The dining table was too normal.
Old wood, worn at the edges. Ceramic plates. A gentle candle in the center, flickering like it was afraid to draw attention.
The food smelled like childhood.
Roasted vegetables, thick bread, a stew that might've once been legendary if your memory of it was intact.
Hale hadn't realized how starved he was until the first bite hit his tongue.
"I know, I know," Gyroson said, spoon clinking. "You thought I was some kind of antique bookstore hermit, didn't you? But I can make a mean death stew."
Ivy raised an eyebrow. "Don't call it that."
"Oh, come on. Tastes so good it kills you."
"You're making him eat it right now."
"Well, better than dying hungry."
He winked at Hale, who actually managed a small laugh—just enough to remember what it felt like.
"Careful," Gyroson said with a mock whisper. "If you keep laughing at my jokes, I'm legally allowed to adopt you."
Ivy nearly choked on her bread.
"Absolutely not."
It almost felt human.
Almost.
As the plates emptied and the tea cooled, Ivy yawned.
"Okay," she said softly, stretching. "My brain is turning into soup. I'm going to bed."
She leaned over, nudged Hale's shoulder.
"Don't stay up too long. He'll trap you in a six-hour conversation about how bees are basically communists."
"Hey," Gyroson said, pointing a fork. "I stand by that theory."
Ivy disappeared down the hall.
A door clicked softly shut.
Silence
Gyroson sipped his tea.
The light shifted subtly in the room. Not darker—just quieter. Like the space had waited patiently for Ivy to leave.
The ticking of his old watch grew louder.
Like time remembered it had a schedule to keep.
"She likes you," Gyroson said after a long pause.
Hale looked up, unsure if it was a question or a statement.
"She trusts you," he continued.
"That's rare. You've noticed that, right? How she always keeps a little bit of herself out of reach."
"Yeah," Hale said quietly.
"It's like… she remembers pain she never lived."
Gyroson nodded. "You say that like you don't."
Another silence.
The tea had gone cold.
"Do you believe in patterns, Hale?"
Hale blinked. "Like… habits?"
"No." Gyroson smiled gently. "You know what i meant kiddo"
Hale didn't answer.
His mark pulsed once.
Gyroson didn't react.
"You remind me of someone," Gyroson said, his tone softening. "I don't mean in that vague, uncle-who's-been-through-some-shit kind of way. I mean exactly. The way you hold your spoon. The way you flinch when you see your reflection."
Hale's throat went dry.
"Do you think we've met?"
Gyroson leaned back slowly.
"No. I think I've met you before you were you."
He stood up to clear the table, but not before he added:
"You carry silence like someone taught you how to. That's rare. Or old."
Hale looked at him, unsettled.
"What are you actually trying to say?"
Gyroson paused. His eyes lingered on the empty plates, then on Hale.
"Grown-up men like you shouldn't be awake this late," he said, voice lighter now. "That's when the universe starts getting nosy."
He pushed his chair in and stretched.
"Come on. Let me show you your room."
The hallway stretched longer than Hale remembered. Or maybe his legs had gotten heavier. The air hummed faintly. He didn't know if it was the house—or the way Gyroson walked through it, like he remembered where all the ghosts lived.
At the end of the hall, Gyroson stopped beside a plain white door and opened it.
The room inside was clean. Soft yellow light. Folded blankets. A bookshelf with uneven spines. Everything in its place.
Too much in its place.
Hale froze at the threshold.
His chest tightened.
He'd seen this room before.
Not in this house. Not in this life.
But he knew the bed.
The curve of the lamp.
The soft ticking of the clock near the window.
He stepped inside like memory was dragging his feet forward.
Behind him, Gyroson stood quiet for a moment.
Then, as he turned to leave, he said with a small smile:
"Guess there wasn't much need for me to show you your room, huh?"
A beat.
"Those instincts of yours really do go above and beyond."
And just like that, he walked off down the hallway.
Leaving Hale standing alone in a room he shouldn't have remembered.