The click of her boots echoed against linoleum as she stepped inside.

  The air was cool—just the right temperature—and faintly smelled of stale popcorn, old film stock, and something herbal. Maybe lavender. Maybe time.

  The front lobby felt like stepping into a 1970s dentist’s office preserved in amber: muted tones, wood veneer, and out-of-date but impeccably clean decor. Two vending machines stood across from one another like suspicious diplomats. A pair of sunken couches faced off over a battered coffee table scattered with decades-old magazines and a half-finished crossword in blue pen.

  Framed movie posters covered the walls—everything from The Brain That Wouldn’t Die to Attack of the 50 Ft. Woman. The kind of titles only midnight channels or VHS collectors remembered.

  A payphone hung on one wall, its metal housing dulled with age but meticulously clean, the handset resting squarely in its cradle as if it had just been wiped down.

  At the center of the lobby stood a wide reception desk, cluttered but orderly. Clipboards. Folders. A mug shaped like a screaming skull full of pens. A kettle steamed gently beside a stack of mismatched mugs. A tarnished brass elevator door glinted at the far end of the room, still and watchful.

  Olivia turned slowly in place, taking it all in.

  She was about to step toward the desk when a warm, cheerful voice called out from behind it.

  “Ah. There you are. Just in time!”

  She froze.

  The chair behind the reception desk turned, leather creaking softly, and someone was suddenly there.

  Waiting.

  Olivia turned.

  The voice belonged to the figure now facing her from behind the desk, perched comfortably in one of the old, scuffed office chairs. For a heartbeat, she thought he might be another Furry—someone in an exceptionally elaborate costume—but the thought didn’t settle. The illusion didn’t break. It simply… deepened.

  He was perhaps five foot five, dressed like he’d stepped out of a very confused time machine. A deep blue velvet tailcoat caught the fluorescent light, soft and rich-looking. Beneath it, a silver-and-black brocade vest was buttoned neatly over a crisp white shirt with ruffled cuffs. And the tie—by all the stars, the tie—was neon leopard print, clashing aggressively with everything else, worn with the absolute confidence of someone who had never once considered apologizing for his taste.

  Long, pointed ears drooped just slightly at the tips, poking through a curtain of sky-blue hair pulled into a thick ponytail that draped over one shoulder and down to his waist like a sash. His eyebrows, the same hue, lifted with open curiosity above what had to be vertical-slit cat’s-eye contact lenses.

  And his feet.

  Large. Blue. Furry.

  They protruded from beneath the desk, massive and paw-like. Olivia had to look twice. No visible seams. No shoes, no slippers. The fur shifted subtly when he moved, as if it were simply… part of him.

  “Come in, come in,” he said, beckoning her closer with an easy smile. “No need to haunt the lobby like a ghost with regrets. Tea?”

  “I—uh. Sure,” Olivia managed, stepping forward.

  He scooted his chair aside and patted the one beside him, tucked behind the desk. “Sit with me. You’re Olivia, yes? Of course you are. Welcome to OtherWorlds.”

  “…Thanks?” She sat, still not entirely convinced this wasn’t a prank or a stress-induced hallucination. “You’re… Charles?”

  “Charles Winthrop the Third,” he said, dipping his head in a small, theatrical bow. “Executive Director of the station, janitor of the third-floor supply closet, and occasional coat rack when the situation demands.”

  He poured her a cup of tea from the kettle—into a porcelain mug decorated with smiling cartoon ghosts—and passed it to her with care.

  “Cream? Honey? We’re out of sugar cubes. Bernard’s fault. He likes the crunch.”

  She paused, then shook her head. “No, this is fine. Thank you.”

  “Excellent.” He took a sip of his own tea. “Now then. How are you, Olivia? You made quite the trek from Trenton. Was the bus beastly?”

  “…It blew a tire,” she said automatically. “But it wasn’t bad.” She hesitated, then frowned. “How did you know my name?”

  Charles smiled over the rim of his mug, slow and knowing, but not smug. Comfortably strange.

  “My dear, you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t heard the Signal. That’s how it works.”

  Olivia frowned. “I mean—I saw the ad. But I haven’t said I’m taking the job. I just came to check it out. I thought I’d at least get an interview—”

  “Oh, Olivia.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You are the interview. And you’ve already passed.”

  She opened her mouth. Closed it.

  Her gaze drifted around the lobby again—the faint flicker of the lights, the quiet hum in the walls. Something in her spine eased, settling into place, like a piano string finally tuned to the right pitch.

  “…You’re serious,” she said.

  “Always,” Charles replied. “Even when it looks like I’m joking.”

  He clapped his hands softly. “Now. Duties are standard front-desk fare. Greet visitors—rare though they may be—answer phones, accept deliveries, keep the place running smoothly. Most days are quiet. Fridays are livelier, when the Hosts come in for weekend programming. You’ll meet them later. They’re… colorful.”

  “That’s fine,” Olivia said slowly. “I’m good at front desk work. Phones, messages, filing. Even spreadsheets, if they’re not too cursed.”

  “Oh good,” Charles said brightly. “We try to keep the worst of those contained.”

  “…Contained where?”

  He waved a hand. “Details. Now—accommodations. There’s a small apartment upstairs, just off the second-floor hallway. Second door on the right. It’s available, if you’d like it. No obligation. No rush. Fully furnished. Saves the bus fare, and keeps you nearby in case of spontaneous hauntings, dimensional ripples, or the occasional FedEx delivery.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Spontaneous hauntings?”

  “Oh yes. They’re usually polite,” he said cheerfully. “But they do get dramatic around award season.”

  “…Right.”

  He reached into a desk drawer, rummaged briefly, and handed her a folded slip of paper.

  “And of course—compensation.”

  She unfolded it. Looked. Stammered. Looked again.

  “…Is this per month?”

  He grinned. “No, no. Per week. Plus full medical, dental, vision, and enchantment coverage. Room and board, as mentioned. And a modest stipend for incidentals. Snacks. Ribbons. Tail glue.”

  Olivia stared at the number. Her eyes prickled.

  “That’s…” Her voice dropped. “That’s more than I’ve ever made. By a lot.”

  “And worth every cent,” Charles said gently. “We don’t ask more than what’s fair. But we do recognize value when we see it.”

  She looked at him—really looked. Not quite human. Not quite anything she could name. Something older, like the station itself.

  But not unkind.

  The silence stretched, warm and unhurried, steeped in tea and the quiet hum of the building.

  Charles set his mug down first.

  “Well,” he said lightly, “before we decide anything at all, perhaps I should show you around. It’s only polite. You ought to know where you’re standing.”

  Olivia hesitated, then nodded. “I’d like that.”

  “Splendid.” He rose smoothly from his chair. “Think of it as a tour, not a commitment.”

  They walked.

  The Station unfolded at an unhurried pace — hallways lined with framed photographs of smiling, monstrous Hosts; doors labeled with names she didn’t yet recognize; windows that looked into rooms full of equipment that hummed softly with purpose. Charles narrated just enough to orient her without explaining too much, as if the building itself preferred to introduce its secrets gradually.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The apartment came last.

  Second floor. Second door on the right.

  Before she even stepped inside, Olivia noticed the plaque on the doorframe.

  Polished brass, modest in size. Not new, but carefully maintained.

  Etched neatly into its surface were two words:

  Olivia Harrison?

  The question mark was plain and unmistakable. Not decorative. Not coy. Just… there.

  She stared at it for a moment longer than she meant to.

  “It doesn’t decide anything,” Charles said gently, from where he stood a respectful step back. “We put names on doors when they might belong there. If they don’t, the mark comes off easily.”

  She nodded, then pushed the door open.

  The apartment beyond was larger than she’d expected — not sprawling, but well proportioned, laid out with intention.

  The living room opened first, sunlight spilling across a sunken conversation pit set a few steps down from the main floor. Cushions lined its edges, worn in the way furniture gets when it’s actually used, not staged. A low table sat at the center, scarred faintly by cups and books and time. It was the kind of space meant for people to sit together without rushing, or to curl up alone without feeling swallowed by emptiness.

  Off to one side, the kitchenette was compact but fully realized — clean counters, solid cabinets, and a small breakfast nook tucked beneath a window. Two chairs faced each other there, close enough for quiet conversation, far enough apart to eat in peace. Everything worked. Nothing glittered.

  The bathroom was tiled in pale stone and unexpectedly spacious, with a deep garden tub set beside a wide, open shower fitted with multiple heads and sturdy rails — unmistakably designed to accommodate more than one person at a time, comfortably and without comment. Fresh towels were folded on a shelf, thick and soft, the kind she usually only saw in hotels.

  And then the bedroom.

  A beautiful old sleigh bed anchored the room, its dark wood polished smooth by decades of careful use. The mattress looked inviting without being ostentatious, dressed in crisp sheets and a neatly folded quilt at the foot. Against one wall stood a tall wardrobe instead of a closet, its doors slightly worn at the handles, as though someone had opened them every day for years.

  The whole place smelled faintly of clean linen and warm wood.

  No magic. No spectacle.

  Just… good.

  Better than anywhere she’d ever lived.

  Olivia took a slow breath. “This is… really nice,” she said carefully. “There’s no way I could afford something like this. Not even with what you’re offering to pay me.”

  Charles nodded, as if she’d said exactly what he expected.

  “That’s because you’re not meant to,” he replied. “It’s included. Part of the position. You shouldn’t have to spend every penny you earn just to have a place that works — one where you can rest, or host friends, or simply exist without counting the hours.”

  He stayed in the doorway, hands folded behind his back, making no move to enter.

  “It’s available,” he said again. “If you ever need it. No rush. No obligation.”

  Olivia glanced back at the plaque on the door, the small question mark catching the light.

  “…Thank you,” she said quietly — and meant far more than the words alone could hold.

  By the time they returned to the lobby, the clock above the reception desk had slipped well past noon.

  “Oh!” Charles glanced up at it and frowned, genuinely dismayed. “That won’t do at all. You must be starving. We’ll have a late lunch before you head back.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, merely gestured her down a side hallway that opened into a small, sunlit breakroom. A table had already been set — not formally, just neatly — with plates, napkins, and a spread that smelled reassuringly human.

  Sandwiches. Soup kept warm on a hotplate. A bowl of cut fruit. Nothing fancy. Everything chosen with care.

  And someone else was there.

  She sat at the far end of the table, posture relaxed but unmistakably poised, as though the room had arranged itself around her rather than the other way around. She was a beautiful Black woman, her skin rich and luminous, her hair styled in soft, deliberate waves that framed her face just so. Her outfit looked like it had stepped out of a 1920s speakeasy — a sleek, dark dress that caught the light when she moved, accented with subtle beading and a long strand of pearls that rested easily against her collarbone.

  Not costume. Performance.

  Like she’d just finished a set and decided to stay for lunch.

  She looked up as Olivia entered, eyes warm and assessing in a way that didn’t feel intrusive.

  “Ah,” she said, smiling. “You must be Olivia.”

  Olivia nodded, suddenly aware of her own thrift-store slacks and scuffed boots. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Miss LaDonna,” the woman said, inclining her head. “Welcome.”

  There was no pressure in it. No expectation. Just acknowledgment.

  Lunch unfolded easily after that.

  They sat, ate, talked about small things — the weather along Clarksville Road, the state of the buses, favorite soups. Miss LaDonna asked gentle questions and listened more than she spoke. Charles told a mildly ridiculous story about a delivery driver who insisted on singing opera while unloading boxes.

  Olivia laughed. Then laughed again, surprised at herself.

  Somewhere between the second half of her sandwich and the last spoonful of soup, the tension she’d been carrying all morning finally loosened its grip.

  Eventually, as conversations do, it circled back.

  “So,” Miss LaDonna said lightly, folding her napkin. “Have you decided?”

  Olivia paused, considering the question with the seriousness it deserved. The building. The people. The apartment. The care.

  “Yes,” she said at last. “I’d like to take the job.”

  Charles beamed, but Miss LaDonna merely nodded, satisfied.

  When lunch was cleared and the dishes stacked neatly by the sink, Charles reached for his coat.

  Miss LaDonna lifted her teacup — then, just as quietly, set it down.

  “Charles,” she said.

  He paused at once.

  “She should go home tonight,” Miss LaDonna continued gently. “A first day deserves a proper night’s sleep.”

  Charles smiled, rueful and affectionate. “Of course. You’re right.”

  He turned back to Olivia. “If you’ll allow it, I can give you a ride back to your apartment in Trenton. Save you the bus this once. I’ll pick you up in the morning — eight o’clock sharp, if that suits?”

  Olivia considered it. The long bus ride. The day she’d had. The steady, unhurried care woven through every moment since she’d stepped inside.

  “…Yes,” she said. “That would be nice.”

  “Excellent,” Charles said, already holding the door open. The lobby clock read 3:27 p.m.

  Olivia glanced up at it as she adjusted the strap of her messenger bag. The late lunch had settled comfortably, leaving her warm and a little drowsy — the good kind of tired that comes after being fed and listened to.

  “So,” she said, shifting her weight, “I’ll grab the bus back to Trenton, then. Thank you again for lunch. And… everything.”

  Charles smiled. “Nonsense. At this hour, you’d spend more time waiting than riding.”

  He reached instead for his cane.

  Olivia blinked. “Oh. Right. I can wait here while you go get your car.”

  There was a fractional pause.

  Miss LaDonna looked up from behind the desk, one eyebrow lifting with gentle amusement.

  “We won’t be needing a car,” Charles said.

  Olivia let out a short laugh. “Okay, you’re going to have to stop doing that.”

  Charles’s smile softened, but his voice grew precise.

  “We’ll be Walking,” he said. “And before you decide whether that’s acceptable, there are rules.”

  That stopped her.

  He stepped closer — not crowding, not urgent.

  “When I ask you to close your eyes, you will close them,” he said calmly. “And you will keep them closed until I tell you to open them again. No peeking. Not even a little.”

  Her stomach tightened. “Okay…”

  “You will step forward only when I tell you to,” he continued. “One step. No more. If you feel unsteady, you stop. If you feel frightened, you do nothing at all.”

  Miss LaDonna set her teacup down with a soft click.

  “He is quite serious,” she said kindly. A small smile curved her mouth. “And I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t safe.”

  That helped. A little.

  Charles offered his arm.

  Not insistently. Just there.

  “If at any point you change your mind,” he added, “we’ll call you a cab. No offense taken.”

  Olivia exhaled slowly, then slid her hand through the crook of his elbow.

  “…Okay,” she said. “I trust you.”

  “Good,” Charles said quietly. “Close your eyes.”

  She did.

  The lobby vanished.

  Not into darkness, exactly — more like the absence of place. She was suddenly aware of everything that wasn’t there: no walls, no floor hum, no sense of distance at all.

  She heard the cane strike the floor.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  “Step,” Charles said.

  She stepped.

  The air tore sideways.

  Cold — not winter-cold, but absolute, breath-stealing cold. For a split second it felt as though gravity had lost its mind, yanking her not down but across, her stomach lurching as the world slid out from under her.

  She gasped and clutched his arm.

  “I’ve got you,” Charles said, steady and close.

  Then it was over.

  “Open your eyes.”

  They stood in the dim hallway outside her apartment.

  Her apartment.

  The scuffed beige walls. The flickering overhead light. The familiar crooked number on her door.

  A perfect circle of frost rimed the floor around them, already cracking and melting, water pooling at the edges. Cold mist clung briefly to their coats before fading.

  Olivia stared.

  “…No,” she said faintly.

  Charles adjusted his grip on the cane. “Yes.”

  She turned in a slow circle, then looked at him again.

  “That took—” she glanced at her phone, “—no time. At all.”

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  “…And that,” she gestured helplessly at the melting ice, “was not walking.”

  “You stepped,” Charles said mildly. “Once.”

  Her laugh came out sharp and breathless. “I have questions.”

  He smiled, already easing back, giving her space.

  “And you should,” he said. “But not today. Today has been full enough.”

  She stared at him. “You’re just… leaving me with this?”

  “For the afternoon,” he said. “You deserve a quiet evening. Sleep in your own bed. Think.”

  He inclined his head. “Eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Sharp.”

  Before she could respond, he tapped the floor once with his cane.

  And the lobby — the Station — was suddenly very far away.

  Olivia stood alone in the hallway, heart racing, frost still melting at her feet.

  Only after unlocking her door did she realize her hands were shaking.