Chapter Thirty-Seven:

Richard, the station’s fat, ill-tempered raccoon, was sprawled belly-up on one of the tower’s cross beams, paws curled, mouth slightly open. He was dead asleep, chest rising and falling steadily, utterly unconcerned with reality, spatial logic, or Olivia’s presence.

She stared at him for a beat, then sighed in relief.

“Good. You didn’t see anything,” she told him quietly.

Richard snored.

Olivia pinched the bridge of her nose, then laughed under her breath, tail flicking. “Damnit, Charles,” she said fondly, shaking her head. “One of these days…”

She didn’t finish the threat—she never did.

Instead, she turned, jogged across the roof to the perfectly normal, perfectly mundane stairwell door, and slipped inside. The familiar smells of dust, old paint, and the station’s ever-present hum wrapped around her as she took the stairs two at a time, paws thudding softly.

By the time she burst back into the lobby, breath steady, posture composed, she was exactly where she belonged.

She slid behind the front desk just as the phone began to ring.

Without missing a beat, Olivia picked it up, smiling into the receiver.

“OtherWorlds Media,” she said warmly. “This is Olivia speaking. How may I help you today?”

The rest of the day passed easily—pleasantly so.

Calls came in, were answered, routed, resolved. Emails were replied to with efficiency and warmth. Two visitors arrived in person: one poor soul whose radiator had given up the ghost about a quarter mile down Clarksville Road (Olivia let him use the phone, offered water, and reassured him while he waited for a tow), and another who was very politely but very firmly looking for the WFMU office, which Olivia redirected to the other side of town with practiced cheer.

Between all that, there was time to think.

Too much time, perhaps.

Charles’ office kept drifting back into her thoughts—the shelves that watched her back, the ledger that wasn’t quite a book, the clock with too many hands, the door that had not been there until it decided it was. None of it frightened her. It felt… contextual. Like learning a new grammar for a language she’d already been speaking in fragments her whole life.

At exactly 5:00 p.m., the lobby doors locked themselves with their usual quiet certainty.

Olivia tidied her desk, straightened the visitor log, and took one last glance at the red Enrichment button (which, blessedly, did not activate itself). Then she headed upstairs, showered, changed into something comfortable, and made her way back down for dinner.

She was crossing the lobby—midway between the stairs and the breakroom—when she heard it.

A knock.

Not loud. Not insistent.

Just… polite.

Olivia stopped.

Her ears tilted forward instantly, attention sharpening. The station was closed. Everyone knew that. Anyone knocking now either didn’t understand where they were—or understood exactly where they were.

Her hand brushed the edge of the desk, just close enough to reassure herself that if she needed Charles, all she had to do was whisper.

She approached the doors cautiously and peered out through the glass.

Standing there in the dimming evening light was a child.

Or… something shaped like one.

He was small—six or eight years old by height—wearing leather shoes, high white socks, short black trousers, and an immaculate little black vest over a crisp white shirt with a neatly tied cravat. White gloves covered his hands, and a pale yellow straw hat sat perfectly on his head.

Adorable, in a storybook way.

Then he lifted his face.

Olivia felt the moment where instinct offered her panic.

She declined.

The boy’s head was that of a spider—life-sized, black-furred, with eight softly glowing eyes and delicate mandibles that clicked faintly as he breathed. Not aggressive. Not threatening.

Just… present.

To her everlasting credit, Olivia did not scream.

She swallowed, took a breath, and said—voice only wobbling a little, “We’re… uh… we’re closed. If you wouldn’t mind coming back tomorrow?”

The spider-headed child blinked. All eight eyes closed and opened in perfect unison.

He nodded.

“I apologize,” he said politely, his voice soft and carefully enunciated. “I hoped I would not be late. This is for you.”

He extended something toward her.

Without quite knowing why, Olivia reached out and took it, reflexively polite even now. “Thank you,” she said, automatically.

The boy tipped his hat, turned, and trotted across the parking lot. In moments, he was gone—vanishing into the growing shadows as if he had never been there at all.

Only then did Olivia look down at what she held.

It was a rose.

Not a real one—no stem of green, no thorns—but something far more extraordinary. The flower was spun from silk: impossibly fine threads layered upon layered to form petals, leaves, and stem. White and black silk intertwined in delicate patterns, the craftsmanship so precise she could see individual threads where the light caught them.

Attached was a small note.

Welcome home, Miss Olivia!

—Weavers of the Ribbon RoadPresented by Youngest Weaver

Olivia felt something warm bloom in her chest.

Not fear. Not confusion.

Recognition.

She stood there for several minutes, turning the rose gently in her hands, marveling at the care that had gone into it. Whoever the Weavers were—whatever the Ribbon Road was—this was no prank. This was a greeting.

At last, she closed the door, slid the latch back into place, and headed for the breakroom, silk rose cradled carefully in her hands.

Dinner that night was Hawaiian luau–style: sweet and savory, colorful, comforting. Charles and Miss LaDonna listened patiently as Olivia recounted the encounter in full, rose and note laid reverently on the table between them.

By the time she finished, Miss LaDonna was smiling knowingly, and Charles looked quietly pleased.

“The Weavers,” Miss LaDonna said gently, “are very old. Older than most maps. Every one of them looks much like the child you met.”

“They maintain the Ribbon Road,” Charles added, “which connects the Realms the way highways connect cities—only on a scale that makes interstates look quaint.”

“And they literally weave it,” Miss LaDonna continued. “Silk, pattern, intention. Without them, travel between Realms would be… unreliable at best.”

Olivia glanced down at the rose again. “So… that kid was—?”

“Almost certainly Youngest Weaver himself,” Charles said. “A great honor, actually.”

“As for how they know about you,” Miss LaDonna said, nodding toward the silver star now resting at Olivia’s throat, “you wear the Marque. You’re Known. Word travels quickly once that happens.”

Charles lifted his glass. “You should feel flattered. Few are greeted so warmly.”

Olivia smiled, eyes soft.

“Maybe someday,” Miss LaDonna added lightly, “we should arrange a trip. Let you see the Ribbon Road for yourself.”

Olivia looked down at the silk rose one more time and nodded.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I think I’d like that.”

They lingered over dinner, the easy, warm kind of lingering that only happens when everyone at the table feels safe.

Olivia, eating with enthusiasm that was slightly more restrained than earlier in the week but still impressively hearty, finally glanced up over her plate and fixed Charles with a mock glare.

“I’m still a little miffed at you, you know,” she said, tail flicking. “You dropped me on the roof today. With no chicken nuggets for Richard.”

Charles didn’t even pretend to look remorseful. He merely chuckled into his tea, eyes dancing.

Miss LaDonna, however, burst out laughing—full-bodied, delighted laughter that made Olivia blink in surprise.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Miss LaDonna said, waving a hand. “Do tell her about the time I left your office, Charles.”

Charles lifted a brow. “Are you certain you wish to—”

“Oh absolutely,” she said sweetly. “She deserves context.”

Miss LaDonna turned to Olivia. “Years ago—long before your time—I opened that very same door and stepped straight into the third-floor swimming pool. Fully clothed. The door vanished before I could even scream.”

Olivia stared. “…You’re kidding.”

“I am not,” Miss LaDonna replied serenely. “Ruined a perfectly lovely dress.”

Charles smiled faintly. “In my defense, I did take her shopping afterward.”

“That you did,” Miss LaDonna conceded. “And I can laugh about it now.”

The three of them shared a deep, genuine laugh—one of those moments where time seemed to fold kindly around them.

When the laughter subsided, Charles set his cup down a little more deliberately.

“So,” he said casually, as if he weren’t about to upend reality again, “any plans this weekend, Olivia?”

She paused, mid-bite.

“…Not really?” she admitted. “I was thinking of keeping it low-key. Pool. Roof. Maybe explore the library some more. Try not to accidentally activate anything labeled Enrichment.”

Miss LaDonna smiled knowingly.

Charles nodded slowly. “Understandable. Still…”That sly grin appeared—the one Olivia was rapidly learning meant something interesting was coming.

“…would anyone here be interested in a bit of shopping on Saturday?” he asked. “My treat.”

Miss LaDonna made a small, delighted noise and immediately started giggling.

“Oh lord,” she said, covering her mouth. “You’re going to take her to the Bazaar, aren’t you?”

Charles didn’t answer right away—just smiled.

“No,” he said at last. “I was thinking we might take her there.”

Miss LaDonna’s laughter softened into something warmer, more fond. “Ah,” she said. “That is different.”

Charles glanced at Olivia. “After all, if the Weavers are already welcoming her, then it’s time. A proper introduction. Her debut to the wider Realms.”

Olivia had stopped eating entirely.

Bazaar.Weavers.Wider Realms.

None of it sounded even remotely mundane—and every instinct she now possessed was leaning forward, ears high, heart racing.

She didn’t know where this Bazaar was.She didn’t know what it sold.She was fairly certain it was not on Earth.

And she wanted to go more than she’d wanted anything in a very long time.

When Charles turned fully toward her, giving her the choice openly, she didn’t hesitate for a second.

“Yes,” Olivia said, emphatic and bright. “Absolutely yes.”

Miss LaDonna reached over and squeezed her hand.

Charles’s smile widened, pleased and proud.

“Excellent,” he said. “Then Saturday it is.”

Somewhere deep in the station, something old and watchful seemed to take note—and approve.

After dinner, Olivia retreated upstairs to her apartment, the quiet there wrapping around her like a familiar blanket.

She set the silk rose carefully on the mantle over the fireplace, placing it in a small, simple vase that the apartment had somehow already provided, as if it had known exactly what she’d need. The black-and-white petals caught the light softly, each thread precise, deliberate. She stood for a moment just looking at it, chest warm, before finally turning away.

She curled up on the couch, tail tucked loosely along the cushions, and dialed her mum—part of the new weekly rhythm she’d settled into without even realizing it.

“Livvy!” her mum chirped as soon as the call connected. “There you are. I was just finishing paperwork—absolute nightmare of a closing, the buyer wanted three inspections—are you eating enough, sweetheart? You always forget when you get busy.”

Olivia smiled, sinking back into the cushions.“I’m eating, Mum. Promise.”

“Uh-huh,” her mum said, unconvinced. “You were always so picky. And so thin! Are your bosses treating you well? You like the job?”

“I do,” Olivia said honestly. “They’re… good people. Very attentive.”

“Well good,” her mum replied briskly. “You deserve that. And what about your co-workers? Any movie stars flirting with you yet? Scarlett Johansson? George Clooney? Don’t tell me you haven’t met anyone.”

Olivia bit her lip to keep from laughing.“Mum… I’m not in Hollywood.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” her mum waved it off verbally, as if geography were merely a suggestion. “But it’s all close, isn’t it? America’s funny like that.”

They talked—about real estate deals and difficult clients, about the weather back home, about food and sleep and work. Olivia stayed carefully within her limits, skirting the truth without ever quite touching it, a skill she was finding she’d become very good at.

She mentioned, casually, that her boss was taking her shopping this weekend.

“A new mall,” she said lightly. “All expenses paid.”

“Well I should hope so!” her mum said. “Maybe he can take you to a costume shop and get you a new headband and a new tail. You’ve had that raggedy old set for what—twelve years now? Time to retire them!”

Olivia laughed, soft and fond.“Maybe,” she said. “You never know.”

If only Mum knew just how retired they were.

Eventually the conversation wound down, as it always did—promises to call again soon, reminders to eat properly, her mum signing off with a cheerful “Love you, Livvy.”

“Love you too, Mum,” Olivia replied, meaning it.

She ended the call and sat for a while longer, listening to the station’s distant hum, the subtle sense of home that now threaded through everything.

Tomorrow was Friday.The Hosts would arrive late.And Saturday…

Saturday was the Bazaar.

With a small, contented smile, Olivia got ready for bed, curling beneath the covers as her apartment settled around her once more, already dreaming of places she hadn’t seen yet—and a life that, finally, felt entirely her own.