The melody faded from the boy's violin. He placed the violin inside its case, along with his bow, and moved away from the center of the room back to his lady Bliss’s side. A hush fell over the bar.

  Another door formed in the back hallway. The door was burnished brass and bronze, and the smell of old books lingered near the entrance.

  A once bright, vibrant, and colorful environment was now mixing depth into the space around it. Darker shades, molded sconces, and etched details laced the space with deeper colors.

  Miss T. looked around and let herself breathe easier. The fear and worry that pandered for attention at the corners of her mind were now silenced. The story didn’t detract but helped. It supplied the darker undertones necessary to hold the bleaker aspects of each immortal’s individuality, the choices they make, and the things they do.

  The space changed and shifted further.

  Deep, rich, red curtains were displayed across the scaffolding of the bar, unraveling and draping down to partially cover the walls.

  A circular platform began to rise up in the middle of the room where the boy had stood earlier. The platform displayed itself as though making an invitation, and the coffee shop was enriched before their eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” came the voice of Benjamin. He took a step instinctively toward the boy. Tears filled his eyes.

  “I am not; he has and is serving me well. Over the years, the boy's musical abilities and understanding of the space between have only grown,” Bliss’s voice chittered from underneath the tables.

  “But what about his heart, lady? What have you done to help heal the kid's heart?” Benjamin shook his head in disapproval. “No, never mind, I’ve seen your kind before. Where I’m from, I have seen and fought it all too often.” He moved back to Night Beetle’s side, who said nothing, but Miss T. could have sworn she saw her hand begin to clench in a sort of protective gesture.

  Miss T. nodded gravely at the bar, her mind swirling as she tried to capture everything that had happened, trying to place it into her hands, to make it something she could shape. It was almost too much to hold—almost. Her fingers flashed forward, instinctively moving across the underside of the bar like a painter’s brush across canvas. She snatched and dipped, clipping off ingredients with precision: brown sugar and cinnamon powder, a dash of candy spiders' silk—spun delicately from the threads of candy spiders themselves. A scoop of peanut butter in each glass. Cold brew flowed next, dark and thick like a river of midnight filling the cup.

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  But something was missing.

  She closed her eyes, feeling for the word, letting it circle in her mind like a distant star just beyond reach. Miss T. focused, rolling her heart around the thought like one does with liquid in a glass—deliberate and slow, waiting for the clarity to rise. The feeling inside her was bleak and hard, but quiet and muted, a heavy presence that wouldn’t be rushed. Some words, some feelings, were too shy or too immense to be coaxed out by force.

  Her breath stilled. She counted, letting each inhale and exhale clear space in her mind. All distractions were pushed aside, leaving only room for this word to step forward. Some words required silence, space to move, to stretch. Like wild creatures, timid at first, they needed patience before they dared to reveal themselves. The word in her heart was no different—a dark horse stepping from the shadows, hesitant but powerful.

  Suddenly, it was there, galloping toward her with purpose, gathering speed as it approached the tip of her tongue.

  "Licorice."

  The word fell from her lips like a spell, delicate but full of intent. The drink responded like a child receiving their first gift on their third birthday, innocent and wide-eyed with wonder.

  For a moment, all was still, and then, slowly, the dark liquid beneath the surface began to stir. It swirled, churning gently as though the very word she’d spoken was weaving itself into its depths. The drink rippled and bubbled, the edges of the glass glowing faintly as the concoction found its final shape, resting into a thick and rich form.

  Miss T. smiled, satisfied, and placed a small silver spoon into each of the cups. The Winter Warden, his expression as still and cold as a frozen river, silently gathered the cups onto a gleaming platter and moved gracefully through the room, handing them to the immortals gathered around. They accepted the drinks with quiet curiosity, watching as the dark liquid inside shimmered with a life of its own. When the Warden returned to the bar, he took up his own cup and paused, waiting.

  Miss T., not one to leave a moment too precious unobserved, took her own cup and stuck her spoon deep into the rich, shadowy brew.

  "I call this," she said, her voice soft but steady, "Grave Dirt."

  With a knowing look in her eye, she dug her spoon into the drink, lifting a bite to her lips. The immortals, their faces unreadable yet intrigued, followed suit, spoons dipping into the inky blackness as the room filled with the soft clink of silver against the glass.