is mostly crumbs. The cakes go down easier—too sweet, too processed, but they fill the hollow enough that the edge comes off your hunger.

         Wrappers piled on the counter for a later trash run, you shuffle back to the bed.

         You don’t bother taking off your shoes at first, then grimace and kick them off anyway, letting them land wherever they want without much care. You stretch out on the mattress, feeling it give under your weight in all the right ways. No metal bar digging into your shoulder blade, no suspicious spring prodding your ribs.

         Just softness. Support. A place to fall that doesn’t hurt. You’d have to thank Agnes next time you see her.

         You stare at the ceiling—the new paint, the faint lines where old cracks were patched, the way the shadows of tree branches sway gently across it through the windows. The house creaks once, settling around you, but it feels less like a threat and more like a sigh.

         “I live here,” you say softly, testing the words.

         They don’t feel entirely true yet…but they don’t feel like a lie, either.

         You let your eyes close, just for a moment, telling yourself you’ll get up soon, that you still have things to plan and people to impress and whatever else mayors do. The mattress cradles you in a way you aren’t used to. Your body, ignored all day, seizes its chance.

         Before you slip into sleep, however, there’s a series of knocks at your door that jolts you awake—too polite to be urgent, too persistent to ignore.

         “Coming-!” you call, dragging yourself upright. Your legs protest as you pad over the floorboards, every step reminding you how long the day has been.

         You crack the door open and blink.

         Savannah stands on your porch; both hooves wrapped around a glass baking dish covered tightly in foil. Steam fogs the inside, and the smell—savory, warm, definitely not pretzels—hits you like a hug you weren’t ready for.

         “Hi, Mayor!” she says, bright and a little breathless, shifting her weight from hoof to hoof. “Sorry to drop by so late. Since you officially moved in today we’d thought it’d be nice to bring you a welcome-home meal.”

         Behind her, half tucked to the side of the porch light like she’s trying to merge with the shadows, Sylvana peeks out. The squirrel has her paws wrapped around a folded tea towel and what looks like a little tin of herbs, tail flicking in quick, nervous motions.

         Your brain has to buffer for a second before your mouth catches up. “Is that… for me?”

         Savannah laughs softly. “Unless you’ve secretly got another new mayor hiding in here.” She holds the dish out. “It’s just a veggie bake. Nothing fancy. I figured you might be too busy to cook, what with all the meetings and key-getting and house stuff. Sylvana helped too!”

         Sylvana clears her throat, ears dipping. “I, um, mostly did chopping. And taste-testing,” she admits. “Savannah does the actual oven magic. I just bossed the vegetables around.”

         The joke comes out small but earnest, and you find yourself smiling as you carefully take the pan from Savannah. It’s warm enough to seep through the towel she’s wrapped under the dish—the weight of it in your hands feels absurdly comforting.

         “Thank you, both of you. This is so… so sweet,” you say, and your voice comes out warbly.

         Clearing your throat, you admit, “I… haven’t exactly been keeping up with meals today.”

         “We had a feeling,” Sylvana says, eyes flicking up to your face before darting away again. “First days are always like that. You forget your own name before you remember dinner.”

         Savannah nods in agreement. “You get pulled a million directions and then realize you’ve only had coffee and nerves for dinner.” She leans just enough to peek past you.

         Sylvana, braver now that the food is safely transferred, shifts closer and stands on tiptoe to look around you too. “Whoa,” she murmurs. “It’s really empty in there.”

         They both glance into the mostly bare room—just the bed and the bones of a home. You shift a bit awkwardly, which is immediately noticed by your company.

         “Oh! Sorry!” Sylvana flusters, stepping back a full pace as if she’s crossed some invisible line. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way! I just—um—expected more… chairs? I’ll stop talking now.”

         “It’s okay,” you say quickly. “You’re right. It’s pretty empty.”

         Savannah brightens, seizing the lull. “Well, hey, that just means more room for potential. And clutter. And plants.”

         She taps her chin. “Speaking of potential…”

         She looks you over, thoughtful but not unkind. “If you need something nice to wear, you can totally borrow something from me. I’ve got a couple of dresses and sweaters that might work if you don’t mind something a little loose. We’re not too different in size.”

         Sylvana makes a soft sound of agreement. “She has, like, a whole wall of cardigans,” she stage-whispers. “It’s honestly a little scary. In a cozy way.”

         The offer lodges somewhere warm in your chest. “That’s really kind of you. Let me… think about it? I don’t want to raid your closet before I’ve even figured out where my socks go.”

         Savannah giggles. “I suppose you’re allowed–mayor privileges and all.”

         Sylvana glances between you and Savannah, then adds, quieter, “If you ever want help figuring out what flowers would look good in the plaza, I, um, know a few color combos that photograph really well. For, like… newspaper pictures. Or scrapbooks. Not that I’ve thought about it.” Her tail betrays her, flicking faster.

         Silence sits between the three of you for a moment, easy and not. Savannah studies your face, and you can tell she notices the exhaustion you’ve been trying to keep tucked away. Sylvana notices too; her ears dip in sympathy as she hugs her little tin closer.

         “You look tired,” Savannah says gently. “In a ‘I did everything today’ kind of way, not a bad way. I won’t keep you too long. I just wanted to say I’m really glad you’re here.”

         Her cheeks tint slightly beneath her fur. “And, um… I’m happy I got to be one of the first townsfolk to officially welcome the new, cute mayor home.”

         Your brain short-circuits on cute for a half-second.

         “Oh! Uh.” You manage a laugh that sounds—hopefully—less panicked than it feels. “Thank you. For the food. And the… adjectives…?”

         Sylvana makes a tiny squeak of agreement. “You do look nice,” she blurts, then winces. “In a, um, mayoral way. I mean—that came out weird. I’m gonna shut up now before I spontaneously combust.”

         Savannah gives you a small, pleased smile, like she’s satisfied she said what she meant to. “You’re welcome. Feel free to just eat it straight out of the pan if you’re too hungry to dish it out. Just be careful, it did come out of the oven just before we walked over here.”

         “And this is for sprinkling on top,” Sylvana adds, holding out the little tin with both paws like it’s precious cargo. “It’s a herb blend. Little bit of thyme, little bit of roasted garlic salt. I, um, mix some herbs for Reese sometimes, so I had extra.”

         You take the tin, fingers brushing Sylvana’s paws for the briefest second. She startles but doesn’t pull away, eyes widening before she drops her gaze.

         “Thank you, I’ll definitely be using this. I’ll try not to inhale it in one go, but no promises,” you add, trying to lighten the moment.

         “No promises needed,” Savannah replies, stepping back off the porch. “Sleep well, okay? Tomorrow we’ll all bother you about trees and flowers and town stuff. Tonight you just… exist. In your house.”

         Sylvana edges backward with her, lifting one paw in a small wave. “If it’s good, um, let us know?” she says. “Not because we need compliments or anything, just…to know. For future dinners. And I can, uh, bring you some tea sometime. For paperwork. If you want.”

         Your chest pulls tight in a not-unpleasant way. “I’d like that. Both the bothering and the tea.”

         Savannah waves, backing down the path. “Welcome to Bellwood, Mayor!”

         “Good night, Savannah! Good night, Sylvana!” you call after them, shifting the pan to one hand so you can wave back.

         Savannah throws you a last bright grin. Sylvana gives one more quick, shy wiggle of her paw before the two of them disappear around the curve of the path, their voices drifting faintly as they chat to each other on the way home.

         You’re left alone in the doorway with a warm dish in your hands, a tin of herbs on top, and your face unreasonably hot.

         You close the door slowly, leaning your shoulder against it for a second.

         Why do so many people in this town low-key / high-key seem to be flirting with you?

         You carry the dish to the little kitchenette and set it carefully on the counter, peeling back one corner of the foil to let the steam escape. It smells like actual food made on purpose, not something scavenged from a vending machine.

         “Is this just…basic decency?” Saying it in your head sounds more pathetic than you expected it to.

         Compliments without strings, offers of help without an expectation attached, people calling you cute without following it up with criticism–has it just been so long since you experienced anything like that that your brain files any sort of recognition as “danger”?

         …or is it an animal-folk cultural thing—everyone a little more tactile, a little more openly warm, a little more forward than you’re used to?

         You don’t know.

         What you do know is that, for the first time in a very long time, the attention doesn’t feel like a trap.

         It feels confusing, sure. Overwhelming, definitely.

         But not sharp.

         Not weaponized.

         Luckily Mr. Nook’s home package of bare essentials for your home included some simple silverware and cups. You take a fork from the drawer, sprinkle a pinch of Sylvana’s herb mix over one corner, scoop a generous bite from the edge of the dish, and sink down to the floor in pure bliss.

         Whatever this is—kindness, flirting, or just Bellwood being Bellwood—you’re not sure you’re ready for it. But sitting in your own house, working through a home-cooked meal two neighbors made just to welcome you, you think… maybe ready isn’t required.

⋆⋄✧⋄⋆

         She’d bustled behind the desk, rifling through a stack of neatly aligned forms. “I’ve completed as much as I can, but there’s one thing I need to know. When is your birthday?”

         You give her the date, feeling oddly exposed by something so simple. She’d repeated it back to you, just to be sure, then carefully wrote it on what looked like an identification card. After a moment of concentrating tongue‑between‑teeth focus, she’d straightened and offered it to you with a small bow.

         “This is your very own Town Pass Card! It’s like an ID card that proves you live in Bellwood… We call it the TPC for short. This should make it easy if you choose to visit the other towns out here in the mountains. You can always update the photo on Main Street tomorrow, or whenever is convenient for you!”

         The card had surprised you. Embossed, solid, heavier than it looked. It felt strangely fitting in your hand—comforting, even—to have something official with only your name on it. Not his. Not “Mr. and…” Anyone. Just you.

         You’d slipped it into your pocket like it might vanish if you didn’t claim it fast enough, then turned back to your… secretary. The word still felt foreign.

         “Thank you, Isabelle. Is there, uh, anything else you need from me?”

         “Yes!” Her eyes had lit up again. “The last thing we’d like you to participate in is a ceremony that commemorates your arrival. I’ll show you on your map… this gray square is the event plaza. We hold special events there every now and then…”

         She’d tapped the map with a careful claw. “As is tradition in Bellwood, whenever a mayor comes to office we ask them to plant a tree in the square so it can become a great symbol for our town! Unfortunately, the last tree that was planted withered and died… and while I’m not the superstitious kind, it seems so coincidental to just happen on it’s own given the circumstances!”

         You’d glanced toward the long windows lining the walls, noticing how the light outside had shifted—longer shadows, softer edges. “Isn’t it a bit late to be holding ceremonies?”

         And besides, you hadn’t seen anyone around. A mayor (fake or not) with no witnesses still felt like a punchline waiting for a setup.

         But Isabelle had simply shaken her head, smiling. “No, silly mayor! We’re going to host it after you get settled in. You’ve already had to do so much running back and forth so far, I wouldn’t want to stress you out further.”

         That had hit you harder than you expected. The simple idea that someone was arranging things around your capacity, not stretching you past it to prove a point, made something in your chest tighten. You really didn’t understand how the last mayor could have walked away and left this genuine, earnest person to juggle a whole town by herself.

         “Well,” you’d said, almost testing the words, “I’m not terribly tired… do you need any help with this paperwork?”

         Isabelle stares. Just stares. Her paws hover above a stack of folders, eyes wide and unblinking, like you’ve just spoken in a language she didn’t know you knew. The silence stretches long enough that you start counting your own heartbeats, suddenly convinced you’ve crossed some invisible line.

         “Did I—say something weird?” you ask, half‑laughing, half‑ready to backpedal.

         She seems to reboot all at once, ears snapping up, cheeks flushing beneath her fur. “Oh! N‑No, no, not weird! Just… unexpected.” She lets out a small, embarrassed giggle. “I’m just not used to the mayor offering to help with paperwork. Usually I’m the one insisting they stay awake long enough to sign things.”

         There’s a familiar shape to that—one person doing the invisible labor while the other floats above it—but this time, you’re on the other side of it. You feel your shoulders loosen a fraction.

         “Well,” you say, reaching for the nearest stack, “I’m here. And I should at least pretend to earn that TPC, yeah?”

         Her smile softens, the bright, professional edges melting into something more personal. “In that case,” she says, sliding a box toward you, “I’d be very happy to have your help, Mayor.”

         You slip behind the counter with her, taking the pile she gestures at. The papers are a blur of names, permits, and notes in a looping, bubbly handwriting that you suspect is hers. As you try your best to straighten the papers, Isabelle beams up at you. The simple act of standing shoulder to shoulder over a messy desk makes you feel more like belonging than any ceremony could.

         The realization hits somewhere between one stack of files and the next—sharp, breathless, almost dizzying.

         You pause with a folder half-open in your hands, eyes skimming words you don’t really see. The edges of the room feel too bright, too defined. You are standing in a stranger’s town hall, holding a stranger’s job, wearing a title that doesn’t belong to you. And every minute you stay, the lie knots itself a little tighter around your ankles.

         Mayor.

         You were supposed to be passing through. A name on a train ticket, a suitcase, an exit strategy. Not… this. Not maps and registration cards and ceremonial trees and a secretary who looks at you like the future just walked in the door.

         For a heartbeat, panic flares hot and wild. This is exactly how it used to start: you sliding into a role because it was easier than saying no, until one day you woke up and realized your whole life had been negotiated without your consent. You can almost hear his voice in your head, amused and cutting—There you go again, just doing what people expect.

         You grip the edge of the cardboard box until the corrugated ridges bite into your palm.

         This is not that.

         Because this time, you could leave. You could put the file down, hand Isabelle back her hopeful smile, walk out of town hall, skip the ceremony, never pick up the keys from Tom Nook. The tracks still exist. The trains still run. No one owns you here.

         Not that you would, not now when you’ve gotten yourself invested…

         The thought is strangely steadying. If you stay, it’s because you chose to.

         You look at the half-sorted papers, feeling the TPC warm in your pocket, at Isabelle humming softly under her breath as she straightens a crooked stack of documents. The weight pressing on your chest shifts, just a little, from suffocating to solid.

         You need work.

         You need a bed.

         You need time and distance and somewhere to exist that isn’t haunted by his toothbrush in the bathroom and his name on the lease.

         This absurd accident—this mistaken identity, this empty house with a tent out front—hands you all of that on a slightly crumpled silver platter.

         Sure, maybe it’s a lie. But it’s a lie that gives you room to breathe.

         You exhale slowly and set the folder neatly in the box, aligning it with the others. You could be a mayor. Not a perfect one, not the one they thought they were getting, but someone who shows up, who learns, who doesn’t leave Isabelle alone to drown in forms and festivals. Someone who has a home they chose and a job that doesn’t revolve around surviving someone else’s moods.

         The fear doesn’t disappear. It settles into a low hum beneath your ribs, right next to something else—tentative, unfamiliar, almost like possibility.

         “Okay,” you think, glancing at the paperwork, at the map, at the tiny gray square of the plaza where a future tree will go. “If this is the role I’m stuck in… then I’m going to make it mine.”

         To try an change your internal dialog, and seeing you had been sorting in comfortable silence for a while, you try to sound casual as you ask the question that’s been probing you.

         “So… how long did the other mayor live here?” You flip through a file you don’t really read. “Must’ve been around for a while, right?”

         Isabelle’s mouth opens like she might answer, but the room tilts a little and a yawn tears itself out of you before you can stop it. Your jaw pops open, eyes watering; leaving you no time to cover your mouth out of politeness.

         Isabelle stops mid-motion, a folder clutched to her chest.

         “Oh! Oh no, you must be exhausted.” Her ears droop a little. “I didn’t even think—of course you are. All that train travel and then I made you do paperwork on your first day…”

         If only it were just the train.

         You start to say, “It’s fine,” but she’s already bustling to a door you didn’t notice near the back of the room, flipping the door open with a newfound urgency. Her voice is a bit muffled as she shouts from the other room. “No, no, we can finish this tomorrow. You need to sleep or you’ll turn into a sleepy mayor and then where will we be?”

         “I hate to break it to you,” you murmur, rubbing at your face, “I think we’re already there.”

         After some more rummaging, Isabelle pops back out of the closet triumphant, hugging a folded camping cot to her chest and what seems to be a lantern in her other paw. “Aha! I knew we still had one of these. Emergency napping measures.”

         “You keep emergency cots at town hall?” you ask.

         “Well, yeah,” she says, completely serious. “Sometimes festivals get intense.”

         She presses the cot into your hands, then immediately grabs your suitcase with her free arm before you can protest. “I’ll walk you back to the tent,” she says. “It’s dark out. And you look like you might fall asleep mid-step.”

         You make sure to grab your backpack before trailing behind the Shih Tzu, Careful not to hit the doorway as you step into the night air.

         Outside, the air has cooled, the sky a dusky purple bowl over the town. The lights of the town hall glow softly, and for once the quiet does not feel threatening. Isabelle lights the lantern in a well-practiced motion, using it to help guide through the wooded area. She chatters as you walk, filling the space so you don’t have to.

         “I’m really glad you’re here,” she says. “We were, um… kind of in limbo for a while. It’s nice to have someone in charge again. Someone I can help.”

         You glance sideways at her. “You do most of the work, don’t you?”

         Her cheeks pinken. “Maybe some of it. But it’s more fun when there’s someone to make coffee for.”

         By the time you reach the tent beside your soon-to-be house, the fatigue feels like it’s soaked into your bones. She ducks inside first, setting your suitcase in the corner and helping you unfold the cot in the narrow space. She adjusts the legs until they stop wobbling, then places a small lamp on a crate that someone’s dragged over as a makeshift nightstand. You had to hand it to Mr. Nook’s crew, they knew how to throw things together quickly.

         “There,” she says, flicking the lamp on. A soft pool of light spills over the cot and your scuffed shoes. “Not exactly presidential, but cozy.”

         “Honestly,” you say, “it’s an upgrade.”

         She smiles at that—small, a little shy. “Tomorrow will be better,” she adds. “You’ll get your keys, we’ll get you settled, and then we can really start making plans!”

         Bittersweet warmth slips in under your ribs. You don’t remember the last time someone said we about your future and meant it kindly. On instinct, you reach out and give her a gentle pat on the head. She startles, eyes widening, and you jerk your hand back like you’ve touched a hot stove.

         “S-sorry!” you say quickly, rubbing the back of your neck awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to— that was… weird. Sorry.”

         But Isabelle just blinks, then laughs, a small, breathy sound. Her ears flick forward. “Oh! No, it’s okay. Really. It’s… nice.” She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t get a lot of sweet sentiments, you know?”

         Something twinges in your chest.

         “You should,” you say, quieter than you mean to.

         She looks at you for a moment, like she’s memorizing your face. Then her smile brightens. “I have a good feeling about you being the mayor,” she says. “I think… you might be exactly what this town needs.”

         The words land deeper than you expect. For a heartbeat, you feel the old instinct rise—the urge to deflect, to make a joke, to shrink away before someone can change their mind about you. Instead, you nod.

         “Yeah,” you answer, more to the dim canvas walls than to her. “I hope I can be.”

         As she steps back out of the tent, for a moment she holds the flap open. “Get some rest, okay? We have a big day tomorrow.”

         “I’ll try my best. Night, Isabelle.”

         “Good night, Mayor.”

         When the flap falls closed, you sit on the edge of the cot, staring at the glow of the little lamp. Outside, footsteps retreat toward town hall, then fade. The quiet chirps of crickets are barely audible through the canvas, a nice background noise to the otherwise silent space. It feels strange…no one is waiting to argue about what time you went to bed—no sharp voice screaming your name from the next room. Just the faint night sounds of a town that, for reasons you don’t fully understand, has decided to trust you.

         You lie back on the cot, kicking off your shoes lazily. It creaks, the canvas bites into your shoulders, and your pillow is really just a bundled jacket. But the space is yours. The exhaustion in your body is yours. The softness in your chest after Isabelle’s words is yours too.

         For the first time in a long time, as you close your eyes, you are not bracing for impact. You are bracing for morning.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

         When the morning does come it does so slowly, like it’s unsure if it should bother you yet.

         You wake to the familiar roughness of canvas above you, the faint plasticky smell of the tent, and a cold line of drool on your arm. Classy. For a moment you just lie there, staring at the fabric roof, trying to remember what city you’re in and whose schedule you’re supposed to bend around today.

         Then it hits you.

         No city. No him. Tent. Broken house.

         Mayor.

         You sit up, the cot squeaking in protest, and shove open the flap.

         What greets you is… not the sagging, tired shell you went to sleep beside.

         Your house—your ruin—is standing straight? The porch looks level. The roof has actual shingles that aren’t trying to abandon ship. The windows are clean and whole, catching the morning light in neat rectangles. The siding is still simple, nothing fancy, but it’s crisp and freshly painted, like the whole place took a deep breath while you were asleep and decided to try again.

         You blink once.

         Twice.

         You even rub your eyes, because apparently you’re a walking cliché now. The house does not revert to its previous disaster state. It just stands there, basic but solid, like this is the most normal thing in the world.

         “Man,” a voice beside you says, amused, “your face is cute right now.”

         You flinch, heart lurching out of your chest, because you were very sure you were alone. You whip your head to the side and find a black-and-pink pig standing there, hooves on her hips, dark eyes bright with mischief.

         “Whoa, easy!” she says, holding her hooves up in a peace gesture. “Didn’t mean to spook you. Just enjoying the show.”

         You breathe out slowly, telling your pulse to knock it off. “I… didn’t realize anyone was there.”

         She grins. “Yeah, I noticed. I’m Agnes by the way. We met yesterday—train station? You looked like you were about ten minutes away from keeling over.”

         A vague memory surfaces: the blur of the platform, a chorus of friendly voices while your brain was busy trying not to collapse.

         “Right. Agnes. Sorry. Yesterday was… a lot.”

         “Uh, yeah.” She gestures at the newly minted house. “Looks like today’s trying to keep up.”

         You look back at the building, still half convinced it might vanish if you stare too hard. “This… was not like this last night.”

         “Nah,” she agrees easily. “Tom Nook’s crew came through. This is kinda their thing. You go to sleep with a fixer-upper, wake up with something that won’t give you tetanus if you breathe on it wrong.”

         You huff out a laugh. “That’s… normal?”

         “Totally. Around here it is, anyways.” Agnes shrugs. “Nook runs a tight ship. Fast work, decent quality, mildly terrifying efficiency. You get used to it.”

         The idea of entire portions of your life changing while you’re unconscious sits uneasily in your stomach, echoing old patterns you don’t want to revisit. But this time, you woke up to something better, not worse. Something chosen, not forced.

         Agnes eyes you more closely, her expression softening. “You do look a lot better with some sleep, though. Yesterday you had this whole ‘ghost who missed their stop’ vibe going on.”

         You feel your cheeks warm. “Train travel will do that to you.”

         “Mm-hm,” she says, clearly not buying that that was the only reason, but kind enough not to press. “C’mon, walk and talk? I was headed up to Main Street anyway. Need a new shirt before Isabelle writes me up for ‘fashion crimes’ again.”

         You snort. “She can do that?”

         “I mean, she hasn’t, but I see it in her eyes.” Agnes grins. “Besides, I can introduce you to the Able Sisters. They’re kind of intense, but they’re the best for clothes. Might help you find a look that screams ‘mayor’ and not ‘accidentally wandered in from a bus stop.’”

         You glance back at the house once more, the reality of it pressing in: walls, roof, windows. A place with your name attached. A bill attached, too.

         “Let me get changed real quick first.” Ducking back into the tent, you scramble to change into the only outfit change you were able to bring with you. Luckily it was clean and matched well enough. Shoving your shoes on after shaking them out, you stumble outside the tent.

         “I should probably talk to Tom Nook soon,” you say as you fall into step beside her. “About the house costs. I don’t even know what I’ve agreed to yet.”

         Agnes waves a hoof, dismissive. “You’ve got time. Nook’s not a shark, just… very into spreadsheets. He’ll sit you down and go over it all. Besides, you’re the mayor. Perks of the job.”

         “The mayor,” you repeat under your breath, testing the words against the morning air. The house stands quiet behind you, waiting.

         Employment. A roof. A town that thinks you’re someone important.

         For now, you let yourself walk beside Agnes toward Main Street, letting her easy chatter fill the gaps. The house—and the numbers—can wait an hour. You’ve already survived waking up to a whole new life once today.

         The walk to Main Street feels different with sunlight on your face and someone at your side instead of the hollow echo of your own thoughts. Agnes stretches her arms above her head as you both leave the little neighborhood path, hooves clicking lightly on the brick.

         “So,” she says, giving you a sideways look, “how’s it feel waking up and just… owning a whole house? Kind of a power move for day two.”

         “Surreal,” you admit. “I’m half-convinced I’m going to open the door and find a cardboard backdrop.”

         She snorts. “If it is cardboard, at least it’s an upgrade from last night’s haunted fixer-upper. We’ll decorate it, make it a thing.”

         She nudges your arm with a wink-giving you the feeling that this future event was already decided for you. You laugh, and the sound doesn’t feel foreign in your mouth this time. As you round the curve toward Main Street, the town opens up a little—more flowers, more lamps, the faint murmur of water from somewhere nearby.

         Up ahead, a striped figure waves both arms like a flag signaling your arrival. “Yoo-hoo! Mayor!”

         "Here comes Savannah. Better brace for impact." Agnes jokes, waving to the zebra as she jogs over in a cute dress and perfectly coordinated shoes.

         “There you are! I was wondering when you’d resurface. First night go okay?” Her brows are furrowed as she looks you over.

         You think of the tent, the cot, the house that changed while you slept. “Eventful,” you say. “But better than expected.”

         “Love that for you!” Savannah says brightly, with no malice behind her words. “We’ll catch up later—I’ve got a shift soon. Don’t forget to stop by the café sometime. I give excellent unsolicited life advice.”

         “You really do,” Agnes mutters fondly as Savannah sashays off, already humming to herself.

         That was—pleasant, you supposed. Truly, it makes you feel like you’re in some sort of Hallmark movie with how fast things are just…happening.

         A few steps later, a solid wall of blue and gray steps into view—a rhino in a tank top, earbuds in, stretching his neck like he’s about to tackle the mountain range. He spots you and does a double take.

         “Oh! Yo!” He jogs over, grin wide. You take a few steps back as a knee jerk reaction at his fast movements. Cringing at yourself, it seems to go unnoticed by your new company.

         “You gotta be the new mayor! Tank,” he says, thumbing his chest. “Resident powerhouse. You look way less wimpy than I thought you would look, bro.”

         “Thanks… I think?” you say.

         He laughs. “That’s a compliment. If you ever wanna, like, do a morning run or something, hit me up. Gotta keep those mayoral muscles in shape.”

         “Let them actually move in first,” Agnes says dryly, nudging him with an elbow. “You’ll scare them off.”

         Tank just chuckles and jogs backward a few steps. “Yeah, yeah. Later, Mayor!” He pivots and takes off down the path, already back in his own rhythm.

         “Don’t let him talk you into boulder-lifting,” Agnes says. “He calls it ‘fun.’ He’s wrong.”

         “I’ll… keep that in mind.”

         There are no more sudden meetings the rest of the way to town. Your poor nerves appreciate it as Main Street rises ahead like a little ridge of civilization—shopfronts, signs, a line of flags fluttering in the breeze. Agnes points toward a cozy-looking storefront with a spool of thread on the sign.

         “That’s us,” she says. “Fashion central.”

         As you walk up, the set up seems to have an available space on the second story of the shop, though the door seems barred. You assume that may be where the owners live? Or maybe another shop used to operate there but simply couldn’t keep their doors open any longer…

         The bell above the Able Sisters’ door jingles when you step inside, and the smell of fabric and detergent wraps around you like something freshly laundered.

         “Hello! Welcome to the handmade-fashion palace of the one and only Able Sisters!” chirps a blue hedgehog at the front. She beams the moment she sees you, paw coming up to her mouth. “…Are you by chance, the new mayor everyone’s talking about? Oh! Everyone in town has been buzzing about you, so you were quite easy to recognize.”

         “Hi,” you say, offering a hand. “Yeah, that’s me. Still getting used to the title.”

         “I’m Mabel! Me and my sisters run this humble shop. As you can see, our store mostly specializes in handmade clothing. If you’d like accessories, please look in the accessories shop that’s right next door!”

         Mable motions behind her. “This is my oldest sister, Sable!”

         Behind her at a sewing machine, a brown hedgehog—Sable—keeps her head down, paws moving in precise, practiced motions as she works a large piece of fabric. She glances up for half a second, eyes soft, and gives you a small nod before returning to her work. It feels like being quietly welcomed into a room without words.

         Off to the side, arranging accessories on a display, a third hedgehog in a sleek outfit looks up. Label gives you a polite, appraising once-over. “Mayor,” she says with a professional smile. “I’m Label. If you ever need help finding a signature look—for events, photos, or just… reinvention—I’d be happy to consult with you”

         “Oh-thank you?” You say, unsure of how to respond.

         “Careful,” Agnes stage-whispers next to your ear. “She’ll have you in runway gear for grocery shopping.”

         “That would be an improvement for some people,” Label replies smoothly, but the faint curve of her mouth says she’s not actually annoyed by the pig’s comment.

         You trade a few pleasantries—how you’re settling in, how nice their shop is, how you’ll definitely need something less “just fell off a train” look in the near future. Mabel lights up at every promise to come back; Sable’s shoulders seem to loosen the longer you stand there and don’t cause chaos; Label listens like she’s already mentally filing you under “work in progress.”

         “I should really head over to talk to Mr. Nook about the house,” you say eventually. “We still need to sort out the cost and everything. But I’d really like to come back and look around properly.”

         “We’ll be here,” Mabel says. “And don’t worry too much about looking ‘mayoral’ right away. We can ease you into it.”

         “Or not ease you in at all,” Label adds lightly. “Depends how brave you’re feeling next time.”

         “I’ll… decide how much bravery I have after I see the bill,” you say.

         Agnes laughs and hooks her arm through yours as you step back toward the door. “C’mon, hotshot. Let’s go face Nook’s calculator.”

         As the bell jingles behind you and Main Street opens up again, you feel oddly… anchored.

         Names, faces, routines that are all so organic. A path from your tent to your house to your job to a place where someone can help you pick out a new outfit. For a role you never meant to play, “mayor” is starting to come with a surprising number of places you feel like you could belong.

         Agnes slips easily into tour guide mode as you and she step back onto the street, the Able Sisters’ door clicking shut behind you.

         “Ooooookay, so before you get buried in financial reality,” she says with a flourish, “here’s a quick crash course in Main Street survival.”

         She points to a modest building with a little envelope symbol above the door. “That’s the post office. Super important. That’s where you’ll get letters, send stuff out, pick up packages. Pelly usually works mornings—she’s sweet—and Phyllis is on late shifts. She’s… less sweet, but efficient. Don’t take it personally if she sounds like she’s judging your life choices. She probably is.”

         You huff a laugh. “Good to know where all my future angry citizen letters will go.”

         “Exactly,” Agnes says. “It’s also where nice care packages go, so there’s balance.”

         A little farther down is a familiar logo: a tiny house with a leaf on it. “And that,” she says, “is Nook’s Homes. Where you go to negotiate your soul away in exchange for walls and a roof.”

         You raise an eyebrow at her theatrics “That’s…comforting.”

         “I’m kidding. Well, mostly kidding. Look, he’s fair, just… very big on loans.” She gives you a sympathetic grin. “We’ll circle back to him in a second.”

         She tugs you toward a small booth tucked beside the shops, a camera icon painted above it. “This is the photo booth. Great for updating your TPC picture—you know, if you ever want a photo where you don’t look like you’ve just survived a train crash.”

         You think of your current card and wince. “That bad, huh?”

         “Yesterday?” Agnes says. “Oh, yeah. Today you’re at least at ‘mildly functioning.’ We can celebrate later with a new headshot after a shopping trip to the sisters’ place.”

         From there, she leads you back past the Able Sisters’ shop and toward a wide set of steps that climb to a slightly grander building with columns and an owl motif above the door. “And this is the museum. Blathers runs it. He’ll talk your ear off about fossils, bugs, fish, paintings… basically anything old or creepy. In a good way.”

         “A whole museum in a town this small?” you ask.

         “Yeah. It’s kind of our pride and joy,” she says. “Also a great place to dump—uh, I mean donate—anything interesting you dig up. Makes you look very cultured. Mayors love that kind of thing.”

         Agnes pauses just long enough to let you breathe, then points to a small shop you skipped over with a bright red-and-white sign and a leaf logo over the door. “Oh, and that is Nookling Junction. General store central.”

         The place looks cozy from the outside—warm light spilling onto the street, a little display of odds and ends visible through the tiny front window.

         “It’s run by Tom Nook’s nephews,” Agnes explains. “You can sell stuff there—seashells, fruit, bugs, fish, whatever you scavenge—and they also sell basics. Tools, sometimes furniture, random things you didn’t know you needed until you see them.”

         “So that’s one of the places I could make money,” you think to yourself, mentally filing it under survival, step one.

         “Yeah, but pro tip?” Agnes leans a little closer. “You’ll make more bells selling to Re-Tail, down in town. It’s this thrift store-slash-custom shop. They pay better, especially if what you’re selling matches their ‘hot item’ for the day.”

         “Then why sell to Nookling Junction at all?” you ask.

         She shrugs. “Convenience mostly. If you’re already up here and don’t feel like hiking back down to town, you can dump your haul there. They take a little convenience fee off the top, and that goes into their upgrade fund. So you earn less, but the shop gets nicer over time. Win-win… ish.”

         You look at the little store a moment longer, the bell over the door glinting in the light—a place where effort turns into currency, even if it’s not the best rate, and where part of what you give comes back as improvements to the town. Another small, solid piece of the place clicking into place around you.

         You take it all in: post office, clothing shop, real estate office, photo booth, museum, shops. A little ecosystem of routines and possibilities. It’s a lot, but it’s also… manageable. Pieces you can learn, one at a time.

         Agnes slows near the sign for Nook’s Homes. “This is where I let you go face the money music,” she says, squeezing your shoulder in a sisterly way. “You’ll be fine. If you faint, Blathers will probably drag you to the museum and label you as an exhibit.”

         “That’s…not reassuring.”

         She laughs. “You got this, Mayor. I’ll catch you later, okay? Maybe once you’re officially a homeowner we can grab coffee and celebrate.”

         “Deal,” you say.

         She gives you a quick wave and heads back down the street, leaving you at Nook’s doorstep with your heart thumping harder than it did stepping off the train.

         It’s fine. You can do this.

         You push the door open.

         Inside, the office smells faintly of wood polish and paperwork. Tom Nook is at the counter, talking to an otter in a vest and tie you don’t recognize. The otter is gesturing at some documents, speaking quickly.

         “Ah, Mayor!” Mr. Nook brightens as he spots you. “Perfect timing, yes, yes. This is Lyle—he’s the area manager for the Happy Home Academy. He helps with our surveys and… let’s call it client satisfaction.”

         Lyle spins, gives you a quick, practiced smile, and a little half-bow. “Hello there, mayor! Big fan of roofs. We’ll talk later, okay? Gotta run—forms to file, lives to change, blah blah.” He taps his clipboard and sidesteps past you, already halfway out the door before you can do more than nod.

         Mr. Nook chuckles. “Very energetic, that one. Now then—shall we discuss your home?”

         Your stomach tightens. “Right. The loan.”

         He gestures you closer to the counter and flips a page on his clipboard. “For the work completed—foundation repairs, new roofing, windows, basic interior—your total comes to… 39,800 Bells.”

         You blink. Then blink again.

         You mentally convert your current savings, your emergency fund, the coins in your pocket. You don’t come anywhere close to that amount. Even if you emptied absolutely everything, there would still be a yawning gap.

         “I… definitely don’t have that much,” you say, voice a little thinner than you’d like. “Not on hand. Not even… overall.”

         Tom nods, unruffled. “Of course, of course. That’s perfectly normal, yes, yes. We don’t expect you to pay it all at once.” His tone is calm, almost soothing. “This is a long-term loan. You can make payments at your own pace. No deadlines, no late fees. When you’ve paid off this first loan, we can discuss expanding your home, if you wish.”

         The panic that had started to climb your throat eases back a fraction. “So… I’m not going to be evicted if I don’t pay it off by the end of the week?”

         He laughs warmly, shaking his head “Certainly not! You have enough on your plate already, being the new mayor and all. The house is yours. The loan is simply… an agreement we’ll work through over time.”

         A house and a job, and no one is threatening to take them away if you don’t meet some invisible standard by Friday. It feels almost unreal.

         “Okay,” you say slowly. “Then I’ll do my best to start paying it down as soon as I can.”

         “Excellent attitude, yes, yes!” Tom tucks the papers away and leans forward slightly. “If you’re concerned about income, there are many ways to earn bells around town. You can collect seashells from the beach and sell them. Or catch bugs and fish—Re-Tail will usually pay the best for those, especially if you bring in their ‘hot item.’ If you’re already up on Main Street, Nookling Junction can take things off your hands too—just remember they take a small convenience fee that goes toward improving the shop.”

         You picture yourself hauling shells, chasing bugs, fishing off a quiet pier. Small, simple tasks. Work that doesn’t involve tiptoeing around anyone’s temper—and choices about where to sell that actually belong to you.

         “That sounds… doable,” you say nonplussed.

         “Very doable,” Mr. Nook agrees. “If you bring in what you find, little by little, you’ll see the loan shrink. One step at a time, hmm?”

         One step at a time. It’s more kindness than anyone offered you during your life before.

         He straightens. “You’ll just make your payments at the kiosk next door—it’s built into the ATM they have. For now, I have the official paperwork ready for you to sign today. After we get that squared away, consider your home fully available. Move in as soon as you like.”

         You nod, feeling the weight of it settle as he offers you a pen and the crisp, clean papers: a debt, yes—but also a door that belongs to you. A space that’s yours to fill. A role you never meant to take, slowly becoming the structure holding your days together.

         Your signature comes out smooth across the heavy paper. Adding the date beside it, you do the same on two more sheets before the tanuki is satisfied. After the ink dries, he takes them and files them away in a cabinet before pressing the keys into your palm. His paws are warm, solid. He gives you a satisfied smile before letting you go about your business.

          A shutter runs through the car before you feel yourself pushed back against the seat as the locomotive starts forward again. You balance out as soon as it starts going, eye flicking up to the small electronic display hanging from the ceiling. From the letter scrawl, it looks like you have some time before the next stop was coming up. You just miss the name of the stop, only catching the transit time.

          Oh well, not like you were aiming for any location in particular.

          The swaying and contestant rumble of metal tracks on wheels was just grating enough to your ears that you couldn’t fall back into a deep sleep, only able to get 15 to 20 minutes naps at a time. You kept this up for roughly two hours before giving up.

          The outside terrain wasn’t familiar to you anymore. No longer were you in the city where you had spent your youth—the cracked pavement and iron clad fences swapped to trees as far as the eye could see. Mountain ranges slowly creep upwards in the background with the last of the snow covering their peaks melting with the changing of the seasons. If you had to guess, you had to be somewhere near the coast now, or at least within a good drive of it. Even through the sides of the train car you could catch the faintest whiff of salt in the air.

          After the landscape begins to make your vision swim from the blur of colors, you decide to rummage through your bag. After fishing around, you decide to take one of your limited rations in the form of some off-brand pretzels to stop the cramping in your stomach. Taking a bite, you cough harshly from how painfully dry and stale they were. Rubbing your chest after getting your coughing-fit under control, you decide to save them for when you have access to water.

          Sighing, you really wished you had managed to grab a book or one of your handheld game systems. Having a distraction would be nice now that you weren’t worried about being pursued immediately. As much as you thought of bringing your phone, you are ultimately glad that you left it behind. You didn’t want the tracker app to give you away, let alone have any family or “friends” try to guilt trip you into going back.

          No, as bored as you were, it wasn’t worth the risk.

          Outside of the train window, the sky was now becoming a swirl of oranges and pinks. If the sunsetting was anything to go by, you would say it was a bit after 6 o’clock. If you were lucky, the next station you stopped at might have a diner or even a motel you could check in at for the night. You aren’t sure how you can stretch your last bells but that would give you a slightly better chance of getting some much-needed rest. A swaying train car wasn’t the ideal sleeping quarters after all.

          As if the universe had heard your thoughts, the gentle chime of the loudspeaker jerks you from your thoughts:

~Attention all passengers; the train will be arriving at Bellwood Station shortly. Ensure that all personal belongings are taken with you. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform when departing. The next station will be Newville Central Plaza Station, estimated transit time: one hour and thirteen minutes.~

          May as well be a good a stop as any to see if you could get a place for the night. If anything, you could always just hop back on and try again at the next station.

          Not having much on your person to begin with, you swing on your backpack snuggly before reaching up to pull your beat up suitcase down from the rack. Holding onto the safety bar, you carefully make your way past the other passengers and towards the doors. A few of them are sleeping, with coats draped over them as makeshift blankets or hats covering their eyes. Not wanting to be a nuisance, you leave them be. If they had needed this stop, they would be awake by now.

          The train car comes to a stop, the release of the breaks heard through the glass doors. You were the only passenger getting off it seemed, giving one last glance to your seat to make sure you didn’t leave anything behind accidentally. With a gentle hiss, the train doors open up in front of you. Stepping over the gap and crossing the yellow line, you see there is no one else at the station. With no one boarding, the doors close rather quickly. The train horn sounds off twice in short bursts to signify its departure, and slowly chugs out of view.

          The only other living being in the station is the station master; a monkey sporting the typical blue station porter uniform, topped with a matching hat with red ribbon. He has an ever-present smile on his face, and he gives you a wave.

          “Welcome to Bellwood Station! I hope you enjoy your stay!” he says in a chipper voice. You return the wave, offering a small “thank you” out of politeness but otherwise remain silent as you look around.

          The station itself looks well kept, although it does seem a bit on the empty side. Standard lockers are available to your immediate left, next to what looks like the time schedule for this specific train line. A flag with an image of an oak tree hangs next to a rather large clock. You can confirm that it’s 15 minute’s past six if the clock was believed to be correct.

          You think to ask the porter if there were any hotels or hostels nearby, but opted not to. A walk would do you wonders from being seated all day, anyways. You give one last polite smile and wave before grabbing your things and walking down the stairs.

          As you step out from the train station, a slight breeze tickles the back of your neck sending a small shiver up your spine. There isn’t that much time to appreciate the temperature difference as there seems to be an entourage of animal-folk waiting just outside of the entrance of the station. There are four in total, each a different species, standing as though they were waiting for someone specifically.

          “OHMIGOSH! Look who just got into town!” Says a zebra, trying but failing to whisper yell to the eagle standing next to her.

          He huffs air from his nostrils, leaning over to reply. “That’s got to be them, right?”

          “We can’t just stand here! Let’s all say hi!” states a black and white pig who looks excited.

          You blink in surprise as a yellow Shih Tzu steps forward, clearing her throat. She addresses the others in a loud voice. “Okay, everyone! Here we go. . .Ready? And. . . From those of us in Bellwood- “

          All four animal-folk shout “WELCOME!!!” to you with excited demeanors.

          Confused and a bit taken back, you turn towards the Shih Tzu who is walking up to you. She offers you a kind smile, beaming like a sunflower at you. “Mayor! We’re so happy you’re finally here!”

          Mayor?

          All you can do is blink blankly at the smiling pooch as your mind races. There has to be a misunderstanding going on here, thinking back to the passenger’s still sleep when you departed the train. You suddenly feel extremely guilty for not rousing them when the train was stopping.

          You try to offer an out, putting on a playful tone with a lifted brow. “Whose this ‘Mayor’?”

          The Shih Tzu shuffles her feet side to side, looking just as confused as you feel for a moment. “Um-“ her expression switches to one of laughter, like she was in on a secret. “-oh, come one! Quit joking around. You know exactly who you are! You sent a letter stating which train you’d be arriving on!”

          It seemed that it was a big mistake not waking up the other passengers on the train car. You shake your head, resting your luggage on the ground.

          “No, that wasn’t me.” You say in disbelief. The Shizue suddenly looks very smug with a mischievous glint in her eye.

          “Oh no! You can’t fool me! Things are just as you said they’d be! All is well, there’s no mistake! Tee hee, you’re a real jokester aren’t you!” She playfully nudges you with her elbow before standing up straight, tail wagging behind her.

          The other animal-folk laugh at the presumed joke, chatting amidst themselves, but you feel the exact opposite of jovial right now. Waving your hands in front of you, you shake your head.

          “W-wait!” You try to reason, but nothing you say seems to be getting through to this girl! She simply gives you a gentle shoulder pat, beaming all the while, before lifting a finger triumphantly.

          “Now, let’s get you all registered, shall we? Follow me to the Town Hall and we can get started on your paperwork!” With that, she turns on her heel and begins walking into the town.

          You try to look to the others there for support, hoping that at least someone saw how distraught and confused you were. Unfortunately, they all seem to have lost interest in you. The eagle walks off with the zebra, chatting about nothing noteworthy while the pig pulls out a butterfly net, following a bug that fluttered in front of her. You were too flustered and too tired to cause a scene or continue with this needless back and forth. Giving in, you hold your tongue and grip tightly onto your luggage as you trail behind the Shih Tzu who was now several paces ahead.

          You assumed she must be the secretary or some sort of acting official if her attire was anything to go off of, or her official demeanor. As you duck through the various trees, trying to keep pace, you mentally try to piece together an explanation, maybe even an excuse for when you got to your destination.

          You were just the unlucky person who just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, being mistaken for the next figurehead for this town. It shouldn’t take more than a short conversation (if you could manage to get some words in, that is) to explain your situation and everything would right itself out…hopefully. It may be a tad bit awkward and embarrassing, but you would rather put a stop to this charade then have it go too far.

          A tall building comes into view, nestled close to the cliff faces that act as a natural boundary for the town. It’s official looking, paired with a clock face right above the door and two loudspeakers atop the roof’s shingles. A flag bearing the same oak tree at the station waves in the breeze from a rather tall flagpole next to the building. Some flat stones act as a walkway up to the entrance, your shoes patting softly as you walk up behind the Shih Tzu. She opens the door for you, flashing another smile and wink before ducking inside.

          Oh boy, here we go.

          Following inside, it looks just like you’d expect a town hall to look. One of those black seating chairs that almost every office has sits against the right wall next to a decorative plant sitting. Paperwork piled higher than your head sits on the front desk, various pens and highlighters spread across the work surface. A handful of sunflowers sit in a yellow vase next to what looks to be a microphone? It must be for morning announcements or public broadcasts.

          You don’t get much more time to look around as the Shih Tzu turns towards you, the bells tying up her hair jingling as she does so. “Ok Mayor, this town hall will be your base of operations!”

          “Um, about that-“ You try to begin your explanation but are interrupted as the Shih Tzu exclaims.

          “Oh!” She smacks a paw to her face, a rosy blush coming over her cheeks. “I completely forgot to mention I’m on staff here too! I’m Isabelle, your secretary, and I’m here to help you in any way I can.”

          Isabelle rambles as she busies herself with the pile of papers on the front desk, rummaging around. “But, if I may be frank, I was surprised to see someone as young as yourself step off the train. I mean, our last mayor was always out of town on business trips, never around too often, and then the mayor before him held the position for many, many years and was quite set in his ways.”

          She selects a pink form out form the chaos with a small “ah-ha!”, setting it off to the side before opening around in a drawer out of sight.

          “We. . .haven’t really had a mayor in quite some time, to be honest with you. I did my best to keep things in order, but I’m just a secretary! There isn’t much I can really do to help Bellwood out besides file some papers or submit requests. I don’t have the administrative power to provide ordinances or enforcement the folk need. . .”

          She looks a bit distraught, looking off to the side as she thinks for a moment. It doesn’t last long, her almost ever-present smile returning as she produces a pen from the depth of the drawer. Why she didn’t use one of the several laying a top the desk, you don’t know.

          “But! That’s why I was so excited to get that letter from you that you were coming into town! You even went so far as to type it out, looking all official and professional. Your youth is a breath of fresh air. And exactly the new image our town needs! You’re perfect for the job!”

          You feel extremely guilty at how much this girl has just trama dumped onto you. Especially with the undertones of how the last mayor treated this town, she is desperate for some help. The people-pleaser in you wants to keep quiet, but you need to tell her the truth; just rip-off the Band-Aid. You try once again to explain yourself, this time with a bit more gusto.

          “That’s’ just the thing, ma’am, I’m not-“

          “Of course we need you to get started right away on your work as mayor!” She interrupts you again! As she clicks her pen a few times, looking up at you expectantly, you get a sinking feeling in your gut.

          “Therefore, first we must complete your resident registration. A mayor really should be a resident!” Isabelle laughs to herself as she comes back around the desk, standing in front of you. She offers you a clipboard with the pink slip attached, the pen tucked under the clip

          “So, what is your name Mayor? Um, full name if you’d please~” Isabelle—bright-eyes, smiling too-wide, clutching the clipboard like’s it’s a life preserver.

          ...she’s staring at you like you’re supposed to know what comes next.

          This was the moment; you should correct her. You know you should. One simple truth, and this whole thing unravels before it ever begins. But when you open your mouth, nothing comes out. Instead, you notice the quiet hum of the office fan, the smell of coffee that’s been left on too long, the setting sunlight crossing her face as she waits for your answer—hopeful, unguarded.

          It’s been a long time since anyone looked at you like that.

          Up until that moment, every glance felt like a test. Every word an opening for…him to pounce, twist, shrink you smaller until you barely recognized the sound of your own voice. But here, miles away from that monster, in this accidental silence between question and answer, something shifts.

          There’s something in her genuine look that makes backing out feel…cruel. She’s almost a mirror of yourself, at least a past version of you. Besides if you tell her the truth, then what? She panics, starts making calls, everyone finds out you’re not the mayor, just you—a nobody with a suitcase full of laundry and bad timing.

          Isabelle believes you’re capable…and maybe that’s enough for now.

          Your hands are shaky when you take the clipboard, unclipping the pen and scrawling your name delicately at the bottom of the page. Blowing gently at the wet ink, you hand it back to her with a sheepish look, unsure of what to do now.

          Her smile widens; eyes scanning over the page with a glow of excitement. About halfway through, Isabelle pulls a face suddenly, like she just ate a lemon. She thwacks herself on the head with the clipboard, groaning as she does.

          “I can’t believe I forgot something so vitally important again!”

          She looks up at you with worried eyes, shuffling back and forth anxiously. “In order to register you as a town resident, we need your address for the form! You don’t have a place to live yet. . .and here I made you come all the way to the town hall for nothing! I apologize for being so flakey!”­

          You think you can see her shoulders begin to shake as she bows her head in shame, staring at the ground. Looking at Isabelle, you feel your heart squeeze in sympathy. She definitely reminds you of yourself not too long ago, always looking to please and constantly apologetic for things that were out of your control. From her habit of smacking herself with various things, you know that this must have been a result of severe stress.

          Who in their right mind left this girl behind to run an entire town by herself?

          Chalk it up to your exhaustion from the day, or your people-pleasing attitude, but your hand moves before you register it. Gently patting her on the head, ruffling the tuft of fur in such a way the bells jingle gently with each movement, you let out a sigh. You hope this wasn’t seen as rude, but you’re trying your best here.

          “Hey, um, Isabelle…? It’s alright, I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

          Suddenly, her head pops up. A paw wipes her eyes quickly before meeting your eyes. She’s a head shorter than you, so she has to look up to meet your gaze. You offer a timid smile, one that you try to muster as much kindness and understanding into as you can.

          She mirrors it easily, like her moment of sadness hadn’t even happened.

          “On the other side of the train tracks on Main Street is Nook’s Homes, the real estate office! It should be easy to get you set up with some property and then—oh, hold on I’ll give you a map it’ll make it easier to explain.” Isabelle flips around, rummaging through the papers once more to pull out a well-worn paper. She hands it to you, pointing to drawings on the surface.

          “Head north from the train station and that will get you to Main Street. It’ll be this blue building here, next to the postal office. They should be open for another hour or so, you’ll have to speak with the owner to see about getting something temporarily. I’m sure he’ll agree to help, Mr. Nook is a very agreeable man.”

          The talk of property makes you sweat a bit, unsure of how to explain you were flat out broke but that would be just another thing to address at a later time.

          Isabelle takes your luggage from you, stumbling for a moment from the weight but setting it down on the waiting chair with an umpf-! Her cheery demeanor returns as she takes your backpack from you as well.

          “Some fresh air and exercise would do you good after a day of train travel! While you talk with Mr. Nook, I can get more of your registration done here! Once you’ve figured out your living situation, please come back here and let me know right away!”

          “Sure, sounds like a plan.”

          You offer her a small wave before walking back into the night air. It was still warm out, with just a hint of a breeze, though the sun had moved to sit lower in the sky. Backtracking was a bit difficult had it not been for the faint footprints in the soft soil. Despite seeing several houses, you have no view of your welcome party. Following Isabelle’s instructions you make sure to be careful as you walk over the railroad tracks and up the stone paved road.

          It's only a ten minute walk from the “neighborhood” but that gave you plenty of time to overthink. You tell yourself this is fine, totally fine. Just find a place to stay, smile, nod, sign a few things, keep the story afloat a little longer until you could figure something out.

         Simple.

          Except it feels familiar—the way your body defaults to compliance, the way you smooth things over before anyone even asks. You know this choreography too well. The difference, you insist, is that this time you chose it. This time it’s your lie, your performance, your peace treaty with the universe. Maybe impersonating someone confident is the first real choice you’ve made in years…

          Main Street comes into view and you are pleasantly surprised at what is there. Much different from the bustling suburbs and city, there are a few essential businesses. There is a humble looking shack labeled Nookling Junction with a smaller shed attached on the side, followed but a two-story building for a clothing store/boutique labeled Abel Sisters. To your left you see the Postal Office with a traditional weathervain slowly wobbling in the breeze; further left is the fated Nook’s Homes. As you make your way through the otherwise barren street, you wonder if there’s some sort of relation between two of the shops—maybe Nook was the founder of Bellwood?

          Nook’s Homes has a darling design of a house within a leaf on the door—it seems as if there’s a foliage motif with the iconography in the town. The lights are one, coming through the frosted windows softly. Stopping on the doorstep, inhaling dust and the remaining sunlight, you hope to give yourself some false confidence. A thought does flash in your head that there was absolutely no going back after doing this. You could just hop on the train and bail, consequences (and guilt) of leaving your things behind be damned.

          The sound of gentle chimes somewhere in the distant helps break you from your thoughts. No, there’s no way you can back out now. After all, it’s not like you’ve ever picked your own home before, and you were secretly excited at owning something on your own. Might as well start fresh somewhere with a decent porch.

          The door chimes as you push it open. The overhead lighting casting a white glow to the space. Stepping in fully, you blink at all the different displays on the floor. From doors to mailboxes, even a small-scale house with a castle exterior? you’re left even more out of your element. A deep voice, male you suspect, call out from the stairs in the back you had yet to notice.

          “I’ll be there in just a moment!” They call.

          You stand there, admiring the detail in the house model when before long the owner makes himself known. At the final step, you turn towards him and take the gentleman who greats you warmly.

          “Ah, hello! Welcome! Welcome! You must be the new mayor, am I right? Isabelle at the town hall told me to expect you! On behalf of the Bellwood chamber of commerce, I’m pleased to welcome you!” His tone is warm and deep. It’s oddly comforting, bringing out your own smile to match his.

          “Thank you, um Mister-?”

          “Nook! Tom Nook.” He states, offering his paw to you. Taking it, you offer your own name while giving a firm shake to the businessman.

          Nook…like Ta-nook-i? He didn’t look like the racoon’s back in the city…

          Taking your hand back after a moment, you end up folding your arms as you looks around the shop.

          “Isabelle told me you could help me with a house?” You ask timidly.

          “I can build one just about anywhere you want, yes, I can indeed!” With his cheery demenor, Tom walks over to the two blue armchairs and motions for you to sit. You accept the offer, careful to stay on the edge of the seat as to not get too comfortable.

          “So have you decided on where you want to live?”

          “Well…” you trail off a bit, wondering how you were going to explain this without trauma dumping on the poor guy. “Because this move was rather, uh—sudden, I don’t have the most bells on hand right now so I’m not sure if that will affect my choices.”

          Mr. Nook hums in understanding. “That’s no problem at all. Nook’s Homes offers loans to cover the remaining cost if the full amount can’t be paid at time of purchase. Let me see what options we currently have available. Now—are you interested in buying new or used?”

          “…what does “used” entail?”

          “I’m not sure if you’ve made your way through the entire neighborhood yet, but the former mayor’s home has sat vacant since their departure. Due to failure of upkeeping contractually obligations, the ownership has fallen back to my company. This means, if you’re willing to take on a bit of a project, then I could give the property to you at a lower cost.”

          The tanuki flips through the papers on the table before pulling out a stapled bundled, checking to see if it was what he needed. Satisfied, he offers them to you. Reading through it, you see that the property was last surveyed a few months ago. Pictures are included on the second page, which you flip to in interest. While the exterior seemed fine for a pre-established home the interior looks rough for ware. The “used” terminology makes more sense as you scan through the photos.

          “As for the electronics and appliances, I could get one of my contractors out tomorrow to make sure everything is within code. That is, if you choose to go with this home option-” picking up a separate bundle of papers, Mr. Nook taps them on his knee, “-if you are, however, interested in a new home we could also discuss what options we have in that regard.”

          “I don’t mind a cheaper option. And you’re sure I wouldn’t get any trouble with the previous owner?” This makes Mr. Nook laugh, a deep belly-laugh that puts you on edge for a moment before he reins himself in.

          “Oh no, no, no, nothing like that. The fact that you’re here in my store is evidence enough that it would remain vacant whether you choose to move in or not, yes, yes.”

          For a moment you feel a bit skeptical.

          “Mr. Nook? I don’t mean to be rude or sound unappreciative, but that sounds a bit good to be true.”

          “I understand your skepticism. Animal-folk and human-folk run operations a bit different here in the countryside than in the city. This is a small town, a place where when folks settle down it’s for the long run, yes. There is a certain trust and comradery—an expectation if you will, in these small towns. What, would you not be able to pay the loan back? Or maybe you don’t intend to?”

          You miss his teasing tone, standing straight up from your seat while clutching the papers while floundering to defend yourself.

          “I assure you I would, Mr. Nook! I intend to do my best as mayor, and that includes fulfilling rental agreements!”

          Remembering yourself, your face flushes hot as you apologize for the outburst. If any offense was taken, Mr. Nook isn’t making it known. His smile remains the same, standing up as well.

          “No need to be sorry. It’s comforting to know you intend to stay honest in your dealings, yes? But, before we sign any paperwork let me show you the property first. I just need to grab my coat first.”

          “Y-yes! Thank you, sir.” You stammer, moving to stand awkwardly beside the tanuki as he grabs a yellow windbreaker from the coat rack in the corner.

          With that, the walk back to town is relatively quiet. It all sort of blurs together as you keep pace with Mr. Nook. There’s no idle talk, which you appreciate since you embarrassed yourself and didn’t want to do so again. Way to make yourself look like a proper mayor…

          As Mr. Nook brings you to the front of the house, his tail flicks with a kind of professional enthusiasm. The pictures don’t do the actual property justice. Weeds are overgrown, making it a bit difficult to walk through the taller grass. The house itself leans a little to one side, like it’s tired of pretending to be sturdy. The roof’s missing shingles, one window’s cracked like a spiderweb, and the porch groans under your weight as if protesting the intrusion when you step upon it.

          “It’s a fixer‑upper, but the price reflects that,” Tom says with a salesman’s smile. You almost laugh. Fixer‑upper feels generous. It’s barely standing, but at least it’s honest about it. As you shake some brambles from your pant leg, Mr. Nook fishes out a key from his coat pocket, fitting it in the front door before promptly pushing it open. Stepping to the side, he nods to indicate you should enter first. Hesitantly, you step inside the space.

          The air is heavy with dust and disuse. Someone’s old life still clings to the walls—faded wallpaper, a forgotten mug on the counter, marks where pictures used to hang. It might have been the real mayor’s house once, but now it belongs to the echo of someone who left in a hurry and didn’t look back.

          And yet—there’s something here. A quiet patience beneath the decay. The kind of silence that doesn’t suffocate but waits. You run your hand along the banister, feeling splinters catch on your skin, and for the first time in a long while, the pain feels like yours.

          The floor itself is sturdy enough, creaky and stubborn under your unexpected weight.

          Tom clears his throat. “So… do you want to continue with the purchase?”

          You look around again: the broken glass, the peeling paint, the dwindling sunlight sneaking through the roof are all proof that, no matter how damaged a place is, the light still finds its way in. A part of you is amused at how the house seemed like a perfect mirror to your current emotional state.

          “Yes,” you say, surprising yourself with the certainty in your voice. “I’ll take it.”

          Tom nods and starts writing things down, but you barely hear him. All you can think is that this ruin, this mess, will be yours.

          Not his.

          Not anyone’s but yours.

          Mr. Nook insists on walking you back around to the front, like a proud host seeing off a very important guest. The title mayor still doesn’t feel real on your shoulders, but you let him talk, his words rolling over you in a practiced, friendly rhythm.

          “Alright mayor—let’s talk numbers. As for repairs, having a pre-existing frame is good in the sense it cuts down on construction and preparation time. With your purchase, including the cost of the land, materials, building costs, et cetera…” Mr. Nook trails off, scratching his chin in thought. “…well, the calculation is complicated so I can’t come up with it just now. I’ll tell you the total later. Anyway, I’m sure you’re very busy since you just moved here…Once you’ve taken care of other things, stop by my store again to get the bill, hm?”

          You nod, understanding that those types of numbers would most likely be back at his office. However, you don’t think that you could sleep in this house given the state that it’s in. Mr. Nook must sense your hesitation, suddenly come to a realization.

          “…Ah, but I suppose you still need a place to rest your head, right? Luckily I presumed you may have gone with this “used” option and had something set up head of time.”

          True to his word, he’s already had someone set up a tent in the patch of overgrown grass beside the porch, the canvas a clean, bright yellow against the forested background. Certainly you would have noticed it were it not for your sleep deprived state of being.

          “It’ll be just for tonight,” he says, ears perked and tail giving an easy swish. “My crew will have the place fixed up by morning.”

          You give him a look that says sure, and I’m really the mayor, and he laughs, delighted rather than offended.

          “They’re hard workers,” he adds. “Quicker than most crews in the city, you’ll see.”

          You eye the tent again, imagining hammers at dawn, ladders scraping, shouted directions right outside your thin fabric walls. He must read the hesitation on your face because he lifts his hands in a soothing gesture.

          “Don’t worry, we’ll keep it quiet. You won’t be woken up. We’re used to working around people.”

          Used to working around people.

          The phrase lands strangely, stirring up memories of tiptoeing around one person in particular, bending yourself into shapes that hurt just to keep the peace. You swallow and look back at the house, at its broken windows and peeling trim, the way it waits without judgment. This time, they’re working around you.

          Mr. Nook clears his throat, businesslike again. “Well, I’ll be returning to my shop so let’s part ways here. You need to head back to town hall, hm? Stop by the office in the morning, and I’ll have the keys ready. Just need to crunch the numbers and such, yes, yes.”

          You nod, because that’s what you do, but it feels different now—less like surrender and more like acceptance of a deal you actually chose to make. A tent for one night. A house by tomorrow. A life that, piece by splintered piece, might start belonging to you.

          When did you start getting so sentimental?

You might’ve had a bit of a panic attack… just a little one. You fled to the bathroom and locked yourself in there for about half an hour. The music was too loud, the thick smoke was nauseating, and if you had to stand under the flashing neon lights for much longer you think you’d start screaming. The stalls muffled the sounds a bit, which was better than nothing. (Though you did hear a couple of girls come in to… expel their stomachs. That didn’t help.)

When you got out, it was clear to anyone that you weren’t ok. The bartender, Jacob, took one look at you and grimaced.

“Hey, you look rough. Do you want something from back here? Dealer probably wouldn’t mind if it was you to be honest.”

“No thanks. I don’t really wanna get sick tonight.”

“Fair enough,”

You tried to help him out even though you knew you wanted nothing to do with the club patrons right now- but he was kind enough to give you reprive and let you stay at the back of the bar for the rest of the night.

After many long hours, the club finally closed and everyone dispersed. You felt like you could take a good long breath; and it meant the next bus was coming soon.

You took a peek out the door. The sky was as dark as ever and you could feel an immediate chill down to your bones, even though you only opened the door a crack. The music’s off and so were all the lights of the club, except for the bar. Your eyes and throat feel dry. You can tell your muscles were going to be sore once you got home, and honestly, you might sleep on the bar floor if the club wasn’t so eerie.

For the record, you do prefer a closed club over the sensory overload that was an open one, but the silence is deafening and this building always felt haunted when it wasn’t in use.

You really didn’t want to go home in the dark. You don’t feel safe- not that you ever did, but you were especially tired tonight and you don’t think you’ll be aware and alert enough to be walking home in the dark. But you also don’t think you have it in you to stay in the club until six… if you’re going home, you have to go now. The next bus won’t come for another hour.

Not like leaving in the early morning is any more dangerous than going at midnight. … I think…

Might as well.

You yawn and toss your coat over your shoulders when you hear heavy footsteps approaching.

Even though you could guess who it was, you yelp and drop your bag when you see the Dealer’s large face in front of you.

“Careful, angel. You never know when there’s a greedy monster’s lurking around these parts,” the Dealer laughed, catching your bag and returning it to you. “Of course, it’s always a pleasure to see you but… why are you still here? I thought I told you you could go home early if you wanted.”

“Oh um, yes but… I missed the bus.” You sighed. “There was a guy we needed to kick out, and by the time I looked at the clock I realized I missed the last one.”

The Dealer frowns and tsks. “Those are the kinds of men I wish were upstairs with me instead. Sorry you had to deal with them, beautiful.”

“Th-thanks!” You mumbled. You never knew what to do when he calls you those things… it’s always more respectful than what you’d expect him to say.

“So are you… done… up there…?” You floundered. You didn’t really know what goes on upstairs, just that the Dealer spends all his time up there and you hear what sounds like gunshots but uh… you try not to think about it too hard!

Sometimes it was a bit of a gamble whether or not the Dealer was going to show face at all, usually towards the end of your shift. There are nights when he comes down full of life and beaming his razor-grin, nights when he comes down heaving and ask for an obscene amount of beers, and then other nights where he doesn’t show up at all… and the upstairs is quiet. Jacob tells you that out of all nights not to go upstairs, it would be the quiet ones.

The Dealer smiled sinisterly, grabbing a tissue from over the bar counter and wipes the ends of his teeth.

“... Yes… It was a plenteous one.”

You can’t tell in this lighting. The Dealer’s teeth never looked ‘right.  Crooked, sharp, too many, and stained a rusted color, and right now it looks redder than usual. Bright red. Whatever it was, it stained the tissue the Dealer used and it almost looked like…

You swallowed.

“That’s good to hear!” You think? “Thank you Dealer, boss, sir. I have to go now- the bus comes in twenty minutes and it’s a fifteen minute walk from here.”

You don’t know what to call him sometimes. He prefers the name ‘Dealer’ the most, and that’s what most people call him. You don’t think that’s his real name, but no one knows his real name as far as you know, and the man (if he even is one) is cagey about it.

(“Boss? No… just call me Dealer, angel. Everyone does.”

“Is that… your real name?”

“Practically. Besides… I love hearing it from you.”)

“Who are you going with?”

“Um… no one,”

“What?” Dealer scowled, “what about the boy?”

“Jacob had something else to do, he’s not taking the bus my way tonight…”

The dealer strides past you towards the door and opens it wide. A cold, dark street looks back at him. He seems to be thoughtful… then turns to you with conviction.

“... Right, c’mon treasure, I’m coming with.” The Dealer barked, tossing his trench over himself.

“I- really?”

“Yeah. Now what kind of boss would I be if I let a beautiful thing like you walk alone down those streets?”

Your eyes… sparkle. You’re touched. You’ve been dreading the walk home to the point that you almost considered crying in the bathroom until the sun rose, but now that you’re going to have a large, menacing presence lumbering near you, you feel your stress melt away. Even the scariest club goers pale whenever they see his face.

“Th-thank you so much! That’d be great”

He extends his arm towards you like a gentleman. It was almost hilarious how big his arm was, built more like a log. You’re happy to take it.

“Let’s catch that bus of yours, shall we?”

*****

The walk to the bus stop was the most atmospheric it’s ever been. Walking down these streets were always so tense. Granted you only started working at the club only recently, but you don’t think you’ll get used to the walk home in the dark anytime soon. And you’ve had your fair share of walk-home-alones before, and they never get any better no matter how many times you’ve done it. It’s dark, you always need to pay attention and sometimes even that’s not enough. Fast walking, hoping that man behind you isn’t actually following you…

But now, with Dealer next to you? He walked leisurely with a smile. Even hunched over he was the biggest man you’ve ever seen. You felt like you didn’t have to on the lookout, even enjoy the breeze a little.

“Is your home this way too, Dealer?”

“Hm? Oh, no. I’m not going home.”

“...?” You tilt your head at him. “You mean you’re staying at the club?”

“Mhm. Don’t have anywhere else I need to be.”

“... Do you live in the club?”

Though he didn’t have pupils, it looked like the Dealer was looking somewhere else, and his hollow eyes crinkled. “You could say that.”

… Why did he have to be so enigmatic? What does he mean when he says things like that?

“What about you, angel? How’s yours?”

“It’s nothing that fancy,” you laughed awkwardly. “Just the usual shoebox apartment, just a couple of bus stops from here. It’s not the best but…”

You trail off as something catches your eyes. You purse your lips, looking nervously at a group of smoking men in the alleyway. Their eyes were seedy and all of them had an unpleasant scowl, cigarettes stuck between their teeth. You looked away too late, because they turned to glare at you.

It didn’t last long, though.

The Dealer looks over your shoulder and flashes his toothy, red grin.

“Good evening.”

The men’s eyes all widen like saucers and in an instant they scramble out of sight.

… You walked closer to the Dealer and held his arm.

The Dealer chuckles. “You can relax, angel. Those boys won’t bother us.”

“Do you know them?”

“Yes. One of their men died in the club.”

You blink your eyes and shook your head in disbelief. This information, given to you so freely- and the Dealer didn’t seem all that bothered by it.

You bit your lip, thinking about the questions you shoved under the metaphorical bed all this time. You thought about the gunshots you hear from upstairs.

You look up at him.

“Dealer?”

“Yes?”

Rip the bandage off. He doesn’t seem all to bothered by it anyway.

“Can I ask what you usually do upstairs?”

His eyes widened a little, looking more alert. You expect him to react emotionally- not sure in what way, but he doesn’t emote beyond that. It was less like he was upset and more like he was excited.

“I run a game up there. A gambling game. If you’ve noticed, I don’t really pay attention to the club… I have someone else deals with it, I’m simply the de facto owner. The game is where I pour my attention.

“It brings all the gamblers who’s willing to bet their life away, which is most lucrative… not to mention, fun.”

Your brows furrow. The Dealer looks at you knowingly.

“You’re wondering about the gunshots, aren’t you?”

“Yeah…”

“Go ahead, ask.”

The Dealer looks so… unbothered. From the way the other people in the club frown and speak vaguely about it, you thought the Dealer would be equally as secretive about his activities. Thinking back at it, you realized how many players you must’ve encountered on the job- people who walk in disgruntled, sometimes drunk, sometimes just obstinate, almost angrily asking where the ‘roulette’ is. Of course you didn’t know anything about a game, and had to be saved by Jacob who quickly sent them upstairs.

You hem and haw as you ask the question: “So um… those are… were those for the… cheaters…?”

The Dealer laughs.

“Cheaters? No, not most of them. It’s hard to cheat in front of me and get away with only a few gunshots,” the Dealer looks on darkly.

“So… you’re just killing gamblers?”

“It depends on how the game goes whether they die or not, though most at least stand in the doorway of death. But they’re definitely getting shot.”

You would’ve stopped walking right there if you didn’t remember you were trying to catch the bus. The Dealer slows down his walking pace a little for you.

“How can you just say that so easily?” You ask, less judgemental, more genuine, distressed confusion.

“You can only play once you discharge any claims towards me and my parties by signing the waiver. It’s legally binding.”

“So basically them telling you they allow themselves to be shot?”

“Something like that.”

The Dealer summarizes. “It’s a game of roulette, but with a shotgun. Buckshot roulette. We take turns with the gun, either choosing to aim the barrel to yourself or the other player.”

So… it’s like russian roulette, as you know it.

You knew whatever was happening upstairs had death written all over it, but you didn’t know it would be something as harrowing as literally gambling with your life.

You’re shaking a little when you ask again.

“H… have you ever gotten shot?”

You’d guess at least a few times, right? He’s lucky that none of them hit his vital organs or…

The Dealer snrks.

“Lots.”

“... Huh?”

You look again at the edge of his mouth, something glistening under the broken street lamp. He’s still holding the tissue from earlier, crumpled and messy in his fist. … It looks much redder than it was before.

“Defibrillators and blood transfusions work like a charm,” he says matter of factly, winking at you.

… You… you don’t think it works that way???

The Dealer takes one look at your flabbergasted face and laughs.

“It gets my blood pumping… after I get my face blown off. Exhilarating,”

Your mouth hangs open.

“How are you alive after all that?” You cry helplessly, “Are you sure you’re not up there fighting, I don’t know… gang members or something?”

“No, they know not to. They have no reason to, after all. Don’t want to knock on the devil’s door so to speak.”

As you wonder if you’ll ever understand the Dealer’s cryptid wording, you find the only pleasant part of the street. The bus stop was up ahead, sitting in an island of yellow light from a street lamp that was actually upkept. The street itself was empty and silent.

Of course, you didn’t realize how most cleared out as soon as they saw the Dealer.

You run up to the time table and open your phone to check.

You sigh. “Phew, just in time. It’s gonna come here in a bit.”

The Dealer stops short of the street, his shadow long and dark under the light. You turn to him and smile.

“Thank you so much for accompanying me, Dealer,” you say softly and sincerely.

The Dealer blinks owlishly at you. His smile stretches and his cheeks darken a little. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think it was a blush.

To be honest, there was a small part of you that didn’t trust the dealer completely and hoped it wasn’t a ploy for something more nefarious… and it wasn’t. Though now that you think about it again, you were also alone with him in the club, as the others had left earlier. If anything, it’d be the best place to jump you…

You’re glad he wasn’t like that.

You step back when he bends down on one knee. He was still taller than you, and when he places his goliath hand on your shoulder you’re reminded of a parent talking to a child.

“Be careful with your life, ok angel?” He says, his forehead pinched. “I never want to see you lying dead on the ground.”

You give him an appreciative smile. It’s… really sweet, coming from him.

“I will.”

It isn’t much, but he seems reassured by that. He leans in a little and for a brief moment you thought he was about to kiss your forehead, but he braces himself on his knee and stands back up.

You both turn as the bus appears out of the corner, the lights shining into your eyes. It creaks and steams as it stops, and the door folds open. You quickly climb onto it and shiver when you’re blasted by the heater- glad to be out of the cold. You turn to wave at the Dealer, but by the time you do, he’s no longer there.

You stand there dumbfounded as the door closes quietly, and the bus rumbles as it departs. You stare at the lonely bus stop until you can’t see it anymore and finally take one of the many empty seats.

…