The Mender's Tale (TWoWCU Book 2)

 

THE TERRIBLE THIEF

 

Samuel—Sam to everyone who knew him, which was unfortunately everyone in the village—was the worst thief in three counties.

This was not a matter of opinion. It was documented fact.

There was the incident with the baker's window. Sam had spent two weeks watching the Shop, learning the schedule, planning his approach. He'd waited until midnight, climbed the tree next to the Shop, and attempted to slip through the second-story window.

He got stuck.

Halfway in, halfway out, wedged at the hips, dangling like a particularly unsuccessful burglar-shaped ornament.

It took the baker, his wife, and a very confused blacksmith to pull him free. They didn't even press charges. They just... sighed.

"Samuel," the baker had said, shaking his head. "Why?"

Sam had no good answer.

 

Then there was the time with the merchant's shop.

He'd picked the lock—successfully, for once—and slipped inside. The plan was simple: grab a few bolts of expensive fabric, slip back out, sell them in the next town over.

The plan went wrong when he accidentally barred the door from the inside.

He spent the entire night trapped in the shop, surrounded by silks and velvets he couldn't steal because he couldn't get out. When the merchant arrived in the morning and opened the door, Sam had been sitting on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, looking miserable.

The merchant had just pointed at the door.

Sam left.

No charges. Just disappointment.

 

And then there was the roof incident.

Sam had spent an entire afternoon watching the old manor house at the edge of the village square. The owner—a wealthy merchant—was known to keep a lockbox of coins in his study. The study had a balcony. The balcony had a trellis.

It seemed foolproof.

Sam climbed the trellis at midnight. Made it to the balcony. Picked the lock on the balcony door—it only took him twenty minutes this time, which was a personal record.

He slipped inside, found the lockbox, and—miracle of miracles—managed to pick that lock too.

The coins were right there. Heavy. Gold. Perfect.

He grabbed a handful, shoved them in his pockets, and turned to leave.

That's when he realized he had no idea how to get back down.

The trellis, which had seemed sturdy on the way up, now looked flimsy and far too narrow. The balcony railing was higher than he remembered. And the ground—the ground was very, very far away.

Sam stood on the balcony, clutching the railing, frozen.

He couldn't go down. He couldn't go back inside—the merchant would wake up. He couldn't jump—he'd break both legs.

He was stuck.

Again.

He spent the next three hours sitting on the balcony, knees pulled to his chest, waiting for dawn and trying not to think about how badly he'd miscalculated.

When the sun finally rose, Rose appeared in the square below, carrying a ladder.

She didn't say a word. Just set it against the balcony, held it steady, and waited.

Sam climbed down, shame-faced and exhausted.

When he reached the ground, Rose held out her hand.

Sam pulled the coins from his pockets and dropped them into her palm.

She walked into the manor house, returned them to the lockbox, and came back out.

"You forgot to plan your exit," she said.

"I know."

"Again."

"I know."

Rose picked up the ladder and started walking away. "Next time, think about how you're getting down before you climb up."

"There won't be a next time," Sam called after her.

Rose didn't even turn around. "Yes, there will."

She was right.

There always was.

 

There was also the chicken incident.

Sam didn't like to talk about the chicken incident.

He'd been attempting to sneak into the butcher's cold room—just to see if he could, he told himself—when he'd accidentally knocked over a crate.

The crate had contained chickens.

Live chickens.

They exploded into the night like feathered chaos, squawking and flapping and scattering in every direction. Sam, panicking, tried to catch them. Tried to shove them back into the crate. Tried to quiet them down before someone heard.

This only made things worse.

The chickens squawked louder. One pecked him on the hand. Another got tangled in his shirt. A third somehow ended up on his head.

By the time the butcher came running out with a lantern, Sam was on his hands and knees in the dirt, covered in feathers, desperately chasing a hen that wanted nothing to do with him.

The butcher had stared at him for a long moment.

Then he'd started laughing.

He laughed so hard he had to sit down. Other villagers came to see what the commotion was about, and they started laughing too.

Sam, still covered in feathers, had helped round up the chickens in silence.

No one pressed charges.

They just... laughed.

For weeks afterward, people would cluck at him when he walked by.

Rose had brought him a chicken pie the next day. "To remember your victory," she'd said, completely deadpan.

Sam had never lived it dow

 

The dogs were the worst part.

Every dog in the village knew him by scent. The moment Sam got within twenty feet of a house, they'd start barking. Howling. Raising the alarm like he was a one-man invading army.

He'd tried everything. Different routes. Different times of night. Even rubbing himself with herbs to mask his scent.

The dogs still knew.

It was humiliating.

"Sam."

He looked up from where he'd been crouched behind a rain barrel, waiting for the dogs two houses down to stop barking.

Rose stood there, hands on her hips, a basket of bread tucked under one arm. She had flour on her cheek and exasperation in her eyes.

"What did you do this time?" she asked.

"Nothing," Sam said quickly.

"The dogs are barking."

"That's not my fault."

Rose raised an eyebrow.

Sam sighed and stood up, brushing off his trousers. "I was just... looking."

"Looking."

"At the house."

"Sam."

"I wasn't going to actually—"

"Yes, you were."

She was right. He had been. She never missed anything.

Rose shook her head and held out the basket. "Here. Take this to your mother. And stop trying to rob the Hendersons. Their dog is mean."

"I know," Sam muttered, taking the basket. The bread was still warm. Rose made the best bread in three counties. Possibly four.

"Why do you keep doing this?" Rose asked, her voice softer now. "You're terrible at it."

"I know."

"You get caught every time."

"I know."

"So why?"

Sam looked down at the bread. He didn't have a good answer for that either. He just... wanted to be good at something. Wanted to be clever. Dashing. The kind of person who could slip in and out of places unseen.

Instead, he was the village joke.

"I'll figure it out," he said quietly.

Rose sighed. "You're going to get yourself hurt one of these days."

"I'll be careful."

"You got stuck in a window, Sam."

"That was one time."

"It was three times."

Sam winced. She was right about that too.

Rose reached out and brushed the flour off her own cheek, then flicked it at him. "Go home. Eat the bread. Stop trying to rob people."

"I will."

"You won't."

"Probably not."

She smiled despite herself. "You're impossible."

"I know."

Rose shook her head and walked away, her basket swinging at her side.

Sam watched her go, then looked down at the bread.

He really was terrible at this.

But he'd get better. He had to.

One day, he'd pull off the perfect heist.

One day, he'd be the kind of thief people told good stories about. With more Legend than Laughter.

One day.

 

BEFORE THE FALL

 

Sam sat on the stone wall behind the bakery, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and pink.

Rose emerged from the back door, two warm rolls in her hands. She handed one to Sam and settled beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched.

"You're going to fall," she said, not looking at him.

"I'm not going to fall."

"You're sitting on the edge."

"I'm very balanced."

Rose smiled despite herself. "You got stuck in a window last week."

"That's different."

"How?"

"Windows are tricky. Walls are simple."

She laughed—that bright, genuine laugh that made Sam's chest feel warm. He'd loved that laugh since they were children. Loved the way her nose crinkled when she smiled. Loved the flour that always seemed to dust her cheek no matter how many times she wiped it away.

"What are you thinking about?" Rose asked, tearing off a piece of her roll.

"You," Sam said honestly.

Rose's cheeks flushed pink. "Liar."

"I'm not lying."

"You're always thinking about your next heist."

"Not right now." Sam reached over and brushed the flour off her cheek with his thumb. "Right now, I'm thinking about how lucky I am."

Rose's expression softened. "Sam..."

"I mean it." He took her hand, lacing their fingers together. "You're the best thing in my life, Rose. You know that, right?"

"Even better than successfully picking a lock?"

"Much better."

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "Then why do you keep doing it? The thieving. You're terrible at it, and you know you're terrible at it. Why not just... stop?"

Sam was quiet for a moment, watching the sun sink lower. "Because I want to be good at something. I want to be someone you can be proud of."

Rose lifted her head to look at him. "I am proud of you."

"I get stuck in windows, Rose."

"You make me laugh."

"I can't sneak past a single dog in this village."

"You're kind. You help your mother. You remember everyone's names."

"That's not the same as being... I don't know. Impressive."

Rose cupped his face in her hands, her palms warm and smelling faintly of yeast and cinnamon. "You're impressive to me. Just as you are. You don't need to steal anything to prove that."

Sam wanted to believe her. He really did.

But there was a voice in the back of his head that whispered: You're the village joke. The failed thief. The boy who gets stuck in windows. What does she see in you?

Rose must have seen something in his expression, because she leaned forward and kissed him—soft and sweet and tasting like honey.

When she pulled back, she was smiling. "Stop thinking so much."

"I can't help it."

"Try."

Sam kissed her again, longer this time, and for a moment, the voice went quiet.

For a moment, sitting on the wall with Rose in his arms and the sunset painting the world gold, he felt like maybe—just maybe—he was enough.

 

The summer fair had come to the village.

Sam and Rose walked through the market square hand in hand, weaving between stalls that were selling ribbons and honey cakes and carved wooden toys. Lanterns hung from every post, casting warm golden light as the sun set.

Rose stopped at a stall selling flowers. She picked up a daisy, twirled it between her fingers, and tucked it behind Sam's ear.

He laughed. "Really?"

"It suits you."

"I look ridiculous."

"You look perfect."

Sam pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. She smelled like cinnamon and sunshine.

They bought roasted chestnuts from a vendor and shared them, sitting on the edge of the fountain in the square. Rose leaned against Sam's shoulder, her hand still in his, and watched the lanterns sway in the evening breeze.

"I could stay here forever," she murmured.

"Here? At the fair?"

"Here. With you."

Sam squeezed her hand. "Me too."

A musician started playing a fiddle nearby. Rose stood and pulled Sam to his feet.

"Dance with me."

"I don't know how."

"Neither do I."

They swayed together, clumsy and laughing, as the music filled the square. Rose's hair caught the lantern light. Her smile was brighter than anything Sam had ever stolen.

When the song ended, she kissed him—quick and sweet—and then rested her forehead against his.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too."

And for that one perfect moment, nothing else mattered.

Time passed almost too quickly. Each moment with Rose was sweeter than the last. They really were perfect together. The townsfolk would even say that they were the best couple in town. Rose's mother was already dreaming of her wedding day.

Sam had never been happier.

 

THE BREAKING POINT

Sam limped into the bakery just after dawn, trying not to wince with every step.

Rose was already there, kneading dough with practiced efficiency. The smell of fresh bread filled the warm space, and for a moment, Sam almost forgot about the throbbing pain in his ankle.

"Morning," he said, trying to sound casual.

Rose looked up. Her eyes went immediately to the way he was standing—weight on his left foot, right foot barely touching the ground.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"Sam."

"I'm fine."

Rose wiped her hands on her apron and came around the counter. "You're limping."

"Just twisted it a little. It's nothing."

"Show me."

"Rose, I'm fine—"

"Sit down and show me your ankle."

There was no arguing with that tone. Sam sat on the wooden stool near the hearth and reluctantly pulled up his trouser leg.

The ankle was swollen. Bruised purple and black. Definitely not "nothing."

Rose's expression went very still. "What happened?"

"I fell."

"Fell from where?"

Sam hesitated. "A... roof."

"A roof."

"The Hendersons' roof. I was just—"

"You were trying to rob them again." Rose's voice was flat. "After their dog nearly took your hand off last time."

"I thought if I went from above—"

"You fell off a roof, Sam!" Rose's voice cracked. "You could have broken your neck! You could have died!"

"But I didn't—"

"This time!" She stepped back, her hands shaking. "This time you didn't. But what about next time? What about when you get stuck somewhere and I'm not there to bring a ladder? What about when the dogs don't just bark, they bite? What about when someone decides to press charges and you end up in jail?"

"That won't happen—"

"It will!" Rose's eyes were bright with tears. "It will happen, Sam, because you won't stop. You keep doing this, over and over, and I keep—" Her voice broke. "I keep watching you hurt yourself, and I can't—I can't do this anymore."

Sam's chest tightened. "Rose—"

"I love you," she said quietly. "I have loved you since we were children. But I can't watch you destroy yourself. I can't keep bailing you out. I can't keep pretending that this is going to end well."

"I'll stop," Sam said desperately. "I'll stop trying—"

"You won't." Rose wiped her eyes. "You say you will, but you won't. Because you're so desperate to prove you're good at something that you can't see what you already have."

"What do I have?"

"Me!" The word came out like a sob. "You have me, Sam. You've always had me. But it's not enough, is it? You'd rather chase some dream of being a great thief than just... be here. With me. Safe."

Sam stood, ignoring the pain in his ankle. "Rose, please—"

"I can't be with someone who doesn't value his own life," Rose said, her voice steadying. "I can't love someone who's going to break my heart by getting himself killed over a few coins or a bolt of fabric or—or whatever it is you think you need to steal to prove yourself."

"I'll prove it to you," Sam said. "I'll pull off one perfect heist. Something big. Something valuable. And then I'll stop. I promise."

Rose looked at him for a long moment. Then she shook her head.

"That's not what I want, Sam. I don't want you to be a better thief. I want you to stop being a thief at all."

"But—"

"I think we should just be friends," Rose said quietly. "I'll always care about you. I'll always help you when you need it. But I can't... I can't do this anymore. Not like this."

Sam felt like the ground had dropped out from under him. "Rose—"

"Please go," she whispered. "I need to finish the bread."

Sam stood there, frozen, wanting to argue, to promise, to fix this.

But Rose had already turned back to her dough, her shoulders shaking.

He left.

In the days that followed, Rose's magic would make the bread taste like heartache and sadness.

 

THE PERFECT HEIST

 

The manor on the edge of town had been empty for years before she arrived.

No one knew much about the woman who'd moved in. She was older—perhaps sixty, perhaps older than that. She dressed in fine clothes, dark velvets and silks that seemed too elegant for their small village. She kept to herself, hired no servants, and was rarely seen outside the manor walls.

But the rumors spread quickly.

She was wealthy. A widow, some said. A noblewoman fallen on hard times, said others. And she had treasures—jewelry, fine things, objects worth more than most villagers would see in a lifetime.

Sam heard the rumors at the tavern.

"Saw her wearing a locket the other day," old Miller said, nursing his ale. "Gold, with emeralds set in the clasp. Must be worth a fortune."

"Probably fake," someone else said.

"Didn't look fake to me."

Sam's heart had started beating faster.

A locket. Gold and emeralds. Valuable. Beautiful.

Perfect.

 

He spent two weeks watching the manor.

This time, he was careful. Methodical. He noted when lamps were lit and extinguished. Which windows were opened. Which doors were used. He watched the woman's routines—she rose late, took walks in her garden at dusk, retired early.

He studied the manor's layout. The trellis on the east side. The balcony door that didn't quite latch properly. The study window that was always left slightly open for air.

He planned his route. His timing. His escape.

For once in his life, Sam was going to do this right.

 

The night of the heist, Sam dressed in dark clothes and waited until the manor went dark.

No dogs barked as he approached. The woman had no dogs.

Already, things were going better than usual.

He climbed the trellis—slowly, carefully, testing each handhold. Made it to the balcony without falling. Slipped through the unlatched door without making a sound.

Inside, the manor was silent.

Sam's heart hammered in his chest as he crept through the hallway. Moonlight filtered through the windows, casting silver shadows across expensive rugs and polished furniture.

He found the study. The door was open.

And there, on a small writing desk near the window, was the locket.

Gold. Delicate. With emeralds set into the clasp, just as Miller had said.

It was beautiful.

Sam picked it up, his hands trembling slightly. It was heavier than he'd expected. Warm, somehow, as if it had been recently worn.

He turned it over in his hands, admiring the craftsmanship. The engraving on the back—initials he couldn't quite make out in the dim light.

Rose would love this.

She'd see that he could do this. That he wasn't just the village joke. That he was capable of something impressive.

She'd forgive him. She'd take him back.

Everything would be okay.

Sam slipped the locket into his pocket and turned to leave.

The escape was flawless. Down the hallway. Through the balcony door. Down the trellis—carefully, carefully. Across the garden. Over the wall.

He didn't get stuck. Didn't fall. Didn't make a sound.

By the time he reached the edge of the village, Sam was grinning.

He'd done it.

He'd actually done it.

The perfect heist.

Sam didn't go home. He went to the old mill on the edge of the village, where no one would see him, and sat on the stone steps.

He pulled out the locket and held it up to the moonlight.

It really was beautiful. The emeralds caught the light, glinting green and gold. Rose. He was certain that she would love it.

Sam's fingers found the tiny clasp on the side.

He hesitated.

He shouldn't open it. It wasn't his. He was going to give it to Rose, and she could open it, and—

But curiosity won.

Just a peek. Just to see what was inside. Maybe there were small jewels inside. Maybe it was empty.

Sam pressed the clasp.

The locket opened.

And the world shattered.

 

SHATTERED AND BROKEN

 

The memories hit him like a flood.

Not his memories.

Hers.

A child's face—round cheeks, dark curls, eyes bright with laughter. A little girl, no more than five years old, spinning in a garden, her dress flaring out like a flower.

"Mama, look! I'm flying!"

The love was overwhelming. Fierce. All-consuming. The kind of love that made the world make sense.

Then—

The child in bed. Pale. Fevered. Small hands clutching a blanket.

"It hurts, Mama."

"I know, sweetheart. I know."

Helplessness. Terror. Prayers whispered in the dark.

Then—

Silence.

The child's hand going limp.

The scream that tore from a mother's throat.

Grief. Raw and endless and unbearable.

Years of it. Waves of it. Mornings waking up and forgetting, just for a moment, and then remembering all over again. The empty room. The toys no one played with. The garden where no one spun anymore.

The locket—commissioned. Enchanted. A place to keep the memories safe. To hold them close. To never, ever forget.

Every smile. Every laugh. Every precious moment.

All of it.

Mine, the memories whispered. Mine. My child. My love. My loss.

Sam gasped and dropped the locket.

It clattered onto the stone steps, still open, still glowing faintly in the moonlight.

He couldn't breathe.

His chest was tight. His hands were shaking. Tears streamed down his face—tears that weren't his, grief that wasn't his, love that wasn't his.

But he felt it.

All of it.

As if it were his own.

He could still see the child's face. Could still hear her voice. Could still feel the weight of her small body in his arms, the fever burning through her skin, the moment her breathing stopped—

Sam bent over, gasping, trying to push the memories away.

But they wouldn't leave.

They were in him now. Part of him. Woven into his mind like threads he couldn't untangle.

He'd stolen a mother's grief.

He'd taken the only thing she had left of her child.

And he couldn't give it back.

Sam didn't know how long he sat there, shaking, the locket gleaming on the steps beside him.

Minutes. Hours.

The moon moved across the sky.

Eventually, the immediate flood of memories subsided, settling into something quieter but no less present. Like a weight in his chest. A shadow at the edge of his thoughts.

He could feel it now—not just the locket's memories, but other things too.

The stone steps beneath him whispered of countless feet that had walked here. The mill behind him hummed with years of grain and labor and lives lived. Even his own shirt carried echoes—his mother's hands sewing, her worry for him, her love.

Everything had memories.

And now he could feel them all.

Sam picked up the locket with trembling hands and closed it.

The clasp clicked shut.

But the memories didn't leave.

They were his now.

Forever.

He had to return it.

He had to apologize.

He had to fix this.

Sam stood on shaking legs and started running back toward the manor.

 

Sam pounded on the manor door, the locket clutched in his fist.

"Please!" he shouted. "Please, I need to—I have to—"

The door opened.

The woman stood there in a dressing gown, a candle in her hand. Her face was lined with age, her hair silver and loose around her shoulders.

But her eyes—her eyes were sharp. Knowing.

And filled with fury.

"You," she said, her voice cold as winter.

"I'm sorry," Sam gasped. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know—I didn't understand—please, take it back—"

He held out the locket.

The woman stared at it. Then at him.

"You opened it," she said flatly.

"I didn't mean to—I just—I'm sorry—"

"You opened it." Her voice was rising now, shaking with rage. "You stole my most precious possession and you opened it."

"Please, I'll give it back—"

"You can't." The woman's hand tightened around the candle. "Don't you understand? You can't give it back."

Sam's breath caught. "What?"

"The enchantment," the woman said, her voice breaking. "It was designed to hold memories. To preserve them. To keep them safe for me. But you—" She stepped forward, and Sam saw tears streaming down her face. "You opened it. You touched the memories and the magic bonded to you."

No—"

"The locket is empty now," she said. "The memories transferred. They're yours now. Not mine."

Sam looked down at the locket in his hand. It felt lighter somehow. Hollow.

"I don't want them," he whispered.

"And I don't have them anymore!" The woman's voice cracked. "Do you understand? My child—my daughter—the only thing I had left of her—and you took it."

"I didn't know—"

"You didn't care!" She was shouting now, her face twisted with grief and rage. "You saw something valuable and you took it! You didn't think about what it meant! You didn't think about who it belonged to! You just—you just—"

She couldn't finish. She was sobbing now, her whole body shaking.

Sam felt like he was drowning. "Please. Please, there has to be a way to undo it. To give them back. I'll do anything—"

"There is no way." The woman's voice was hollow now. Empty. "The enchantment wasn't designed to transfer. It was supposed to be mine. Only mine. Forever."

"But—"

"I used everything I had to create it," she said quietly. "Every drop of magic. Every ounce of power. It took me years. And it was supposed to keep her with me. Always."

She looked at Sam, and her eyes were dead.

"And you destroyed it in a single night."

Sam's legs nearly gave out. "I'm so sorry—"

"Sorry doesn't bring back what you took." The woman stepped closer, and Sam saw something terrible in her expression. "Do you know what I would do to you if I could? If I had any magic left?"

Sam shook his head, terrified.

"I would curse you," she said softly. "I would turn you into something small and helpless. Make you suffer as I'm suffering. Make you feel every moment of loss and grief and emptiness until you begged for mercy."

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then her expression shifted—still furious, still devastated, but something else too.

Recognition.

"But I have no magic left," she said. "I gave it all to the locket. And even if I did..."

She looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the tears streaming down his face, the way his hands shook, the memories already overwhelming him.

"What you now carry is punishment enough."

Sam could barely breathe.

"You will carry my child's memory for the rest of your life," the woman said, her voice cold and final. "You will feel my grief. My loss. Every moment I treasured, every smile, every laugh, every scream when she died in my arms—all of it. Yours now. Forever."

She stepped closer, her eyes burning.

"You wanted to be a thief? You wanted to take what wasn't yours? Then take it. Carry it. Live with it. Let it haunt you every day for the rest of your miserable life."

Sam opened his mouth, but no words came.

"Get out of my house," the woman whispered. "And know this—wherever you go, whatever you become, you will never be free of what you stole from me."

She turned her back on him.

"Now go. I can't bear to look at you."

Sam stumbled backward, the locket still in his hand.

The door slammed shut.

He stood there in the darkness, shaking, the weight of what he'd done crushing him.

Inside his mind, a child laughed.

"Mama, look! I'm flying!"

Sam fell to his knees and wept.

 

THE BURIAL

 

Sam didn't remember walking back to the village.

One moment he was on his knees outside the manor, the next he was sitting on the ground behind the bakery, his back against the stone wall, the locket still clutched in his shaking hands.

The memories wouldn't stop.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. The child. Spinning in the garden. Laughing. Dying.

Every time he touched something—the wall, the ground, his own clothes—he felt more. Other memories. Other lives. Fragments of joy and sorrow and loss layered over each other until he couldn't tell what was his and what wasn't.

He was drowning in it.

"Sam?"

He looked up.

Rose stood there in her nightgown, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her hair loose and tangled from sleep. She must have heard him—or maybe she'd just known, somehow, that something was wrong.

"Sam, what—" She saw his face and dropped to her knees beside him. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

"I can't—" His voice broke. "I can't make it stop."

"Make what stop?"

"The memories." Sam looked at her, and he knew his eyes were wild, desperate. "I can feel them. All of them. Everywhere. In everything. I can't—Rose, I can't—"

"Slow down," Rose said gently, taking his hands. "Tell me what happened."

So he did.

He told her about the locket. About the heist. About opening it and the flood of memories—the child, the mother's grief, the unbearable loss.

He told her about going back. About the woman's rage. About the magic that couldn't be undone.

He told her about the curse that wasn't a curse, the punishment that was simply living with what he'd done.

Rose listened, her hands still holding his, her expression shifting from confusion to horror to heartbreak.

When he finished, she was crying too.

"I'm so sorry," Sam whispered. "I just wanted—I wanted to give you something beautiful. I wanted to prove I could do it. I wanted you to—"

"To take you back," Rose finished softly.

Sam nodded, unable to speak.

Rose was quiet for a long moment. Then she squeezed his hands.

"Show me the locket."

Sam opened his palm.

The locket lay there, dull and empty in the moonlight. No glow. No magic. Just metal and gems.

Rose picked it up carefully, turning it over in her hands.

"It's beautiful," she said quietly. "And terrible."

"I don't know what to do with it," Sam said. "I can't keep it. I can't sell it. I can't give it back."

Rose looked at him. Then at the locket.

"We bury it," she said.

"What?"

"We bury it." Rose stood, pulling Sam to his feet. "It won't make the memories go away. But it feels... right. Doesn't it? To lay it to rest."

Sam stared at her. Then, slowly, he nodded.

It did feel right.

 

They walked to the edge of the village, where the old oak tree stood at the border of the forest.

Rose had brought a small garden spade from the bakery. She handed it to Sam.

"You should dig," she said gently. "It's yours to bury."

Sam knelt at the base of the oak and started digging.

The earth was soft here, rich and dark. He dug until he thought the hole was deep enough, then stopped.

Rose knelt beside him and held out her hand.

Sam placed the locket in her palm.

She looked at it for a moment, then closed her fingers around it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered—not to Sam, but to the locket. To the woman. To the child whose memory it had held. "I'm sorry this happened. I'm sorry you're lost."

She placed the locket gently in the hole.

Sam covered it with earth, patting it down carefully, reverently.

When it was done, they sat together in silence, their backs against the oak tree.

"The memories won't go away," Sam said quietly.

"I know."

"I'll carry them forever."

"I know."

Sam looked at her. "I'm so sorry, Rose. For everything. For not listening to you. For being so desperate to prove myself that I—" His voice broke. "I destroyed everything."

Rose took his hand.

"You made a terrible mistake," she said. "And you'll live with it for the rest of your life. But Sam..." She turned to face him. "You're not the same person who climbed into that manor. You can't be. Not after this."

"I don't know who I am anymore."

"Then we'll figure it out," Rose said. "Together."

Sam looked at her, surprised. "Together?"

"I can't be with you the way I was before," Rose said gently. "Not right now. Maybe not ever. I don't know. But I'm not going to leave you alone with this. You're my best friend, Sam. And you need help."

Tears spilled down Sam's cheeks. "I don't deserve—"

"Maybe not," Rose said. "But you have it anyway."

She leaned her head against his shoulder, and they sat together under the oak tree as the first light of dawn began to touch the sky.

The locket was buried.

But the memories remained.

And Sam would have to learn to live with them.

 

THE DAYS AFTER

 

The first three days were the worst.

Sam couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he was flooded with memories that weren't his. The child's laughter. The mother's grief. The stone steps outside the bakery remembering a hundred years of footsteps. His own shirt whispering of his mother's worried hands as she sewed it.

Everything had a voice now.

And they all spoke at once.

Rose found him on the second morning sitting in the corner of her kitchen, his knees pulled to his chest, tears streaming down his face.

"I can't remember," he whispered. "I can't remember if I ate breakfast or if that was—someone else—I don't know—"

Rose knelt beside him and took his hands. "Look at me, Sam."

He did. Her eyes were steady. Familiar.

"You didn't eat breakfast," she said gently. "You came here an hour ago. You sat down. You've been sitting here since."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." She squeezed his hands. "That's your memory. Right now. This moment. Me and you."

Sam nodded, clinging to that certainty.

Rose stood and pulled him to his feet. "Come on. I'm making you eggs."

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't eaten in two days. You're eating."

She sat him at the table and cooked.

As she worked, something shifted in the kitchen. The air grew warmer, softer. The smell of butter and eggs filled the space—but it was more than that. It smelled like comfort. Like safety. Like coming home after a long journey.

Rose had always been able to do this. Cook with feeling. Her joy made bread rise higher and taste sweeter. Her worry made soup sit heavy in the stomach. Her love—her love made everything she touched nourishing in ways that went beyond food.

Right now, she was cooking with intention. With care. With the fierce determination to ground Sam in the present moment.

When she set the plate in front of him, the eggs weren't just warm—they were grounding. Real. Anchoring.

Sam took a bite, and for the first time in two days, the flood of memories quieted.

Just a little.

Just enough.

"Better?" Rose asked softly.

Sam nodded, unable to speak.

She sat across from him and watched him eat, her presence as steady as the food she'd made.

 

Rose developed a routine.

Every morning, she'd come to Sam's house and walk him through the day. What happened yesterday. What was happening now. What was real and what was memory-echo.

"Breathe," she'd say when the flood got too strong. "In and out. Feel your feet on the ground. That's real. That's now."

She'd make him eat. Make him drink water. Make him focus on the present moment instead of drowning in the past.

"You're Sam," she'd remind him. "You're twenty-three years old. You live in this village. You're my best friend. And right now, you're sitting in my kitchen eating bread I made this morning."

Slowly—so slowly—Sam started to find his footing.

He learned to recognize which memories were his. Learned to breathe through the ones that weren't. Learned to let them wash over him instead of pulling him under.

But he couldn't stay.

 

"I have to leave," Sam said one evening.

They were sitting behind the bakery again, watching the sunset. It had become their spot—familiar, grounding.

Rose didn't look surprised. "I know."

"Every time I walk past the manor, I feel her grief. Every time someone looks at me, I remember what I did. I can't—" His voice broke. "I can't stay here, Rose."

"I know," she said again. Then, quietly: "I'm coming with you."

Sam looked at her, startled. "What?"

"You think I'm letting you wander off alone? Like this?" Rose shook her head. "You can barely remember to eat, Sam. You need someone to keep you grounded."

"But your bakery—your mother—"

My mother will understand. And I can bake anywhere." Rose met his eyes. "You're my best friend. And you need help. So I'm coming."

Sam's throat tightened. "I don't deserve—"

"Stop," Rose said firmly. "We've been over this. You made a terrible mistake. You're living with the consequences. But you don't have to do it alone."

She stood and held out her hand.

"So. Are we leaving, or are we sitting here arguing about it?"

Sam took her hand and let her pull him to his feet.

"We're leaving."

"Good." Rose smiled. "I'll start packing."

 

They left the village just before dawn the next day.

Both of their mothers were waiting for them at the edge of town. 

"Mama," Sam said, his voice breaking. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry—"

"Hush." She pulled him into a tight hug. "I know what happened. Rose told me."

Sam stiffened. "You know?"

"I know you made a terrible mistake. I know you're carrying the weight of it. And I know you need to leave." She pulled back and looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. "But you're still my son, Sam. And I love you."

She held out a hat. One that he knew all too well— wide-brimmed, woven straw, worn soft with age.

"Your father's," she said quietly. "He wore it every day when he worked the fields. I've kept it all these years."

Sam took it with trembling hands.

The moment his fingers touched the straw, the memories flooded in.

His father's hands weaving the brim. The sun beating down on his shoulders as he worked. The satisfaction of a good harvest. The ache in his back at the end of a long day. The love he felt when he came home and saw his wife, his son, his life.

Pride. Weariness. Joy. Love.

All of it woven into the straw.

Sam's breath caught. "Mama, I can feel—"

"I know," she said gently. "Rose told me about that too. About the memories you carry now, and I've noticed. You're not the same as you were."

She reached up and placed the hat on his head.

"Your father would want you to have it," she said. "To remember where you came from. To remember that you're loved, even when you can't forgive yourself."

Sam's eyes filled with tears. "I don't deserve—"

"You're my son," she said firmly. "You deserve love. You deserve a second chance. You deserve to find out who you're meant to be.

"I love you, my son," She said, and kissed his forehead. "Now go. And write to me when you can."

Sam nodded, unable to speak.

His mother turned to Rose and pulled her into a hug. "Take care of him."

"I will," Rose promised.

"And take care of yourself too, dear. Don't let him forget to eat."

Rose smiled through her tears. "I won't."

Sam's mother stepped back, wiping her eyes. 

Rose's mother was already sobbing as she pulled her daughter into a crushing hug.

"My Rosey," she wept. "My sweet Rosey. You don't have to do this. You don't have to go with him."

"I know, Mama," Rose said gently. "But I want to."

"He's not—you're not—" Her mother struggled to find the words. "You were going to get married. I was planning your wedding. And now—"

"Now we're friends," Rose said. "And he needs help. I can't let him go alone."

Her mother pulled back, cupping Rose's face in her hands. "You have the biggest heart, Rosey. Just like your grandmother. But don't forget to take care of yourself too."

"I won't."

"And don't let him forget to eat. You know how he gets."

Rose smiled through her tears. "I won't."

Her mother pressed the basket into her hands. "Bread. Cheese. Dried fruit. Enough for a few days. And—" She pulled out a small cloth bag. "Cinnamon. For when you need to bake something that feels like home."

"Thank you, Mama."

"Write to me," her mother whispered. "Please. Let me know you're safe."

"I will. I promise."

Her mother kissed her cheek, then turned to Sam. Her expression was complicated—grief, worry, but also something softer.

"You take care of my Rosey," she said firmly. "You hear me, Samuel?"

"I will," Sam said. "I promise."

"Good." She wiped her eyes. "Now go, both of you. Before I change my mind and lock Rosey in the bakery."

 

Sam took one last look at the village—the bakery, the square, the manor on the edge of town dark and empty and abandoned.

The witch was gone.

But her grief remained, soaked into the stones. The tall grass in the garden calling back memories of the garden where her daughter had once spun and laughed.

Sam touched the brim of his father's hat—feeling the memories there, warm and steady and his.

He turned away.

Rose—Rosey—walked beside him, the basket in one hand, her other hand in his.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"I don't know," Sam said. "Somewhere new. Somewhere I can... figure out what to do with this."

He touched his chest, where the memories lived now.

Rosey squeezed his hand. "Then let's go find it."

They walked into the sunrise together, Sam's father's hat shading his eyes, Rosey's mother's bread warm in the basket between them.

And behind them, the village—and everything they had been—faded into memory.

THE JOURNEY

 

The first town was overwhelming.

Sam and Rosey arrived three days after leaving the village, tired and dusty from the road. It was a market town, bustling with people and stalls and things—so many things, each one whispering its history.

The moment Sam stepped into the square, the memories hit him like a wave.

A wooden cart remembering decades of harvests. A merchant's coin purse heavy with transactions and greed. A child's dropped toy crying out for the hands that had loved it. The cobblestones beneath his feet echoing with a thousand footsteps, a hundred years of life.

Sam stopped walking, his breath coming in short gasps.

"Sam?" Rosey's hand was on his arm. "What is it?"

"Too much," he managed. "Too many—I can't—"

She guided him to the edge of the square, away from the crowd, and sat him on a low stone wall.

"Breathe," she said firmly. "In and out. Feel my hand. That's real. That's now."

Sam focused on her touch. On the warmth of her palm. On the present moment.

Slowly, the flood receded to a manageable roar.

"Better?" Rosey asked.

Sam nodded, though his hands were still shaking.

Rosey sighed. "We need to find somewhere quiet. Away from all these people."

They found a small inn on the outskirts of town. The innkeeper—a kind-faced woman with gray hair—took one look at Sam's pale face and led them to a room without asking questions.

You look like you've had a rough journey," she said gently.

"You have no idea," Rosey muttered.

That night, Rosey made soup in the inn's kitchen.

The innkeeper had given her permission, curious about the young woman who carried her own spices and cooked with such focused intention.

When Rosey brought the bowl up to their room, it smelled like comfort and calm and grounding.

Sam ate slowly, feeling the chaos in his mind quiet with each bite.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Always," Rosey said.

She sat beside him on the bed, her shoulder touching his. "We'll figure this out, Sam. I promise."

"What if we don't?" Sam looked at her. "What if it's always like this? What if I can never go into a town without drowning? What if I'm just... broken?"

"You're not broken," Rosey said firmly. "You're different. And different isn't the same as broken."

Sam wanted to believe her.

But the memories whispered otherwise.

The next morning, Sam woke to find Rosey already gone.

He panicked for a moment—the room was full of memories, the bed remembering a hundred travelers, the walls echoing with conversations and arguments and tears—

Then the door opened and Rosey appeared with bread and tea.

"Morning," she said cheerfully. "I thought you might want breakfast."

Sam took the bread gratefully. It tasted like her determination and her care.

"I talked to the innkeeper," Rosey said, sitting beside him. "She says there's a quieter road north. Fewer towns. More space between them. Might be easier for you."

Rosey, you don't have to—"

"I know," she said. "But I want to. We're in this together, remember?"

Sam nodded, his throat tight.

They left the town that afternoon, taking the northern road.

The days blurred together.

They walked. They camped. Rosey cooked over small fires, her magic keeping Sam grounded and functional. Sam struggled with every new place, every new object, every new flood of memories.

But slowly—so slowly—he started to notice patterns.

Some memories were louder than others. Some objects wanted to be heard. Some were content to whisper quietly in the background.

And sometimes, when he touched something precious—a locket, a ring, a worn book—he could feel not just the memory, but the love that had created it.

It was still overwhelming.

But it was starting to make sense.

Two weeks into their journey, they stopped in a small village to resupply.

Rosey was buying flour from a market stall when an old woman approached Sam.

She was tiny, bent with age, her hands gnarled and shaking.

"Excuse me, young man," she said. "But you look like someone who understands things."

Sam blinked. "I—what?"

"My husband died last month," the woman said quietly. "And I can't find his pipe. He smoked it every evening for forty years. I know it's silly, but I just—I need to find it. It's the only thing I have left of him."

Sam's chest tightened. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Can you help me?" The woman's eyes were desperate. "Please. I've looked everywhere."

Sam hesitated.

Then, without quite knowing why, he said, "Show me your house."

 

The woman's cottage was small and tidy, filled with the quiet grief of recent loss.

Sam stepped inside and immediately felt it—the echo of a life lived. The man who had sat by the fire every evening. The woman who had cooked his meals and mended his clothes and loved him for forty years.

And there, faint but insistent, a whisper from the corner near the hearth.

Here. I'm here. I'm waiting.

Sam walked to the corner and knelt. Behind a stack of firewood, tucked into a gap in the stones, was the pipe.

He pulled it out gently and held it up.

The woman gasped. "That's it! That's his pipe! How did you—"

Sam handed it to her. "It was calling."

The woman took the pipe with trembling hands, tears streaming down her face. She held it to her chest and wept.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you. You don't know what this means to me."

Sam felt something shift in his chest.

The memories were still there—the child's laughter, the mother's grief, the weight of what he'd stolen.

But for the first time, he'd used them to help someone.

For the first time, the curse had felt like something else.

Rosey found him sitting outside the cottage, staring at his hands.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I helped her," Sam said quietly. "I found something she'd lost. Because I could feel where it was."

Rosey sat beside him. "That's good, Sam."

"Is it?" He looked at her. "I stole a mother's grief. I destroyed a woman's life. And now I'm using what I took to... what? Find lost pipes?"

"You're using it to help people," Rosey said gently. "That doesn't erase what you did. But it's something, Sam. It's a start."

Sam was quiet for a long moment.

Then he said, "I don't know how to control it. The memories come when they want. I can't choose when to listen or when to block them out. I'm just... drowning all the time."

Rosey took his hand. "Then we'll figure out how to help you swim."

 

That night, as they camped under the stars, Sam lay awake listening to the world whisper.

The trees remembered seasons. The stones remembered rain. The fire remembered warmth and light and the hands that had built it.

Everything had a story.

And Sam could hear them all.

He just didn't know what to do with them yet.

 

THE POCKET WATCH

 

It happened three weeks after Sam helped the old woman find her husband's pipe.

He and Rosey had been traveling steadily north, stopping in small villages when they needed supplies, camping under the stars when they didn't.

Sam was getting better at managing the flood of memories. Not good—not even close—but better. He could walk through a market without collapsing now. Could touch objects without losing himself completely.

But it was exhausting.

Every day was a battle to stay present, to remember which memories were his and which belonged to the world around him.

Rosey kept him grounded. Her cooking. Her steady presence. Her reminders of who he was and where he'd been.

But Sam could see the toll it was taking on her too.

She was tired. Worried. Carrying the weight of keeping him functional.

He needed help.

And that's when he heard it.

They were passing through a small town—barely more than a crossroads with a few shops and an inn—when Sam stopped walking.

"What is it?" Rosey asked.

Sam tilted his head, listening.

There.

Faint. Insistent. Different from the usual whisper of memories.

'Here. I'm here. You need me.'

"Sam?" Rosey's hand was on his arm. "Are you alright?"

"Something's calling," Sam said quietly.

"Calling?"

"Like the pipe. But... different. Stronger." He looked at her. "I need to find it."

Rosey studied his face, then nodded. "Alright. Lead the way."

Sam followed the call through the town square, past the market stalls, down a narrow side street.

It led him to a small shop—dusty windows, faded sign, the kind of place that sold odds and ends nobody wanted anymore.

Inside, the shop was dim and cluttered. Shelves lined the walls, packed with forgotten things. Old books. Chipped teacups. Tarnished silverware. A lifetime of discarded treasures.

The shopkeeper—an elderly man with spectacles and ink-stained fingers—looked up as they entered.

Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for something," Sam said.

"Aren't we all," the shopkeeper said dryly. "What kind of something?"

Sam didn't know how to explain. "Something that's... calling."

The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow but didn't question it. "Feel free to look around."

Sam moved through the shop, following the pull.

It was stronger now. Clearer.

'Here. Here. Here.'

He found it on a shelf near the back, half-hidden behind a stack of old ledgers.

A pocket watch.

Warm brass. Worn with age. The chain tangled. The glass face slightly scratched.

But when Sam picked it up, the calling stopped.

And something else began.

The watch was warm in his hand. Alive, somehow, in a way that had nothing to do with memories.

It hummed.

Not with sound, but with presence. With purpose.

Sam opened the case.

The watch face was simple. Roman numerals. Delicate hands frozen at three-fifteen. But beneath the glass, etched into the metal, were tiny symbols—runes, maybe, or something older.

The moment Sam's fingers touched the symbols, the world shifted.

The flood of memories that had been roaring in his mind—the shop's history, the objects' whispers, the echoes of a hundred lives—suddenly organized.

Like books being shelved. Like threads being untangled. Like chaos becoming order.

Sam gasped.

"Sam?" Rosey was beside him. "What's happening?"

"It's helping," Sam whispered. "The watch. It's—it's sorting everything. I can think again."

The watch ticked once in his hand.

And then, impossibly, Sam heard a voice.

Not out loud. Not in his ears.

In his mind.

Calm. Steady. Ancient.

'Hello, Memory Keeper. I've been waiting for you.'

Sam nearly dropped the watch.

"Did you—" He looked at Rosey. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

The voice came again, patient and warm.

'She cannot hear me. Only you. I speak to those who need me.'

"Who are you?" Sam whispered.

'The name's Keeper. I keep the time. I keep the memories. I keep those who would otherwise be lost.'

"You're... a watch?"

'I am what you need me to be.'

Sam stared at the watch in his hand. The ticking was steady now. Rhythmic. Grounding.

'You carry too much,' Keeper said gently. 'Memories that are not yours. Grief that was never meant to be borne alone. You are drowning.'

"I know," Sam said, his voice breaking.

'I can help. I cannot take the memories away—they are yours now, for better or worse. But I can help you organize them. Control them. Choose when to listen and when to let them rest.'

"How?"

'Carry me. Listen to me. Trust me. And I will keep you anchored to your own time, your own memories, your own life.'

Sam's hands were shaking. "Why? Why would you help me?"

'Because you need help. And because what you carry—what you stole—can be transformed into something beautiful. But only if you survive long enough to learn how.'

Sam looked at Rosey. She was watching him with worried eyes.

"The watch is talking to me," he said quietly.

Rosey blinked. "The... watch."

"I know how it sounds."

"Sam—"

"I'm not crazy," Sam said. "I swear. It's—it's helping. The memories are quieter. I can think clearly for the first time in weeks."

Rosey studied his face. Then she looked at the watch.

"Alright," she said slowly. "If it helps, then we're keeping it."

Sam bought the watch for three copper coins.

The shopkeeper barely glanced at it. "That old thing? Can't remember when it got here. Could've been sitting there for years."

'I was waiting,' Keeper said in Sam's mind. 'For you.'

Sam slipped the watch into his pocket, the chain clipped to his vest.

The moment it settled against his chest, the world became bearable again.

The memories were still there—the child's laughter, the mother's grief, the weight of what he'd stolen.

But now they were organized. Filed away. Present but not overwhelming.

Sam could breathe.

"Better?" Rosey asked as they left the shop.

"So much better," Sam said.

'You're welcome,' Keeper said, a hint of warmth in the ancient voice.

Sam touched the watch through his vest. "Thank you, Keeper."

'We have much work to do, Memory Keeper. But we will do it together.'

 

That night, as they camped under the stars, Sam pulled out the watch and opened it.

The hands were moving now. Ticking steadily. Keeping time.

"Can I ask you something?" Sam said quietly.

'Always. Any time.'

"Why me? Why help me after what I did?"

Keeper was quiet for a moment. Then:

'Because you are not the first to carry a burden too heavy to bear alone. And you will not be the last. I have kept time for centuries, Memory Keeper. I have seen thieves become heroes. I have seen broken things become whole. And I have seen those who carry grief transform it into grace.

'You stole something precious. You carry the weight of that theft. But what you do with that weight—that is still yours to choose.'

Sam's throat tightened. "I want to make it right."

'Then we will find a way. Together.'

Sam closed the watch and held it against his chest.

For the first time since opening the locket, he felt something other than despair.

He felt hope.

 

THE OUTCAST

 

The mountain pass was steep and winding, the air thin and cold.

Sam and Rosey had been traveling for three months now. Three months of small towns and odd jobs, of Sam learning to use his gift to help people find lost things, of Rosey cooking for strangers and earning their keep.

Three months of becoming something other than what they'd been.

Keeper ticked steadily in Sam's pocket, a constant comfort.

'Beautiful view up here,' Keeper remarked as they crested a ridge. 'Though I must say, the altitude is making my gears work overtime. High time we found a place to rest.'

Sam smiled despite his exhaustion. "You don't have gears that work differently at altitude."

'Don't I? How would you know? You're not a watch.'

Rosey laughed softly at what to her seemed like a one-sided conversation. "Is he making jokes again?"

"Always," Sam said.

They rounded a bend, and the path opened onto a wide, grassy meadow on the mountainside. Wildflowers dotted the slope—purple and yellow and white. The view stretched for miles, green valleys below, snow-capped peaks above.

And in the center of the meadow, surrounded by creatures, was a figure.

Sam stopped walking.

The figure was tall and lean, with curved horns rising from their head. They moved with an odd, graceful gait—digitigrade legs ending in cloven hooves. Goat ears twitched, listening to sounds Sam couldn't hear.

They were speaking softly, in third person, to two massive creatures lying in the grass.

Trotters.

Sam had never seen anything like them. Horse-like but larger, with dark coats and distinctive striping on their legs like okapi. One was lying on its side, breathing heavily. The other stood nearby, protective and wary.

The horned figure knelt beside the injured one, hands gentle on its flank.

"Vigil knows," they murmured. "Stone understands. Guard will keep you safe. You are not alone anymore."

Rosey touched Sam's arm. "Should we—"

The standing Trotter's head snapped up, eyes locking on them. It made a low, warning sound.

The horned figure turned.

Their eyes were strange—horizontal pupils, like a goat's. They studied Sam and Rosey with an unreadable expression.

"Vigil sees you," they said calmly. "Flint asks: do you mean harm?"

Sam raised his hands slowly. "No. No harm. We're just passing through. We saw you and thought—" He gestured to the injured Trotter. "Is it hurt?"

The figure—Vigil—tilted their head. "Abandoned. Left here to die." Their voice was matter-of-fact, but there was an edge of anger beneath it. "Vigil found them three days ago. Stone has been tending them since."

Rosey stepped forward carefully. "Can we help?"

Vigil's strange eyes studied her. "Steady does not trust easily. Guard has been hurt too many times."

"We understand," Sam said quietly. "We've been hurt too."

Something shifted in Vigil's expression. Recognition, maybe. Or curiosity.

"What are your names?" Vigil asked.

"I'm Sam. This is Rose."

"Sam and Rose." Vigil nodded slowly. "Vigil is also called Stone, Guard, Flint, and Steady. Each name earned. Each name true."

There was a long pause.

Then Vigil said, "The injured one needs water. Clean water. Flint has been carrying it from the stream, but it is far. If Rose could help—"

"I can help," Rosey said immediately.

"And Sam?" Vigil looked at him. "Can Sam sit with the standing one? Steady is frightened. Guard needs to know Sam will not hurt Vigil while Vigil tends the other."

Sam understood. "I can do that."

Vigil nodded. "Then Vigil accepts your help."

They worked in silence for the next hour.

Rosey made trip after trip to the stream, bringing water in a borrowed container. Vigil tended the injured Trotter with practiced hands—cleaning wounds, applying poultices made from mountain herbs, speaking constantly in that calm, third-person voice.

Sam sat with the standing Trotter, keeping his distance but staying present. The creature watched him with wary eyes, ears swiveling at every sound.

'Interesting company you're keeping," Keeper murmured. "Though I suppose we're all a bit unusual, aren't we?'

"They're an outcast," Sam said quietly, too low for anyone else to hear. "Like us."

'Then perhaps you've found kindred spirits. It's about time.'

Eventually, the injured Trotter's breathing eased. It lifted its head, drank some water, and rested more comfortably.

Vigil sat back, exhausted. "Guard has done what Guard can. Now they must rest and heal."

Rosey returned with more water and handed it to Vigil. "You should drink too. You've been working for hours."

Vigil took the water gratefully. "Vigil thanks you."

They drank in silence, the sun beginning to set over the mountains

Finally, Sam asked, "Why were they abandoned?"

Vigil's expression darkened. "Their owner decided they were no longer useful. Too old to pull heavy loads. Too slow to keep up with younger teams." They looked at the Trotters with fierce protectiveness. "So he brought them up here and left them. Alone. To die slowly where no one would see."

"That's cruel," Rosey said softly.

"Yes." Vigil's voice was flat. "People are often cruel to things they do not understand. To things that are different."

Sam heard the weight in those words, and felt the cold sad memory behind them. "You've been abandoned too."

Vigil looked at him sharply. Then, slowly, they nodded. "Vigil was born different. Not quite human. Not quite goat. Not quite anything." They gestured to themselves—the horns, the legs, the ears. "Vigil's family did not want a child who was other. So Vigil was left. Like these Trotters. Like many things."

"I'm sorry," Sam said.

Vigil shrugged. "Vigil survived. Found purpose. Tends creatures who are also abandoned, also unwanted. Gives them care. Gives them names. Gives them family."

They looked at Sam and Rosey. "Why are you here? On this mountain? So far from towns?"

Sam hesitated. Then he said, "We're outcasts too. In our own way."

"What did you do?"

"I stole something I shouldn't have. And it changed me. Now I hear things—memories in objects. It's overwhelming. Isolating. People don't understand."

Rosey added, "And I cook with emotions. My feelings go into the food whether I want them to or not. It frightens people sometimes."

Vigil was quiet for a long moment. Then they said, "Vigil understands being different. Being feared. Being alone."

They stood, brushing grass from their clothes. "It will be dark soon. Vigil must stay with the Trotters tonight. But if Sam and Rose wish to camp nearby, Vigil would welcome the company."

Sam looked at Rosey. She nodded.

"We'd like that," Sam said.

Vigil's expression softened—just slightly. "Then Vigil will share fire and food. And perhaps stories. Steady has been alone for a long time. Guard would like to hear other voices."

That night, they sat around a small fire, the Trotters resting nearby.

Rosey cooked a simple stew with supplies from her pack. It tasted like warmth and tentative hope.

Vigil ate slowly, savoring each bite. "This is good. Vigil has not had food like this in many months."

"It's better when I'm happy," Rosey said. "Or hopeful."

"Then Rose must be both tonight."

They talked quietly—about their travels, about the creatures Vigil had tended, about the towns Sam and Rosey had passed through.

And slowly, carefully, they began to trust each other.

The next morning, Sam woke to find Vigil already up, checking on the Trotters.

The injured one was standing now—shaky but upright. The other nuzzled against Vigil's shoulder, making a low, contented sound.

"They're better," Sam said, approaching carefully.

"Guard is healing," Vigil confirmed. "Steady believes they will be strong enough to walk soon. Not far. Not fast. But enough."

Sam watched as Vigil ran gentle hands over the Trotter's legs, checking for swelling. "What will you do? When they're healed?"

Vigil was quiet for a moment. "Vigil does not know. Stone has been alone for many years. Flint has no destination. Just... away from places that do not want Vigil."

Sam felt it then—the loneliness behind the words. Not just recent, but old. Years and years of it, layered like sediment. The memory of being cast out as a child. Of wandering. Of finding creatures but never people. Of talking in third person because it was easier than saying "I" when you weren't sure you were allowed to exist as a person at all.

Sam's chest tightened. "You don't have to be alone."

Vigil looked at him sharply.

"We're traveling," Sam said. "Rose and I. We don't have a destination either. Just... looking for places where we fit. People who understand." He paused. "You could come with us. If you wanted."

Vigil stared at him. "Vigil has the Trotters. They are slow. They need care."

We're not in a hurry," Rosey said, emerging from their camp with a pot of tea. "And honestly? We could use the company. And the help. Sam's gift is getting stronger, and I can't always pull him back when he gets lost in memories."

Sam blinked. "I don't get lost—"

"You stood in front of that old mill for twenty minutes last week, crying about grain," Rosey said flatly.

"It was very sad grain!"

'It was indeed tragic grain,' Keeper chimed in from Sam's pocket. 'Though I believe the technical term is 'maudlin wheat.''

Sam pulled out the watch. "You're not helping."

'I'm a watch. Helping is what I do. It's about time someone appreciated my contributions.'

Vigil's eyes widened. "The watch... talks?"

"Constantly," Sam said.

'Only to those who need guidance. And puns. Mostly puns.'

Vigil looked between Sam, the watch, and Rosey. Then, unexpectedly, they made a sound that might have been a laugh. "Vigil has been alone for so long, Vigil forgot what strange company feels like."

"We're very strange," Rosey confirmed cheerfully. "Sam talks to a watch, I cook my feelings into food, and you talk in third person to creatures. We're perfect for each other."

Vigil was quiet for a long moment, their strange eyes studying them both.

Then the injured Trotter walked over—slowly, carefully—and nuzzled against Sam's shoulder.

Sam froze. "Um. Hello."

The Trotter huffed softly, then did the same to Rosey.

Vigil watched, stunned. "They... they like you. Both of you."

"Is that unusual?" Rosey asked.

"Steady does not trust easily," Vigil said quietly. "Guard has been hurt too many times. But they..." Vigil's voice caught. "They feel safe with you."

The other Trotter walked over and bumped its head gently against Vigil's chest, then turned to look at Sam and Rosey as if to say, These ones. We like these ones.

Vigil's expression crumbled—just for a moment. Then they straightened, blinking rapidly.

"Vigil would like to travel with you," they said quietly. "If the offer is true."

"It's true," Sam said.

"Then Vigil accepts." They paused. "Vigil has been alone for a very long time. Flint has forgotten what it feels like to have... companions."

"Well," Rosey said, handing Vigil a cup of tea, "you're about to remember."

 

Later they packed up camp. Slowly. Giving the Trotters time to adjust.

Vigil had very few possessions—a worn pack, some tools for tending creatures, a collection of herbs and salves. Everything they owned fit into a single bundle.

"Vigil travels light," they explained. "Easier to move. Easier to leave when people decide Vigil is too strange."

"You won't have to leave," Rosey said firmly. "We're strange too, remember?"

As they walked, Sam found himself noticing more.

Not just objects anymore. People.

When Vigil spoke about the Trotters, Sam felt the fierce protectiveness, the fear of losing them, the desperate hope that they'd survive.

When Rosey talked about the next town, Sam felt her worry about money, her determination to take care of him, her quiet loneliness for the life she'd left behind.

And when Keeper ticked in his pocket, Sam felt... contentment. Purpose. A sense of rightness that the watch had finally found its keeper.

'You're getting stronger,' Keeper observed quietly, for Sam's ears only. 'Sensing more than just objects now.'

"Is that normal?" Sam whispered.

'Normal? My dear Memory Keeper, nothing about you has ever been normal. But yes—your gift is evolving. Growing. You're learning to hear not just the past in things, but the present in people.'

"That sounds exhausting."

'It is. But it's also powerful. Use it wisely. And remember—just because you can hear something doesn't mean you have to speak it aloud.'

Sam nodded slowly.

 

That evening, they made camp in a small clearing.

Rosey cooked dinner—a simple stew that tasted like hope and new beginnings.

Vigil ate slowly, savoring every bite. "This is the best food Vigil has had in years."

"That's because Rosey's happy," Sam said. "And hopeful. It goes into the food."

"Vigil understands," Vigil said. "Vigil can taste it. The warmth. The welcome."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the Trotters resting nearby, the fire crackling softly.

Then Vigil said, "Vigil has a question."

"Ask," Sam said.

"Why does Sam talk to the watch? And why does the watch answer?"

Sam pulled out Keeper. "Because Keeper helps me. Organizes the memories. Keeps me grounded. And because Keeper is... a friend."

'The finest friend you'll ever have,' Keeper said warmly. 'Though I must say, Vigil asks excellent questions. Very timely.'

Vigil's eyes widened again. "It really does talk."

'Indeed. And might I say, Vigil, it's about time someone with proper manners joined this group. Sam and Rose are lovely, but they have no appreciation for a good time pun.'

"I appreciate them!" Sam protested.

'You tolerate them. There's a difference.'

Rosey laughed. "I like the watch."

'Finally! Someone with taste.'

Vigil made that sound again—the one that might have been a laugh. "Vigil thinks this will be an interesting journey."

"Definitely," Sam said, grinning.

For the first time in what felt like years, Sam felt something other than grief and guilt.

He felt like he was building something.

Not just surviving. Not just running.

Building.

A family. A purpose. A future.

Three outcasts, two Trotters, and a talking watch.

It was a strange beginning.

But it felt right.

 

THE STORYTELLER

 

Two months had passed since Vigil joined them.

Two months of traveling together—Sam, Rosey, Vigil, and the two Trotters, who'd been named Gentle and Brave (Vigil insisted they deserved their own names).

They'd fallen into a rhythm. Rosey would find work in town kitchens, baking bread that tasted like comfort. Vigil would tend to local animals, healing the sick ones, calming the frightened ones. And Sam...

Sam helped people find things.

Lost wedding rings. Misplaced letters. A child's favorite toy that had rolled under the floorboards three years ago. Tools that had been "borrowed" and never returned.

He'd touch an object, close his eyes, and listen. The memories would show him where things had gone, who had touched them, where they were hiding.

It was exhausting. But it was also useful.

And slowly, people stopped looking at him like he was strange.

They started looking at him like he was helpful.

The town of Clearwater was small but prosperous, with a market square and a fountain in the center.

Sam had been working all morning. An elderly woman's lost thimble (behind the stove). A merchant's missing ledger (fallen between two crates in the storeroom). A farmer's favorite hat (blown into a tree during last week's storm).

By noon, a small crowd had gathered, watching him work.

"How do you do it?" a young boy asked, eyes wide. "How do you know where things are?"

Sam hesitated. He'd tried explaining before—about the memories, about hearing objects call to him—but people either didn't believe him or got uncomfortable.

But the boy was looking at him with such open curiosity.

So Sam knelt down to the boy's level and said, "Can I tell you a story instead?"

The boy nodded eagerly.

Sam settled onto the edge of the fountain, and the crowd shifted closer, curious.

Once," Sam began, "there was a little girl who loved to spin in her garden."

The crowd shifted closer.

Sam closed his eyes, letting the memory come—the one he'd carried for months now. The one that had changed everything.

"She would spin and spin until her dress flared out like a flower, and she'd laugh and call to her mother, 'Look, Mama! I'm flying!'"

His voice was soft, gentle. The crowd was silent.

"Her mother would watch from the window and smile, because there was nothing more beautiful than seeing her daughter so full of joy. Those moments—those simple, perfect moments—were everything."

Sam opened his eyes. "But time is strange. It moves forward, always forward, and we can't hold onto moments no matter how much we want to. The little girl grew. The spinning stopped. Life changed, as it always does."

He paused. "And the mother realized too late that she'd been so busy living those moments, she'd forgotten to truly hold them. To keep them safe. To remember every detail—the exact sound of her daughter's laugh, the way the light caught her hair, the feeling of pure, uncomplicated joy."

A woman in the crowd wiped her eyes.

"So here's what I learned," Sam said quietly. "The things we love—the moments, the people, the memories—they're precious. Don't wait to treasure them. Don't assume you'll always have time to remember. Hold them close. Keep them safe. Because everything has a story, and every story matters."

The crowd was completely still.

Then, slowly, they began to applaud.

And people came forward, pressing coins into his hands, some with tears in their eyes.

"Thank you," an old man said. "I needed to hear that."

"Beautiful," a mother whispered, holding her child closer.

People came forward, pressing coins into his hands.

"Tell another one!" One child said.

"Do you know any stories about lost loves?" Someone asked.

Sam looked down at the coins, stunned.

He'd just told the witch's story—the grief he'd stolen—and turned it into something that helped people.

'Well,' Keeper murmured, 'that was unexpected. And rather moving, I must say. It looks like you may have found a new calling. And it's about time.'

 

Sam walked through the town in a daze, the coins heavy in his pocket.

People had paid him. For stories. For something he could do naturally, easily, because he carried so many memories.

He turned a corner into a narrow alley and stopped.

There, peeling off a brick wall, was a poster.

Faded. Water-damaged. Torn at the edges. But still visible:

GRAND CIRCUS OF WONDERS ONE NIGHT ONLY Witness the Impossible! Marvel at the Extraordinary!

 

Sam touched the poster gently.

The memories flooded in.

Excitement. Children's laughter. The smell of popcorn and sawdust. Performers in bright costumes. A ringmaster's booming voice. The thrill of the crowd. The magic of making people believe in wonder, even just for one night.

And underneath it all—a sense of belonging. Of misfits and outcasts finding purpose together. Of being strange and celebrated for it instead of shunned.

Sam's breath caught.

'Interesting,' Keeper said softly. 'What are you thinking?'

"I'm thinking," Sam said slowly, "that we're already doing this. Rosey cooks. Vigil tends creatures. I tell stories and find lost things. We're already... performing. Helping. Entertaining."

'And?'

"And what if we made it official? What if we traveled like this—town to town—but as a troupe? A show? Something people would come to see?"

'A traveling performance,' Keeper mused. 'I like it. Very timely. You'd need a wagon, though. And more people, eventually. But it's a solid foundation.'

Sam stared at the poster, his mind racing.

Rosey could cook for crowds. Vigil could show the Trotters—people were always fascinated by them. He could tell stories, help people.

They could create something together. Something that celebrated being different instead of hiding it.

A place where outcasts belonged.

'You're smiling,' Keeper observed. 'That's new.'

"I think I just figured out what we're supposed to do," Sam said.

'Then I'd say it's about time you told the others.'

That evening Sam found Rosey and Vigil at their camp outside of town. Gentle and Brave were grazing nearby, content.

"I have an idea," Sam said, sitting down by the fire.

Rosey looked up from her cooking. "Oh no. That tone means trouble."

"Good trouble," Sam said. He pulled out the coins. "I made this today. Telling stories. People paid me."

Vigil's eyes widened. "For stories?"

"For stories." Sam set the coins down. "And I was thinking... we're already helping people. Rosey, you cook. Vigil, you tend creatures. I find lost things and tell stories. We're already doing something valuable."

"And?" Rosey prompted.

"And what if we made it official? A traveling performance troupe. We go town to town, we help people, we entertain them, we earn our keep. We make being different into something wonderful instead of something to hide."

Rosey and Vigil exchanged glances.

"Vigil has never performed," Vigil said slowly. "But Vigil could show the Trotters. People are always curious about them."

"And I could cook," Rosey said, her eyes lighting up. "Not just for work, but for people. Make food that brings joy. That's a kind of performance too."

"Exactly," Sam said. "We'd need a wagon. Supplies. A plan. But we could do this. Together."

Vigil was quiet for a long moment. Then they said, "Vigil has been alone for so long. Flint never thought Vigil could be part of something like this. Something... bright."

"You can," Sam said. "We all can."

Rosey grinned. "I love it. But we're going to need help. We can't build a wagon ourselves."

"Then we find someone who can," Sam said.

'And preferably someone who won't ask too many questions,' Keeper added. 'Though in my experience, the best builders are the grumpy ones.'

Sam laughed. "Then we'll find a grumpy builder."

Rosey raised her cup. "To the Troupe. Whatever we become."

Vigil raised theirs. "To belonging."

Sam raised his. "To new stories."

They drank together, the fire crackling, the Trotters resting nearby.

And somewhere in Sam's pocket, Keeper ticked contentedly.

'Right on time,' the watch thought. 'Right on time.'

 

THE BUILDER

 

They found the builder in the next town over—a place called Riverside, known for its craftsmen and traders.

His workshop was on the edge of town, a sturdy building with smoke rising from the forge. The sound of hammering rang out, steady and rhythmic.

"That's a good sign," Rosey said. "Someone who works."

"Vigil hopes they are not too busy," Vigil added. "Steady needs a wagon soon. Guard is tired of carrying everything."

Sam approached the open door and knocked on the frame. "Hello?"

The hammering stopped.

A man emerged from the shadows—broad-shouldered, maybe in his thirties, with soot-stained hands and a perpetual scowl. He looked them up and down with obvious skepticism.

"If you're here to sell me something, I'm not interested."

"We're here to buy," Sam said. "We need a wagon built."

The man's scowl deepened. "I don't build wagons. I'm a metalworker. Try the carpenter down the street."

"We need someone who can do both," Rosey said. "Metal fittings, reinforced joints, something that can handle long-distance travel. The Carpenter said you were the best."

The man grunted. "Flattery won't get you anywhere."

"It's not flattery if it's true," Sam said.

The man studied them—taking in Vigil's horns and hooves, the two massive Trotters waiting patiently outside, Sam's worn traveling clothes and the watch chain visible at his vest.

You're an odd group," he said finally.

"We're a traveling troupe," Sam said. "Or we will be, once we have a wagon."

"A troupe." The man's tone was flat, unimpressed. "Performers."

"Among other things," Rosey said. "We help people. Entertain them. Earn our keep honestly."

The man was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed. "Fine. I'll look at what you need. But I'm not promising anything."

He gestured them inside.

The workshop was organized chaos—tools hanging on walls, half-finished projects on benches, the forge glowing hot in the corner.

The man pulled out a piece of charcoal and a board. "Describe what you need."

Sam explained—a wagon large enough to carry supplies and sleep in, sturdy enough for rough roads, light enough for the Trotters to pull comfortably.

The man sketched as Sam talked, his movements quick and precise.

"It'll take two weeks," he said finally. "Maybe three. And it won't be cheap."

"We can pay," Rosey said, pulling out their coin pouch. "Half now, half when it's done?"

The man nodded. "Fair enough."

He turned back to his workbench, already dismissing them. "Come back in two weeks. I'll have it ready."

"Wait," Sam said. "What's your name?"

The man paused. "Does it matter?"

"We'd like to know who's building our wagon."

Another pause. Then: "Forge. People call me Forge."

"Thank you, Forge," Sam said.

Forge grunted and went back to work.

 

Sam returned to check on the progress.

Forge was in the middle of the workshop, welding a metal joint. Sparks flew. The air smelled of hot metal and coal smoke.

"You're early," Forge said without looking up. " Got another week to go. I said two weeks."

"Just wanted to see how it's coming along," Sam said.

"It's coming along fine. Now stop hovering."

Sam wandered around the workshop, careful not to touch anything. Everything here had memories—tools used for decades, projects abandoned and completed, the weight of years of work.

Forge finished the weld and set down his tools. He grabbed something from the bench—a heavy wrench, old and well-worn.

"Here," he said, tossing it to Sam. "Make yourself useful and hold this while I adjust the frame."

Sam caught it.

The moment his fingers closed around the wrench, the memories slammed into him.

A boy, maybe twelve years old, standing in a workshop much like this one.

An older man—gruff, broad-shouldered, with the same scowl—working at a forge. He looked like Forge but not.

"Hand me that wrench, boy."

The boy—young Forge—reaching for it, eager to help.

"Not that one. The other one. Pay attention."

The boy's face falling. Trying again.

Later: "I can fix it, Pa. Let me try."

"You'll just break it. Like you broke the last one."

"I didn't mean to—"

"Doesn't matter what you meant. Matters what you did. Remember that."

"Yes, Sir," young Forge said sadly.

Years of it. The same harsh lessons. The same reminders.

"Remember when you broke the clamp? Cost me a week's work."

"Remember when you ruined that hinge? Had to remake it from scratch."

The boy growing into a young man, his face hardening, his shoulders hunching.

Never hearing: "I'm proud of you."

Never hearing: "You're learning."

Never hearing: "I love you."

Just: "Remember. Don't make the same mistake twice."

And then—

The father, older now, working late. Coughing. Tired.

Young Forge: "Pa, you should rest."

"I'll rest when the work's done."

"Let me help—"

"You'll just slow me down."

The father dying three days later. Sudden. No warning. No goodbye.

Young Forge standing in the empty workshop, holding this wrench, thinking:

He never forgave me. He never thought I was good enough.

But Sam saw more.

He saw what Forge couldn't see.

The father's hands, teaching the boy how to hold a hammer properly. The patience in the repetition, even when it looked like frustration.

The father watching the boy work when the boy wasn't looking—pride in his eyes, quickly hidden.

The father keeping every piece the boy made, even the broken ones, stored carefully in a box under the workbench.

The father's last thought, as he lay dying: I should have told him. I should have said I was proud.

The love that had always been there, buried under gruffness and harsh lessons and a man who didn't know how to say what he felt.

Sam gasped and dropped the wrench.

It clattered to the floor.

Forge spun around. "What the hell—"

Then he saw Sam's face. The tears. The way Sam was shaking.

"What did you do?" Forge demanded, his voice rising. "What did you—"

Your father," Sam said quietly. "I saw your father."

Forge went very still.

Sam's mind was racing. He'd seen memories in objects before—hundreds of them. But this was different. This wasn't just what happened. This was deeper. He'd seen what Forge remembered, yes, but he'd also seen what Forge couldn't see. The truth hidden beneath the surface. The love buried under harshness.

He'd never done that before.

"The wrench," Sam said slowly, trying to understand it himself. "It was his. You learned from him. He was hard on you. Harsh. You broke something once, and he never let you forget it."

Forge's face had gone pale. "How do you—"

"I see memories," Sam said. "In objects. I've always been able to do that. But this time I saw—" He paused, the realization hitting him. "I saw more. Not just what you remember. I saw what really happened. The parts you couldn't see." He looked up, meeting Forge's eyes. "You may not have known it, but he loved you. He was proud of you. He just didn't know how to say it."

"That's not—" Forge's voice cracked. "You don't know—"

"He kept everything you made," Sam said gently. "Even the broken things. In a box under his workbench. Did you ever look?"

Forge stared at him.

"And when he was dying," Sam continued, his voice soft, "his last thought was that he should have told you. That he should have said he was proud. That he loved you."

Forge's hands were shaking. "You're lying."

"I'm not."

"You can't possibly—"

"The clamp you broke when you were fourteen," Sam said. "He kept it. He used it to teach himself patience. To remember that mistakes are part of learning. And every time he looked at it, he thought: My son is going to be better than me. He's going to be excellent."

Forge made a sound—half sob, half gasp.

"He loved you," Sam said. "He just showed it the only way he knew how. By teaching you. By pushing you. By making sure you'd never make the same mistakes he did. It wasn't kind. But it was love."

Forge turned away, his shoulders shaking.

Sam picked up the wrench and set it gently on the workbench.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to intrude. But... you deserved to know. You deserved to hear it, even if he couldn't say it himself."

There was a long silence.

Then Forge said, his voice rough, "Get out."

Sam's heart sank. "I—"

"Get out. Come back in a week. Your wagon will be ready."

Sam hesitated, then nodded. He turned to leave.

"Wait."

Sam stopped.

Forge didn't turn around. "What you did. What you saw. Is it real?"

"Yes."

Another long pause.

"Thank you," Forge said quietly.

Sam left him there, standing in his workshop, holding his father's wrench.

'Well,' Keeper murmured softly in his pocket, 'it seems your gift is growing. Evolving. You're not just seeing memories anymore. You're understanding them. Mending them.'

Mending them.

Sam's breath caught.

That's what he'd just done. He hadn't changed the memory. He hadn't erased Forge's pain. But he'd shown him the truth. He'd mended the broken understanding. He'd healed the wound that had been festering for years.

He'd mended a memory.

 

Two weeks later they returned to Forge's place to see what he had built. The wagon was magnificent.

Sturdy oak frame. Reinforced metal joints. A canvas cover that could be rolled back. Storage compartments built into the sides. Sleeping space for three. Every detail perfect.

Forge stood beside it, arms crossed, scowling as usual.

But his eyes were different. Clearer, somehow.

"It's beautiful," Rosey breathed.

"It's functional," Forge corrected. "Beauty is irrelevant. Probably my best work."

Vigil walked around it slowly, examining every joint. "Flint approves. This is excellent work."

Forge grunted.

Sam handed him the remaining payment. "Thank you. This is more than we hoped for."

Forge took the coins, then hesitated. "Where are you headed?"

"North," Sam said. "Then east. Wherever people need us."

"Performing?"

"And helping. I tell stories. Rosey cooks. Vigil tends creatures. We're building something."

Forge was quiet for a long moment.

Then he said, "You'll need repairs. Wagons break down. Wheels crack. Axles bend."

"We'll find someone—"

"I'll come with you."

Sam blinked. "What?"

"Temporarily," Forge said quickly. "Just until you're settled. Make sure the wagon holds up. Fix anything that breaks." He scowled. "Someone has to keep you from falling apart."

Rosey smiled. "We'd be glad to have you."

"I'm not joining your troupe," Forge said firmly. "I'm just... making sure my work doesn't fail."

"Of course," Sam said, trying not to smile.

Vigil tilted their head. "Vigil thinks Forge is lying. But Steady welcomes him anyway."

Forge's scowl deepened. "I'm not—"

"Your father would be proud," Sam said quietly. "Of this wagon. Of you."

Forge looked away. "Don't."

"It's true."

"I said don't."

But Sam saw the way Forge's jaw tightened. The way he blinked rapidly.

'Well,' Keeper murmured in Sam's pocket, 'looks like your troupe is growing. Right on time.'

 

That evening, they loaded the wagon and prepared to leave.

Forge packed his tools with practiced efficiency, still insisting this was temporary.

But when they set off—Sam and Rosey on the wagon seat, Vigil walking alongside the Trotters, Forge in the back with his tools—it felt right.

Four outcasts now.

A memory mender. An emotion cook. A creature keeper. And a grumpy builder who'd finally forgiven himself.

 

THE NAME

 

The town was called Oakshire, and it was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else's business.

The troupe had been there for three days—performing in the market square, Rosey selling her cooking, Vigil showing the Trotters to fascinated children, Forge grumbling about repairs that didn't need his expertise but doing them anyway.

And Sam—Sam had been mending memories.

Word had spread quickly. "There's a man who can help you understand the past. Who can show you the truth in your memories."

People came to him with lost loves, forgotten moments, painful regrets. And Sam helped them see clearly. Helped them heal.

On the third day, a woman approached him.

She was maybe forty, with tired eyes and hunched shoulders, like she'd been carrying a weight for too long.

"Are you the one who helps with memories?" she asked quietly.

"I am," Sam said.

She glanced around nervously. "Can we talk somewhere private?"

Sam led her to the wagon, parked at the edge of the market. Rosey was inside, but she nodded and stepped out, giving them space.

The woman sat on the wagon steps, wringing her hands.

"My name is Mara," she said. "And I... I need help. But I don't know if you can help with this."

"Tell me," Sam said gently.

Mara took a shaky breath. "Ten years ago, I made a mistake. A terrible one. I was working as a healer's assistant, and I... I mixed up two medicines. Gave the wrong one to a patient."

Sam listened quietly.

"The patient survived," Mara continued. "But they were sick for weeks. Nearly died. And everyone in town found out it was my fault. The healer dismissed me. No one would hire me after that. And now..." Her voice broke. "Now, ten years later, I'm still 'the woman who nearly killed someone.' That's all I am. That's all anyone sees."

What do you want me to do?" Sam asked.

"I don't know," Mara said. "I just... I can't escape it. Every time I try to move forward, someone brings it up. 'Remember when Mara nearly killed old Thomas?' I've apologized a thousand times. I've tried to make amends. But it doesn't matter. I'm trapped."

Sam felt the weight of her words—the shame, the exhaustion, the desperate need to be seen as something other than her worst moment.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing to her hands.

She nodded and held them out.

Sam took her hands gently and closed his eyes.

The memories came.

A younger Mara, exhausted from a long shift, reaching for bottles on a shelf. Two bottles, similar labels. Her hands shaking from fatigue. Grabbing the wrong one.

The patient collapsing. The healer's fury. The town's judgment.

Ten years of it. Ten years of whispers, of sidelong glances, of being defined by one moment of exhaustion and human error.

But Sam saw more.

He saw the years after. Mara volunteering at the temple, caring for the sick even though no one would pay her. Mara helping neighbors in secret, leaving food on doorsteps, mending clothes, tending gardens.

He saw her visiting old Thomas every week for five years until he died—bringing him tea, reading to him, apologizing over and over even though he'd forgiven her the first time.

He saw a woman who had spent a decade trying to atone. Trying to be better. Trying to prove she was more than one mistake.

And he saw that she was more. So much more.

But she couldn't see it. Because everyone else refused to see it.

Sam opened his eyes.

"You've spent ten years trying to earn forgiveness you already have," he said quietly.

Mara's eyes filled with tears. "Thomas forgave me. But the town—"

"The town is wrong," Sam said firmly. "You made a mistake. A human, understandable mistake. And you've spent a decade being a better person because of it. You've helped more people in the last ten years than most people help in a lifetime. But you're so busy punishing yourself, you can't see it."

"But everyone still sees me as—"

"You can't control what other people see," Sam said. "You can't make them forget. You can't force them to see you differently. But you can choose who you become. You can stop defining yourself by their judgment."

Mara wiped her eyes. "How?"

"By deciding you're more than that moment," Sam said. "By choosing to be the person you've been becoming—the one who helps, who cares, who shows up even when no one notices. That's who you are. Not the mistake. The person you became after the mistake."

Mara was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "But how do I make people see that?"

Sam hesitated. Then he said, "You don't. You can't change what others think. But you can choose who you become. And eventually, the people who matter will see the truth."

Mara nodded slowly. "I've been holding onto 'the woman who made the mistake' like... like it's a punishment I deserve."

"Yes," Sam said gently. "But you don't have to anymore. You can let it go. You can be someone new."

She looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. "Who?"

"Whoever you choose to be."

Mara left a few minutes later, her shoulders a little straighter, her eyes a little clearer.

Sam sat on the wagon steps, staring at his hands.

'That was well done,' Keeper said softly from his pocket.

Sam pulled out the watch. "I told her she could choose who to become. That she didn't have to be defined by her worst moment."

'Yes. Good advice.'

"But I'm still doing it," Sam said quietly. "I'm still holding onto 'Sam the thief' like it's a punishment I deserve."

Keeper was silent.

"I stole the locket," Sam continued. "I destroyed a woman's life. I can't undo that. I'll carry it forever. But I've been... I've been clinging to the name 'Sam' like I don't deserve to be anyone else. Like I have to keep punishing myself."

'And do you?' Keeper asked gently.

Sam thought about the last few months. The people he'd helped. The memories he'd mended. Forge's father. The woman with the pipe. Mara. Dozens of others.

He thought about Rosey, who'd stayed by his side. Vigil, who'd joined them. Forge, who'd forgiven himself because Sam showed him the truth.

He thought about the troupe they were building. The purpose he'd found.

"No," Sam said quietly. "I don't think I do."

'Then perhaps it's time to choose a new name. One that fits who you're becoming.'

Sam looked down at the watch. "Like what?"

'That's not for me to say. Names have power. You should choose.'

Sam was quiet for a long moment.

Then he said, "I mend memories. I help people heal. I fix what's broken—not by erasing it, but by showing the truth. By helping people see clearly."

"Yes."

"I'm not Sam anymore," he said slowly. "Sam was the boy who stole the locket. Who broke everything he touched. But I'm not him. Not anymore."

'Who are you, then?'

Sam took a deep breath. "I'm Mender. The Memory Mender. That's who I choose to be."

'Mender,' Keeper repeated, and there was warmth in the watch's voice. 'Yes. That fits! It's about time you claimed it.'

 

Rosey was cooking dinner over the fire when Sam approached.

"Can I talk to you?" he asked.

She looked up, concerned. "Of course. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Sam said. He sat down beside her. "I just... I wanted to tell you something."

"Okay."

"I don't want to be called Sam anymore."

Rosey's hands stilled. "What?"

"Sam is who I was," he said quietly. "The thief. The boy who destroyed a woman's life. I can't undo what I did. I'll always carry it. But I don't want to be defined by it anymore."

Rosey set down her spoon. "What do you want to be called?"

"Mender," he said. "The Memory Mender. That's who I'm choosing to be."

Rosey's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Sam—"

"Mender," he corrected gently.

She laughed, wiping her eyes. "Mender. I'm sorry. It's just... I've known you as Sam for so long."

"I know. And you can still call me Sam in private, if you want. You and Keeper. But to everyone else... I want to be Mender."

Rosey reached over and squeezed his hand. "I think it's perfect. I think you've earned it."

"I helped someone today," Mender said. "Helped her see she didn't have to be defined by her worst moment. And I realized I needed to take my own advice."

"You're not who you were," Rosey said softly. "You're who you're becoming. And Mender... that's exactly who you are."

 

Vigil and Forge returned to camp to find Sam—Mender—sitting by the fire with Rosey.

"Vigil has news," Vigil announced. "The town wants us to perform tomorrow night. A full show. They will pay well."

"That's great," Mender said.

Forge grunted. "I fixed the wheel on the wagon. It was fine, but I reinforced it anyway."

"Thank you, Forge."

Forge squinted at him. "You seem different."

"I am," Mender said. "I've decided to go by a different name. I'm Mender now. The Memory Mender."

Vigil tilted their head. "Mender. Flint approves. Well earned."

Forge crossed his arms. "Why the change?"

"Because I'm not who I was," Mender said simply. "And I'm choosing who I want to become."

Forge studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Fair enough. Mender it is."

Rosey smiled. "To new beginnings."

"To new names," Vigil added.

"To not having to explain this to every new person we meet," Forge muttered.

Mender laughed—a real, genuine laugh.

For the first time in a long time, he felt light.

He wasn't running from his past. He was carrying it forward. But he wasn't letting it define him anymore.

He was Mender.

And that was exactly who he wanted to be.

 

THE NAVIGATOR

 

Three years later.

The troupe had grown into something real.

They traveled a circuit now—twenty towns across three territories, performing in market squares and festival grounds. Mender told stories and mended memories. Rosey cooked meals that tasted like home. Vigil tended creatures and showed the Trotters (Gentle and Brave, and now two others they'd acquired) to delighted crowds. Forge built sets and repaired everything that broke (which was everything, constantly).

They had two wagons now. Forge had built the second one last year, grumbling the entire time about how they "didn't need it" even as he reinforced every joint and added hidden storage compartments.

They had a reputation. "The Memory Mender's Troupe." People sought them out. Waited for them. Welcomed them back year after year.

Mender was twenty-six now. Confident. Settled into who he'd become.

But there was one problem.

They kept getting lost.

"This is the third time we've passed that rock," Forge said flatly, pointing at a distinctive boulder beside the road.

"Vigil does not think it is the same rock," Vigil said, though they sounded uncertain.

"It's the same rock," Forge insisted. "I carved a mark on it the first time we passed it. See?"

Everyone looked. There was indeed a small carved "F" on the boulder.

"Oh," Vigil said.

Mender sighed and pulled out the map they'd bought in the last town. It was hand-drawn, faded, and completely unhelpful.

"According to this," he said, "we should have reached Millbrook two days ago."

"Millbrook is east of here," Rosey said, squinting at the sun. "I think."

"East is that way," Vigil said, pointing.

"No, that's north," Forge said.

"Flint is certain that is east."

"You're both wrong," Rosey said. "That's northeast."

Mender looked at Keeper. "Any thoughts?"

'My dear Mender, I am a watch, not a compass. Though I must say, it's about time you admitted you need help with navigation.'

"We don't need help," Mender said. "We just need a better map."

"We need a navigator," Forge said bluntly. "Someone who actually knows how to read a map. And the stars. And literally anything about where we're going."

Vigil can navigate by the stars," Vigil offered.

"You got us lost last week using the stars," Forge pointed out.

"That was one time."

"It was three times."

"Guard does not appreciate Forge's tone."

"I don't care what Guard appreciates—"

"Stop," Mender said, rubbing his temples. "We're lost. Again. We need to figure out where we are and how to get to Millbrook before we run out of supplies."

"Or before we wander into the Thornlands," Rosey added quietly.

Everyone went silent.

The Thornlands were dangerous—bandit territory, wild creatures, no law enforcement. Travelers who went in didn't always come out.

"We're not near the Thornlands," Mender said, trying to sound confident. "We're nowhere near—"

"Mender," Vigil said quietly, pointing.

In the distance, barely visible through the trees, was a line of tall, twisted thorn bushes. The kind that only grew in one place.

The Thornlands.

"Oh no," Rosey whispered.

"How did we get here?" Mender demanded, staring at the useless map.

"Because none of you can navigate worth a damn," said a new voice.

Everyone spun around.

A young woman stood on the road behind them—red hair pulled back in a practical braid, hands on her hips, a satchel slung over one shoulder. She had a Southern accent and an expression that said she was both amused and exasperated.

"Who are you?" Forge demanded.

"Someone who's been watchin' y'all wander in circles for the last hour," the woman said. "You passed that rock three times, by the way. I counted."

"We know," Forge muttered.

The woman walked closer, eyeing the wagons, the Trotters, the mismatched group. "Let me guess. You're the Memory Mender's Troupe. I've heard about y'all."

"You have?" Mender asked.

"Everyone's heard about you. The man who mends memories, the woman who cooks emotions, the creature keeper with five names, and the grumpy builder." She smiled. "You're famous. You're also completely lost."

"We're not lost," Mender said. "We're just... temporarily uncertain of our location."

The woman laughed. "Sugar, you're about ten minutes from walkin' straight into the Thornlands. That's not 'temporarily uncertain.' That's dangerous."

Rosey stepped forward. "Can you help us?"

The woman pulled a rolled map from her satchel—a real one, professionally drawn, with notes in the margins. She unrolled it and studied it for about five seconds.

"Yer here," she said, pointing. "Millbrook is there. You've been headin' northwest insteada east. If you'd kept goin', you'd 've hit the Thornlands in 'bout half a mile."

"Oh," Mender said quietly.

"How did you know that so quickly?" Forge asked, suspicious.

" 'Cause I'm a navigator," the woman said simply. "I read maps. I track routes. I know where things are." She rolled up the map. "It's what I do."

Vigil tilted their head. "What is your name?"

"Nora," the woman said. "But mos' folks call me North."

"North," Mender repeated. "That's... fitting."

"Isn' it?" North grinned. "I'm from the South, so it's ironic. But I've been travelin' north for years now, so the name stuck."

"What are you doing out here?" Rosey asked.

North shrugged. "Travelin'. Mappin'. Lookin' for work. I heard about your troupe a few towns back and thought I'd catch up, see if the stories were true." She looked at them. "Turns out they are. You really are lost."

"We're not usually this lost," Mender said defensively.

"Mender, we've been lost for three days," Rosey said.

"Fine. We're often this lost."

North laughed. "Well, I can fix that. If ya want."

"You want to join us?" Forge asked, skeptical.

"I want to not watch y'all wander into the Thornlands and get yerselves killed," North said. "And I like the idea of travelin' with a purpose. Helping people. Performin'. Sounds better than wanderin' alone."

She looked at Mender. "So what do ya  say? You need a navigator. I need a troupe. Seems like good timin' to me."

Mender looked at the others.

Rosey nodded. "We do need help."

Vigil said, "Vigil likes her. Steady approves."

Forge crossed his arms. "She's too organized. It's suspicious."

"I'll take that as a compliment," North said cheerfully.

Mender smiled. "Welcome to the troupe, North."

"Thank you kindly," North said. She pulled out her map again. "Now, let's get y'all turned around before ya end up in bandit territory. Millbrook is this way."

She started walking, confident and sure-footed.

The troupe followed.

'Well,' Keeper murmured, 'it's about time you found someone who knows where they're going.'

Mender laughed quietly. "Agreed."

That evening they made camp safely away from the Thornlands, following North's directions.

North had already organized their route for the next three months, color-coded by season and marked with notes about weather patterns and festival dates.

Forge stared at her meticulously organized maps. "This is excessive."

"This is efficient," North corrected. "Y'all 've been wanderin' like chickens with yer heads cut off. Now you'll actually know where yer goin'."

"Vigil appreciates organization," Vigil said.

"Thank you, sugar."

Rosey handed North a bowl of stew. "Welcome to the family."

North took it, surprised. "Family?"

"That's what we are," Mender said. "A family of misfits and outcasts. And now we have a navigator."

North smiled, her eyes a little bright. "Well then. I'm honored to be part of it."

She took a bite of the stew and her eyes widened. "Oh my stars, this is incredible! What did you put in this?"

"Happiness," Rosey said. "And relief that we're not lost anymore."

"I can taste it," North said, amazed. "That's yer gift?"

"One of them."

North looked around at the group—the memory mender, the emotion cook, the five-named creature keeper, the grumpy builder, and now her.

"This is the strangest, most wonderful group I've ever met," she said.

"You'll fit right in," Mender said.

And she did.

 

 

North fit into the troupe like she'd always been there.

Within two days, she'd reorganized their entire route, created a schedule that actually made sense, and prevented them from getting lost three separate times.

Forge pretended to be annoyed by her efficiency, but Mender noticed he'd started asking her opinion on the best routes for the wagons.

Vigil loved her immediately. "North is very organized. Stone appreciates this."

Rosey was just relieved to have someone else who could plan ahead.

And Mender... Mender was grateful. But he also sensed something.

They'd made camp in a clearing off the main road. North had chosen the spot—flat ground, near water, sheltered from wind. Perfect, as always.

Mender was helping Rosey prepare dinner when he heard it.

Faint. Sad. Calling.

He froze, the feeling washing over him like it used to years ago. The pull of something broken, something lonely, something that needed help.

'You're hearing something,' Keeper observed quietly.

"Yes," Mender murmured.

He followed the feeling across the camp to where North was setting up her bedroll. Her pack lay open beside her, maps and supplies neatly organized.

And there, tucked in a side pocket, was a compass.

Broken. Tarnished. The glass cracked.

Lost, it whispered. Broken. She carries me but won't fix me. She's afraid.

Mender knelt beside the pack, drawn to it.

"Can I help you with somethin'?" North's voice was sharp, protective.

Mender looked up. "Your compass. It's broken."

North's expression shuttered. "I know. Has been fer years."

But you keep it."

"It was my father's." She reached over and closed the flap of her pack, hiding the compass from view. "I don't need it. I navigate fine without it."

"Then why carry it?"

North's jaw tightened. " 'Cause it's mine. Tha's reason enough."

Mender felt the weight of the memory attached to the compass—grief, guilt, longing, fear. "May I see it?"

"Why?"

"Because it's calling to me," Mender said gently. "And I think it needs help. I think you need help."

North stared at him. "I don't need—"

"Please," Mender said. "Just let me look."

North hesitated. Then, slowly, she pulled the compass from her pack and handed it to him.

The moment Mender's fingers touched it, the memories flooded in.

A younger North—Nora—maybe sixteen, standing in a workshop in the South.

Her father, a navigator and cartographer, teaching her to read the stars, to chart courses, to find her way.

"This compass belonged to my father, and his father b'fore 'im. One day, Nora, it'll be yers."

Years of learning. Years of traveling together. Father and daughter, mapping the world.

Then: an argument.

"I want to go north, Daddy. See new places. Chart new routes."

"You belong here, Nora. With family. With home."

"But I want more'n this!"

"Yer runnin' away."

"I'm movin' forward!"

The compass, thrown in anger—by her or by him, the memory wasn't clear. Hitting the floor. The glass cracking. The needle bending.

Nora leaving the next morning, the broken compass in her pack.

Her father calling after her: "Nora! Nora, wait—"

But she didn't wait. She left.

And three months later, word reached her: her father had died. Sudden. A fever.

She never got to say goodbye. Never got to tell him she loved him. Never got to hear him say he was proud.

The compass stayed broken. A reminder. A punishment.

If she fixed it, what would that mean? That she'd moved on? That she'd forgiven herself?

She didn't deserve to move on.

But Mender saw more.

He saw the father's perspective—the pride he felt watching his daughter navigate, the fear of losing her, the love buried under stubbornness.

He saw the father's last thoughts: 'I should 've told 'er ta go. I should 've said I was proud. I should 've given 'er my blessin'.'

He saw that the argument wasn't about the compass or about leaving. It was about a father who loved his daughter so much he was terrified of letting her go.

And he saw North—Nora—carrying the broken compass for years, punishing herself, afraid that fixing it would mean forgetting him.

Mender opened his eyes.

"He was proud of you," Mender said quietly. "He was terrified, but he was proud. He wanted you to go. He just didn't know how to say it."

North's face had gone pale. "You can't know that."

"I can," Mender said. "I see it. In the memory. In the compass. He loved you, Nora. And his last thought was that he should have told you to follow your own path. That he should have given you his blessing."

North's hands were shaking. "He died angry at me."

"No," Mender said firmly. "He died wishing he'd been braver. Wishing he'd told you the truth—that you were meant for more than one place. That you were meant to chart your own course."

A tear slid down North's cheek. "I never got ta say goodbye."

"I know," Mender said gently. "But he knew you loved him. And he wanted you to be free. To be happy. To find where you belong."

North wiped her eyes roughly. "The compass is brok'n. It can't be fixed."

"It can," Mender said. "Forge can fix the mechanics. And I can help you see the truth in the memory. You're not lost, Nora. You chose your direction. And your father would be proud of that."

North looked at the broken compass in Mender's hands. "I've been carryin' it like... like a punishment. Like I don't deserve ta move forward."

"You do," Mender said. "You deserve to honor him by living the life he wanted for you. By being exactly who you are."

North was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "Can ya really fix it?"

"We can try."

The next day Forge was examining  the compass with his usual scowl. "The glass is cracked, the needle's bent, and the casing is tarnished. It's a mess."

"Can ya fix it?" North asked quietly.

Forge looked at her—really looked at her—and his expression softened just slightly. "Yes. It'll take a few hours, but I can fix it."

"Thank you," North said.

Forge grunted and got to work.

That evening, Forge handed North the compass.

It gleamed. The glass was replaced, the needle straightened, the casing polished. It looked new.

North held it carefully, her hands trembling.

"Does it work?" Rosey asked softly.

North opened the compass. The needle swung, then settled, pointing true north.

She let out a shaky breath. "It works."

Mender touched her shoulder gently. "He'd be proud of you. Of who you've become. Of the navigator you are."

North wiped her eyes. "I've been so afraid. Afraid that if I fixed it, I'd forget 'im. Or that I'd realize I was still lost."

"You're not lost," Mender said. "You're exactly where you're meant to be."

North looked around at the troupe—the misfits and outcasts who'd become her family.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "I think I am."

She closed the compass and tucked it carefully into her vest pocket, right over her heart.

Not hidden away anymore. Not a punishment.

A reminder. A blessing. A gift from her father.

Go. Chart your own course. Be free.

 

Later, Mender sat by the fire, Keeper ticking softly in his hand.

'You're getting very good at this,' Keeper said. 'Mending what's broken.'

"I'm trying," Mender said.

'You're succeeding. North needed that. Just like Forge needed it. Just like so many others.'

"I can't fix everything," Mender said quietly. "I can't undo the past. I can't give people back what they've lost."

'No,' Keeper agreed. 'But you can help them see the truth. Help them heal. Help them move forward. That's more than most people can do.'

Mender watched North across the fire, laughing at something Vigil said, the compass resting over her heart.

"Yeah," he said softly. "I suppose it is."

 

THE WITCH'S GIFT

 

Five years after the locket.

The Troupe was performing in a town called Ashwick when Mender felt it.

A pull. A calling. Not an object this time—something deeper. Something that had been waiting for him.

'You feel it too,' Keeper said quietly from his pocket.

"Yes," Mender murmured. "What is it?"

'I believe, my dear Mender, that it's finally time.'

"Time for what?"

'You'll see. Follow the feeling. It's about time you did.'

The feeling led Mender out of town, into the woods, down a winding path that resonated with past memories, not his own.

Five years ago. When he was Sam. When he was broken and desperate and drowning in stolen memories.

The path to the witch's manor.

His steps slowed. His heart raced.

'It's all right,' Keeper said gently. 'She's waiting for you.'

"How do you know?"

'Because I've always known. Now go. Don't keep her waiting—time waits for no one.'

This manor house was much different than he remembered. No longer the home of a grieving widow. The gardens were tended—flowers blooming, hedges trimmed, the fountain running clear. The windows were open, curtains fluttering in the breeze, like they had been on Summer days before the child had passed.

It looked... alive.

Mender approached the door and knocked.

It opened immediately.

The witch stood there, older but not diminished. Her silver hair was braided, her eyes sharp and clear. She looked at him without surprise.

"You came," she said.

"You were waiting for me," Mender said.

"I was." She stepped aside. "Come in. We have much to discuss."

The inside of the manor was a place light and warmth, not the dust and darkness of memories past. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with journals and maps and pressed flowers. A fire crackled in the hearth.

And on the mantle, in a place of honor, was a painting.

A little girl, spinning in a garden, her dress flaring out like a flower. He knew her, in a way that no other could, through her mother's memories.

"That's her," the witch said softly. "My daughter. My Lily."

"It's beautiful," Mender whispered.

"I painted it last year," the witch said. "From memory. The memories I still have." She looked at him. "Not the ones you took. Those are gone. But I have others. And I've been learning to treasure them."

Mender's throat tightened. "I'm so sorry. For what I did. For what I took from you."

"I know," the witch said. "Sit. We have things to say to each other."

They sat by the fire, tea steaming between them.

The witch studied him. "You're different. Not the broken boy who stumbled into my home five years ago."

"I'm trying to be," Mender said. "I can't undo what I did. But I've been trying to help people. To use what happened to me for good."

"The Memory Mender," the witch said. "Yes. I've heard the stories. You've been busy."

"You've been keeping track of me?"

"Of course I have." The witch sipped her tea. "You stole my most precious memories. Did you think I'd forget you?"

Mender flinched.

"But," the witch continued, "I've also been watching you grow. Watching you help people. Watching you become someone worthy of the gift you were given."

"Gift?" Mender said bitterly. "It's a curse."

"It's both," the witch said. "As most powerful things are."

She set down her tea and pulled something from her pocket.

A small brass key.

"Do you know what this is?" she asked.

Mender shook his head.

"It's the key to the locket you stole," the witch said. "The one that held my daughter's memories. I've kept it all these years. A reminder."

She held it out to him.

Mender stared at it. "I don't understand."

"Take it," the witch said.

Slowly, Mender took the key. The moment his fingers touched it, memories flooded in—but not the ones he expected.

The witch, weeks after Sam had fled, sitting in her empty manor.

Rage. Grief. The desire for revenge.

But then... something else.

Pity.

She'd seen the boy's face. Seen his terror. Seen the weight of the memories crushing him.

He was a thief, yes. But he was also a victim of his own gift.

She couldn't give him back his old life. But she could help him adapt to his new one.

She went to her workshop and found an old pocket watch. A family heirloom. Enchanted, but dormant.

She woke it.

"You will help him," she told the watch. "You will keep him sane. You will organize the chaos. You will be his companion until he no longer needs you."

'And then?' the watch asked.

"Then you may rest."

She placed the watch on a path she knew the boy would take. And she waited.

Mender gasped, dropping the key.

He pulled Keeper from his pocket, staring at the watch with wide eyes.

"You," he whispered. "You belonged to her. She sent you to me."

'Guilty as charged,' Keeper said, and for the first time, his voice sounded... tired. 'Though I must say, it's been quite the adventure.'

"You knew?" Mender demanded. "This whole time, you knew?"

'Of course I knew. But you needed to discover it in your own time. Speaking of which—'

"Why didn't you tell me?"

'Because you weren't ready to hear it,' Keeper said gently. 'You needed to believe you'd found me by chance. That you'd earned my help. And you did, my dear Mender. You absolutely did.'

Mender looked at the witch. "Why? After what I did, why would you help me?"

The witch's expression softened. "Because I saw you, child. I saw the weight you carried. The memories drowning you. And I thought... my daughter would not want me to let a boy suffer, even the boy who wronged me."

"But I took everything from you—"

"You took memories," the witch said gently. "Precious ones. And I was angry. So angry. But anger is exhausting, and grief... grief softens with time. I couldn't take back what you had taken. But I could help you survive carrying it. None of us deserve the kindness we're given, but we receive it anyway. That's what grace is."

She gestured to Keeper. "The watch has been awake for five years. Even sentient objects need rest eventually. He's exhausted.."

'Quite,' Keeper admitted. 'Though I've enjoyed every minute. Well, every second, technically.'

"He's earned his rest," the witch said. "And you, Mender, no longer need him. You've learned to organize your memories. To control your gift. To be strong on your own."

"But I—" Mender's voice broke. "He's my friend."

'And I always will be,' Keeper said warmly. 'But she's right. I'm tired, old friend. I've been awake for so long. I need to sleep.'

"Will you..." Mender couldn't finish the question.

'Disappear? No. I'll sleep. And from time to time, I'll wake up. When you need me. When something important happens. When a truly excellent time pun presents itself.'

"You promise?"

'I promise. But for now... it's time for me to rest. And time for you to trust yourself.'

The witch stood and patted the watch affectionately. "Thank you, old friend. You've served well."

'It's been my pleasure,' Keeper said. 'Truly. Every moment.'

He paused, then added, 'Mender. You've become exactly who you were meant to be. I'm proud of you. And I'm honored to have been a part of your journey.'

"Keeper—" Mender's voice cracked.

'It's all right. I'll see you again. After all—' Keeper's voice grew fainter, softer. '—we'll always have time...'

The watch went silent.

The ticking stopped.

Mender held Keeper in his trembling hands, a tear falling onto the brass casing.

"He's not gone," the witch said gently. "Just sleeping. He'll wake when he's needed. Or when he wants to say hello. Enchanted objects are like that—stubborn and sentimental."

Mender wiped his face and carefully tucked Keeper back into his pocket, right over his heart.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For giving him to me. For helping me when you had every reason not to."

The witch smiled—a real smile, warm and sad and kind. "You helped yourself, child. You chose to become someone better. I just gave you a tool to survive long enough to do it."

They sat in silence for a while, the fire crackling.

Then Mender said, "Can I help you? With your memories? I can't give back what I took, but maybe I can help you preserve what you have. Or remember things you've forgotten."

The witch considered this. "There are moments I've lost to time. Not stolen—just faded. Moments with my daughter that have blurred."

"I could help you see them clearly," Mender said. "If you'll let me."

The witch looked at the painting on the mantle. "Yes. I'd like that."

An hour had passed and Mender had helped the witch recover a dozen small memories—the sound of her daughter's laugh, the way she smelled after playing in the garden, the exact words of a lullaby she used to sing.

The witch wept, but they were good tears. Healing tears.

"Thank you," she said. "You've given me back pieces I thought were lost forever."

"It's the least I could do," Mender said.

The witch walked him to the door as the sun began to set.

"You've become a good man," she said. "My daughter would have liked you."

Mender's throat tightened. "I wish I could have met her."

"So do I." The witch touched his cheek gently. "But you carry her memory now. In the stories you tell. In the people you help. She's part of you. And that... that brings me comfort."

"I'll honor her," Mender promised. "Always."

"I know you will." She smiled. "Now go. Your troupe is waiting. And you have more people to help. More thieves to save."

Mender blinked. "More thieves?"

The witch's smile turned mysterious. "You'll see. Soon enough. Someone who needs what you needed—a second chance. A new name. A purpose."

"How do you—"

"I'm a witch, child. I see threads of fate. Now go, before your friends come looking for you."

Mender walked back through the woods, Keeper silent in his pocket.

He felt lighter. Freer.

The witch had forgiven him. Keeper had helped him. And he'd helped the witch in return.

The circle was complete.

Well, he thought, almost complete.

The witch had said he'd meet another thief. He wondered who that would be. Someone who needed what he'd needed—a second chance. A new name.

But that was a story for another day.

EPILOGUE 

 

Many years after the witch.

The troupe was setting up camp outside a town called Millford. North had chosen the spot—a clearing near the main road, perfect for travelers to stumble upon. Forge was grumbling about a wagon wheel that didn't need fixing but he'd fix it anyway. Vigil was tending the creatures. Rosey was cooking something that smelled like rosemary and butter.

Mender was examining a barrel they'd acquired in the last town—checking if it was sound enough to store supplies—when he heard it.

Footsteps. Running. Desperate.

He looked up.

A young man burst through the gap between buildings and stumbled into their camp. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Short brown hair. Fox-like features. Clutching a bundle to his chest like it was worth dying for.

Their eyes met.

Mender saw it immediately—the terror, the exhaustion, the weight of something the boy couldn't explain.

He'd seen that look before. In a mirror. Years ago.

Behind the boy, more footsteps. A voice rang out: "Rev Lacroix! Stop running!"

A lawman. Chasing the boy.

Mender made his decision in one second.

"In," he said quietly, pointing to the barrel.

The boy didn't hesitate. He scrambled inside, pulling his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his bundle. Mender closed the lid and leaned casually against the barrel, settling his weight like he did this every day.

The boy's heartbeat thundered inside the barrel. Mender could feel it through the wood.

Breathe, he thought. You're safe.

The Lawman appeared, Lawson West—breathless, determined, earnest. Young. Doing his job.

"Have you seen a young man?" the Ranger asked, panting. "Seventeen. Fox-like features. Short, brown hair, carrying stolen goods?"

Mender kept his expression neutral, his voice smooth. "Saw someone running that way. Few minutes ago. Seemed in quite a hurry."

"Which direction exactly?"

Mender paused, as if trying to remember. Inside the barrel, the boy's breathing was shallow, panicked.

"West," Mender said.

What?"

"He went West," Mender clarified. "Or Northwest. Hard to say. He was moving awfully fast."

The lawman hesitated, then nodded. "Thank you!"

Mender watched him go, and then waited a little longer. He almost felt sorry for the poor fool. Mender counted to twenty. Listened to make sure the lawman was truly gone.

Then he tapped the barrel. "He's gone. You can come out now."

The lid pushed up slowly. The boy blinked in the evening light, his legs cramped. He climbed out awkwardly, nearly falling.

Mender caught his elbow, steadying him.

Up close, the boy looked even younger. Exhausted. Terrified. But there was something else—a familiar weight in his eyes. The look of someone carrying more than they could bear.

"Thank you," the boy managed. "I—you didn't have to—"

"No," Mender agreed. "I didn't." He studied the boy, sensing the truth beneath the surface—the memories, the fear, the desperate need to be understood. "But I did anyway."

The boy shifted his bundle, suddenly aware of how suspicious he looked.

Mender's eyes dropped to the bundle. He could feel it—the pull of lonely objects, the weight of things that called out. He knew that feeling intimately.

"Must be important, whatever you took," Mender said gently.

The boy's jaw tightened. "It is. To someone."

"Not to the person you took it from?"

"He doesn't even know it's gone."

Mender tilted his head. The boy was defensive, sharp-edged. Protecting himself. Just like Mender used to.

"What did you steal?" Mender asked.

The boy hesitated. Then, slowly, he reached into his bundle and pulled out a sock.

One single, ordinary sock.

He kept the rest of the bundle close, unwilling to reveal what else he carried.

Mender stared at the sock. He felt the memory attached to it—loneliness, longing, the desperate call of something that had been separated from its pair.

He understood immediately.

"It was calling to you," Mender said softly.

The boy's head snapped up. "What?"

"The sock. It was lonely. Calling out. And you heard it."

The boy stared at him, eyes wide. Disbelieving. Hopeful. "Yes."

Mender's gaze dropped briefly to the bundle still clutched in the boy's other hand. He could sense more objects inside—each one calling, each one lonely, each one taken because the boy couldn't help himself.

He didn't ask. Didn't push. The boy would share when he was ready.

"What's your name?" Mender asked.

"Rev."

Mender felt the weight of that name—the identity tied to it, the Lawman hunting it, the reputation it carried.

"Not anymore," Mender said. He straightened, brushing dust from his vest. "The ranger is looking for Rev Lacroix. He won't find Feren."

"Feren?"

It was a good name. Gentle. Soft. Like a ferret—a creature that collected things, that burrowed into safe spaces, that was misunderstood.

"Can you remember that?" Mender asked.

The boy—no, Feren—nodded slowly. "...Yes."

"Good." Mender held out his hand. "I'm Mender. Welcome to the troupe, Feren."

Feren stared at the offered hand like it was a trap. Like kindness was something dangerous.

Mender understood that too.

"You're safe here," Mender said quietly. "I know what it's like. To hear things calling. To take things you can't explain. To carry a weight you never asked for."

"You... you understand?"

"I do." Mender smiled gently. "And I can help you. If you'll let me."

Feren took his hand.

 

That evening Rosey fed Feren three bowls of stew and didn't ask a single question.

Vigil showed him the Trotters and explained, in third person, that Steady understood what it meant to be different.

Forge grumbled about "another stray" but set up a bedroll for him anyway.

North made herself busy, as usual, marking their route on her map 

Lyric played a soft, welcoming tune on his flute—something gentle and warm that made Feren's shoulders relax for the first time in days.

Lumina was awake now that night had fallen, her eyes bright and focused. She wove soft lights around the camp, creating a warm glow that felt safe

Felix sat with his cards, occasionally glancing up at Feren with an unreadable expression that hinged on icy-ness. 

Mender noted the cold behavior, but knew he would warm up to the the kid eventually, and sat with Feren by the fire for a while- a quiet presence. He didn't push for answers or explanations. Just sat. Listened to the fire crackle. Let Feren know he wasn't alone.

Eventually, Mender stood. "Get some rest. Tomorrow's a new day."

Feren nodded, exhaustion finally catching up with him.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"You're welcome," Mender said. "Sleep well, Feren.

 

Much later, Mender sat alone by the dying embers, Keeper resting in his palm.

The watch ticked once. Twice.

Then, faintly: 'Well done, Mender. It's about time you found another stray.'

Mender smiled. "You're awake."

'Just for a moment. I wanted to see. The boy—Feren. He's like you were.'

"Yes."

'You'll help him. Just like I helped you. Just like the witch helped you.'

"I will."

'Good. The circle continues. Grace given, grace received, grace passed forward.' Keeper's voice grew fainter. 'I'm proud of you, old friend. Now let me sleep. I'm exhausted from all this sentimentality.'

Mender laughed softly. "Rest well, Keeper."

The watch went silent.

Mender tucked him back into his pocket and looked across the fire at Feren, curled up in his bedroll. He was safe now finally, and sleeping soundly.

The witch had been right.

He'd met another thief. Someone who needed what he'd needed—a second chance. A new name. A family.

And Mender would give him all of that.

Because that's what grace was.

Kindness you didn't deserve, given freely, passed forward endlessly.

The circle was complete.

And the story continued.

 

THE END