Olivia woke slowly.

  Not with a jolt, not with the familiar tightness in her shoulders or the dull ache in her lower back, but the way people were probably meant to wake—drifting upward through layers of sleep, warmth lingering, breath deep and even.

  She lay still for a moment, eyes closed, noticing the absence of pain first.

  No stiff neck.

  No cramped hip.

  No springs digging into her spine through a futon that had long since given up pretending it was a bed.

  That thought almost made her frown.

  She opened her eyes.

  Sunlight filtered softly through unfamiliar curtains, pale gold and tentative, catching on the carved curve of a sleigh bedpost and the edge of a standing wardrobe she hadn’t owned yesterday. The ceiling above her was higher than any she’d known in years, the air quiet but alive in a way that felt… companionable.

  Oh.

  Right.

  She exhaled and let herself sink back into the pillows, a small, incredulous smile tugging at her mouth.

  Not the crackerbox apartment.

  Not the broken futon.

  Not Trenton, exactly—not anymore.

  Her new bedroom.

  Her new life.

  She glanced toward the window. The sun was just beginning to peek over the pond beyond the glass, morning still undecided about committing fully to the day. The light had that early quality—soft, forgiving, full of possibility.

  She reached for her phone on the nightstand out of habit, checking the time.

  6:07 a.m.

  Wednesday.

  Plenty of time.

  Breakfast wasn’t until seven. The front doors wouldn’t unlock until nine. She was expected at the desk a little before that, but for once—for once—there was no frantic countdown ticking in her chest.

  No mad dash.

  No calculating bus schedules.

  No choosing between coffee and food because she couldn’t afford both.

  She stretched experimentally, arms overhead, toes flexing, marveling again at how good her body felt. Rested. Whole. As if the night had done more than just sleep—like it had gently put her back together.

  Olivia lay there, listening to the quiet hum of the Station beneath her, thinking.

  About goblins and ghosts.

  About laundry sprites with questionable aesthetic restraint.

  About a job that came with care instead of extraction.

  About the fact that she didn’t have to run anymore.

  The thought settled over her like a blanket.

  She closed her eyes again—not to sleep, not yet—but to simply exist in the space between what had been and what was about to begin.

  For the first time in a very long while, morning didn’t feel like a threat.

  It felt like an invitation.

  Eventually, the bed shifted.

  Not abruptly. Not enough to startle her or break the spell of the morning—but a subtle adjustment, the mattress easing beneath her in a way that felt almost like a stretch. A gentle nudge, as if to say: You’re awake. You’re rested. It’s time.

  Olivia laughed softly.

  “All right,” she murmured. “I get the hint.”

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, still marveling at how light she felt. No groan, no bracing herself against the wall. Just upright, steady, present in her own body.

  Her morning routine unfolded easily. Bathroom, sink, mirror. The water warmed itself again without fuss, perfectly behaved. She brushed her teeth—her toothpaste, still absurdly reassuring—and splashed her face, watching sleep finally fade from her eyes.

  Then she crossed back into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe.

  She froze.

  The clothes she’d brought were there, neatly arranged—but they were no longer alone.

  There were more now. Many more.

  Underwear in soft fabrics and sensible cuts, exactly her size. Socks she knew she’d like. Shoes—proper shoes, comfortable and stylish, not the half-dead pairs she’d been rotating through. Slacks in flattering cuts. Blouses in colors she gravitated toward without ever consciously choosing. Practical, elegant, hers.

  And there—set slightly apart, like it was waiting for permission—hung a bolero-style suit jacket. Tailored. Smart. Professional without being stiff. On the breast, embroidered neatly, was the OtherWorlds logo.

  Olivia reached out and touched it, fingers brushing the stitching.

  “…Wow,” she breathed.

  As she turned to close the wardrobe, something else caught her eye.

  On hooks on the inside of the door hung her ears headband and her clip-on tail.

  Cleaned. Groomed. Lovingly brushed, the fur fluffed and glossy in a way she hadn’t seen in years. Even the headband looked reinforced, the stitching tighter, the fit better.

  She burst out laughing.

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  “Laundry sprites,” she said aloud. “Absolutely laundry sprites.”

  She dressed quickly, choosing slacks and a blouse that felt like confidence without pretense, then slipped on the bolero jacket. It fit perfectly, like it had been made with her posture in mind. She settled her ears onto her head, clipped the tail in place, giving it a small approving flick.

  Ready.

  More than ready.

  She took one last look around the room—no longer a borrowed space, but unmistakably hers—and headed out, locking the door behind her.

  The stairs carried her down toward the heart of the station, the smell of breakfast already drifting up to meet her. Voices murmured ahead. Cups clinked. Something toasted.

  Olivia smiled and stepped into the day, ears up, tail steady, on her way to breakfast in the break room—and the first real morning of the rest of her life.

  She stepped into the break room to the low hum of morning comfort.

  Charles was already there, impeccably dressed as ever, pouring tea with deliberate care. Miss LaDonna sat at the table, a mug cradled between her hands, sunlight catching softly in her hair. Both looked up as Olivia entered.

  “Good morning,” Charles said warmly. “You’re up early. How did you sleep?”

  “Really well,” Olivia said, smiling without having to think about it. “Like… actually well.”

  Miss LaDonna’s expression softened. “I’m glad.”

  Charles gestured toward the counter. “Help yourself. Breakfast waits for no one here.”

  Olivia turned—and stopped short.

  It wasn’t extravagant, but it was generous. Fresh fruit, yogurt, eggs done several ways, toast and pastries still warm, a pot of something savory that smelled like it had been simmering patiently for hours. Real food. Enough food.

  She grabbed a plate and loaded it up with enthusiasm that surprised even her, then paused, realizing something.

  “…Wow,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve eaten this well since I left Perth.”

  Charles chuckled. “That will not do at all. We take meals seriously.”

  “And regularly,” Miss LaDonna added.

  Olivia joined them at the table, appetite fully engaged. For a few minutes, conversation stayed light—comments on the weather, the quality of the bread, whether Bernard would emerge later asking for something lemon-flavored again.

  Then, somewhere between bites, Olivia found herself talking.

  “I moved over when I turned nineteen,” she said casually, as if it hadn’t been a huge, terrifying thing. “Thought it’d be… I don’t know. Bigger. Easier to disappear into.”

  “And was it?” Miss LaDonna asked gently.

  Olivia shrugged. “Yes and no. I’ve lived in a lot of places. Low-rent stuff. Cramped. Always temporary.” She smiled wryly. “Temp jobs, too. Warehouses, call centers, data entry. Things that make you feel replaceable even while you’re doing them.”

  Charles listened without interrupting, tea forgotten for the moment.

  “I don’t really miss Perth,” Olivia went on. “It was home, I guess, but… Mum’s always busy. Real estate. Big office. Bigger ambition.” She snorted softly. “I called her Monday night. She was proud, but mostly wanted to tell me about a new waterfront development.”

  Miss LaDonna nodded, understanding in her eyes.

  “And my dad,” Olivia added, quieter now. “He left when I was twelve. Just… walked out. Haven’t heard from him since.”

  No one rushed to fill the silence that followed.

  Olivia took another bite, then looked up, surprised to find she didn’t feel the old tightness in her chest. Just facts. Past tense.

  “Well,” she said after a moment, lifting her fork slightly, “whatever this is—” she gestured vaguely around the room “—it’s already better.”

  Charles smiled, not triumphant, just pleased. “I’m very glad you think so.”

  Miss LaDonna reached across the table and squeezed Olivia’s hand once, briefly. Solid. Present.

  Breakfast continued, unhurried and warm, and for the first time in years, Olivia ate without counting, without planning the next meal in her head.

  She ate like someone who expected to be fed again.

  Breakfast lingered the way good mornings should.

  Between bites and refilled mugs, the conversation wandered gently. Charles mentioned, almost as an aside, “Any time you want to call your mother—or anyone else, for that matter—you’re welcome to use the phone at your desk.”

  Olivia looked up. “Really? International calls are… kind of brutal.”

  “Oh, our long-distance rates are excellent,” Charles said airily.

  Miss LaDonna smiled over the rim of her cup. “Even to Alpha Centauri.”

  “Or the Wild Woods,” Charles added helpfully.

  Olivia snorted, then stopped. “…You’re not joking, are you.”

  “Not even a little,” Miss LaDonna said, serene.

  A moment later, Charles asked, “Do you have everything you need at the front desk? Supplies, forms, drawers accounted for?”

  “I think so,” Olivia said. “I found most of it yesterday. The binder helped. And the labels.”

  “Yes, the labels are very earnest,” Charles agreed.

  “If you need anything,” Miss LaDonna said, standing and gathering her things, “we’ll both be nearby.”

  “And Bernard,” Charles added, pointing vaguely upward. “Always just a shout to the vents away.”

  Olivia smiled. “Got it.”

  Charles’s tone shifted, just slightly—still warm, but carrying weight. “The only rule that truly matters: no matter what form a visitor or caller takes, be polite.”

  She met his eyes. “I can do that.”

  He smiled, satisfied. “I know you can.”

  Breakfast wrapped up naturally after that. Plates were cleared, mugs rinsed, good mornings exchanged. Olivia and Charles walked together back to the lobby, the station fully awake now in its quiet way.

  She settled in behind the front desk, straightening a stack of clipboards, adjusting her chair. It felt… right. Familiar already.

  “I’ll check on you in a bit,” Charles said, already drifting backward toward one of the branching hallways.

  “Extension nine-nine-nine,” Olivia said automatically.

  He laughed. “You’re learning.”

  Then he was gone.

  The lobby hummed softly. Lights steady. Kettle warm.

  At exactly 8:30, a door at the far end of the east hallway creaked open.

  Olivia looked up just in time to see a small red mail cart roll out on its own, wheels squeaking cheerfully as it trundled down the hall toward her. No one pushed it. No one followed.

  It stopped neatly at the front desk.

  Then rolled forward another inch.

  The cart nudged her leg—gently, politely—as if waiting.

  Olivia blinked and looked down at it.

  “…Oh,” she said. “You must be the mail.”

  It nudged her again.

  Not hard—just enough to be unmistakably patiently annoyed.

  “Oh—right. Sorry,” Olivia said, feeling ridiculous and oddly apologetic.

  She scooted her chair back and began unloading the cart, stacking envelopes, padded mailers, and a couple of surprisingly heavy boxes onto the desk. Some were neatly addressed in tidy handwriting, others bore printed labels, stamps from places she recognized and a few she decidedly did not.

  When the last package was set down, the cart remained where it was.

  Waiting.

  Olivia glanced at it, then at the desk, then back at the cart.

  “…You want something, don’t you?”

  The cart did not move, but there was a distinct expectant quality to the silence.

  Charles had said: No matter what form a visitor or caller takes, be polite.

  “All right,” she said, nodding to herself.

  She reached into the candy bowl on the corner of the desk—one of those things that must have always been there—and selected a wrapped piece, bright and crinkly. She placed it carefully on the cart’s platform.

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  Then the cart rolled forward just enough to bump her leg once more—gentle, satisfied—and turned itself around. Its wheels squeaked cheerfully as it trundled back down the east hallway, disappearing through the mail room door. The door closed behind it with a quiet, contented click.

  Olivia watched it go, then looked down at the desk full of mail.

  “…Okay,” she said softly. “I can do this.”

  She picked up the first envelope and began sorting—by name, by department, stacking each pile neatly just as the Procedures binder had suggested. It was simple, methodical work, grounding in a way she hadn’t expected.

  The lobby hummed around her, the station going about its quiet business.

  And Olivia, finally, was exactly where she was supposed to be.