The fireplace in the bar was now lit, and the warm glow cascaded across restored wood walls. The sturdy beams on the roof revealed the back hallway of the shop. Storage rooms with silver knobs waited with eager anticipation to be used again. In the back hall lay now another door. The door was framed with weathered, studded leather adorned the front of the wood with countless deep-red garnets. The gemstones flickered in the light from the fireplace. If anyone stared too long at the gemstones, they would see intermittent reflections of deceased individuals, exchanged with other faces passing on.

  Benjamin's eyes went wide as he watched the space come alive with colors and warmth after the story. For a moment, Miss T. watched with childlike amazement, completely entranced by Benjamin. She couldn't help but smile; she never got sick of watching the worlds through their eyes.

  Once the changes had concluded, a wistful silence beckoned a measured peace. The feeling cascaded over them like a waterfall. Miss T. took in the feeling, feeding it to the burning in her chest, fueling the truth inside herself. Without even realizing it, her hands began to move. As the space started to remember what it once was, more items seemed to be rediscovered, each evoking a sense of nostalgia, each fulfilling a minor purpose.

  Rummaging through various areas behind the bar, Miss T. grabbed hold of a plastic tube, a sealed container, and a compressed can of sorts. She quickly handed one end of the tube to the Winter Warden. Holding it gingerly, the Winter Warden raised a questioning eyebrow, glancing from the tube back to Miss T.

  “Don’t look at me like that. When the time comes, I want you to blow your lungs out into that tube,” she instructed, attaching the other end of the tube to the coffee maker. The Winter Warden scowled and glared at the tube.

  “Now, I don’t know when it was last cleaned, but I am sure you won’t die from some apocalyptic germs,” Miss T. retorted, rolling her eyes.

  Opening the container, she pulled out a brown granule-like substance. Scooping only a teaspoon of the brown sugar into each cup, she added a little bit of hot water and a brown liquid from the coffee maker. Miss T. began whipping the sugar in each cup. After a few minutes, a thick molasses-like substance remained. She put the first cup underneath the coffee maker’s spout and prepared to start another brew. Then, regarding the Winter Warden, she nodded her head.

  “If you would, please.”

  With a huff, a chuff, and what Miss T. thought was a mighty puff, the Winter Warden blew his cheeks full into the tube. Screeching, howling, haunting winter winds funneled into the tube, filling the room with a light, icy chill. Miss T. cranked a lever and dropped in another handful of precious beans. Steaming, ice-cold winter liquefied inside the coffee machine, turning his breath into a usable nitro liquid, infusing each drop of coffee. The dark brown substance dripped heavily. The drops came out slowly, giving Miss T. time to mix in the whipped brown sugar. The reaction caused a slow but steady bubbling. Each pop released a wisp of white air, causing the mist to overflow. After each cup was done, the Winter Warden stopped blowing and feigned exhaustion. Mister D. showed mock concern for his friend.

  “By the ancient powers, what have you done to the poor man?” He shook the muscular arm of the Winter Warden, jostling him slightly. “You evil witch, you've stolen all of his power for your cruel machinations of dark alchemy.”

  The Winter Warden fought back a smile. Trying to play along, he dramatically collapsed onto the bar and buried his face in his arms, tucking away any expression that might give up the joke. Mister D. placed the back of his hand on his forehead.

  “Oh, this all could have been avoided with just a simple—”

  “There is no such thing as dark alchemy, Father,” the tinny voice interrupted. “Alchemy is a process of changing base elements into something new through a long and arduous process in relation to intent and planetary alignments. Since there are no longer celestial bodies due to the Resurgence, the process here is just basic chemistry. Not indicative of any sort of foul magic or deceptive cajoling.” Bastion’s eyes flashed a deep starlight blue, reflecting the same color of his gemstone as his gaze fell over the Winter Warden.

  “My scans also indicate that the Winter Warden’s mantle is still intact, not over-taxing the use of his door to the Throne Room.”

  “OOOHkaayyyy, that's enough, little one,” Mister D. interjected quickly, placing a hand over his son's mouth. “We're in mixed company; now is not a time for any of that,” he said, laughing nervously. Leaning away from the bar, he whispered in Bastion's ear.

  “Remind me to teach you more lessons about jokes and sarcasm, kiddo.”

  “I wasn’t sure you were joking since no one was laughing,” ticked out Bastion. “I will comb through the recordings to find the discrepancies within my logic.”

  Mister D. leaned his body back over the bar, running a hand over his face.

  “The jig is up, we've been made.” The Winter Warden stopped holding his breath and began to chuckle, unaware that he was nowhere near fooling anyone.

  Miss T. only rolled her eyes, applying the final touches. Each cup received a spray from the can, releasing a white whipped foam. The nitro wisps pooled between the brown liquid and whipped cream, creating a mock scene of fog between land and sky.

  As she placed the drinks around her guests, she felt more like herself. More ease tumbled through her chest while the space also moved around them and their stories, making them all feel more at home.

  “This one is a drink I only serve on special occasions,” she said with a soft smile. “It’s called Last Rites. Since you were the last to tell a story, how about you give us a toast?” Miss T. said, addressing Mister D.

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  Mister D. raised his glass and rolled his shoulders a few times before clearing his throat. The others followed suit, raising their glasses.

  "To what we make our stations of immortality!"

  They all clinked their glasses and sipped the drinks. A few shivers ran down some spines while others let out a satisfied exhale. Torches and candles appeared and took to light on the walls. The space, slowly waking from sleep, kindled more of what Miss T. remembered. It was an excellent day to name a place like this. She just needed a few more guests to wake from the Resurgence to fill the space with enough life before really getting down to business at hand.

  They would be safe, and there would be enough time. There had to be. Miss T.’s hands clenched tightly as she tried to keep her fear from entering the space. She gently tucked more of her hair behind her ears and quickly gathered all the empty cups, placing them in the sink. She let the warm water rush over her hands, let the feeling draw her back to the present. These things took time, she told herself. She wouldn't worry her guests. There were already enough problems that had stemmed from what happened, and they were all here to try to fix it. To add more worry with her own fear wouldn’t help anyone. Drying her hands, she pushed her concerns down further. She placed more beans in the coffee maker and set out five more glasses.

  "Excuse me, but I'm not sure how or why I'm here. Everything feels hazy. It was like a song I had heard in a dream that I was trying to remember,” Benjamin said, shaking his head. “What are you all really? And what is a resurgence? Why are we drinking coffee? What happened to the world?”

  Miss T. saw that his confusion had reached its capacity. The clockwork boy rattled and chimed in.

  “We’re here to listen to stories and drink strange bean water. What’s so confusing about that?” he said, releasing steam after every other sentence.

  "I have eyes and ears, and I know what coffee is, but the intention is lost on me." Benjamin’s voice sounded strained. The color started to drain from his face. He looked more panicked than before. Miss T. slipped out from behind the bar and approached the man, once more.

  "What we are is more complicated than the simple answer that you're looking for,” she said, taking a seat next to him. “We are better described as symbols of stations of power. We conduct our business in a more eternal capacity. Immortality is a long time.” Miss T. remarked, "We have learned to keep each other company during the long march of our lives." She leaned back in the chair away from him, her eyes like green spotlights tracing his pale face.

  “The Resurgence is what we call the aftermath of a plan we were hopeful for. I fear, however, that something went horribly wrong.” The other immortals grew still. The joy in the room was replaced with a stale, serious atmosphere.

  “I think we failed.” Miss T. whispered. “We tried to make things better. To make things even, safe, free.” Miss T. wrung her hands nervously. “I'm not sure what went wrong.” Folding her hands inside her dress, Miss T. took a deep breath before continuing.

  “So, the reason why we are here, doing what we are doing, is twofold.” Miss T. held up one finger. "For any space to truly hold the power that's between the mortal and the immortal, it is necessary for that space itself to become more real. We do this by offering a piece of ourselves to interweave through the space between, fundamentally changing the nature of the representative space until it is built up to the fullness of what it can hold.” Miss T. held up another finger.

  “From that place of overflow, the space will be ready to guide us to the wells of our power. There we’ll be able to identify and possibly rectify the mistakes that were made. The identity of an immortal is weighty. It would be detrimental to mortals and immortals alike for it to be spoken aloud before the space had time to become strong enough.”

  “I've heard you say this several times now, but what is the space between? You act like it's some sort of common denominator of understanding?” Benjamin remarked, pulling his hand through his hair.

  “Think of it like a road between two points,” Night Beetle interjected. Turning her face toward Benjamin, her hair drifting lazily behind her. Miss T. noticed that, to his credit, Benjamin was a gentleman and did not look down at the very naked form of his companion as he turned to face her. Miss T. decided it was at that moment that she liked him.

  “Sometimes a road is just a flat plain from point A to point B.” Night Beetle drew a line of moisture on the bar. “Other times, though, some roads have to go over lakes and rivers. To make sure that the road is sturdy enough, we give it the attention and time it needs to allow, not just ourselves, but all who would happen to travel this road the capability to.” Reaching over the bar, she scooped up a handful of leftover coffee grounds. She placed a line of grounds in the water, overlaying the two.

  “The space between is the road, and our hearts, which hold our own names in their entirety, are those who are traveling across the road.” Night Beetle let her fingers walk across the makeshift road she had just made. “Understanding this fundamental truth allows us immortals to access different kinds of powers bequeathed to us by our stations of authority. By the end of the stories told today, hopefully that road will be strong enough for all of our identities to make it across safely.” Night Beetle swept her hand across the countertop, clearing the wet coffee grounds. “Now we wait to see who makes it here. That will determine the integrity.”

  “What do you mean?” Benjamin said, his eyes searching her face.

  “Not every immortal gives to the space between. Some thrive on taking rather than giving. Other creatures are resurfacing. They are drawn to this power, if they were to appear before the space was in its state of overflow,” she shook her head. “We would all be doomed.”

  “From what I understand from the situation, there are more things out there that are worse than a few selfish immortals,” Benjamin rephrased. “And if we're not careful or quick enough, these creatures could come and—” Benjamin let the words trail off, rolling his hand in the air in a questioning gesture.

  “We're pretty sure they'd kill us all.” Mister D. said reassuringly. The Winter Warden calmly drew a finger over his neck.

  “But I thought you guys were immortal.” Benjamin pressed his eyebrows together.

  “Immortality is not invincibility.” He leaned back on his stool. “Normally, kid, mortal weapons don't affect us. So to your eyes you’d be right. However, something foul was born from our good intentions that we ourselves aren't entirely sure of. But like moths to a flame, they always appear searching for an immortal.” His eyes grew heavy. “I don't recommend fighting them.”

  Clearing his throat, he continued. “Now we hide inside this space, weaving another space between it to hopefully build that said road full of enough power. So that eventually this space will be strong enough to survive their onslaught. Hopefully, that buys us enough time to finish out this conclave.”

  Benjamin mustered up some broken strength in his voice. "I won't lie, that sounds terrifying. But being stuck in terrifying situations is not anything new for me.” Suddenly, he paused, clenching his teeth. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead. “I’m struggling with how I got here, but it's slowly coming back to me.”

  “Well, Benjamin, the coffee shop is in need of another story, and there are no rules to say mortals can't give one,” Miss T. said as she walked back, looking over one shoulder. "Tell us who you were, and what led you to where you are now,” she told him. “Tell us the story of what happened, and the rest will stir in your memories.”

  Benjamin cleared his throat and began.

  Tune in to the same Coffee-channel at the same Coffee-time for insights, answers, and way more stories!

  ~ CW