Page 5 of Found in Obscurity

Lorin

Waking up to thesound of windchimes and birds chirping threw him off balance the moment he opened his eyes. He’d grown used to the sounds of traffic, of people, of the bustle of a busy big city as the residents rushed to get where they needed to be.

His alarm clock was quiet, the bed he was in was half the size of his own, and the small window just off the side of the bed let in more light than the floor-to-ceiling windows in his city loft did.

It was unnerving just how different this morning felt from the one just the day before. When he’d still believed his life was his own and there was no way anyone would ever find him and pull him back to this place.

He stretched in bed, pushing aside the book he had been reading before passing out, which was now uncomfortably digging into his ribs. He thought of the day prior and the cocktail of emotion at being back here roiled in him.

Stepping inside his old room to leave his things there had brought up memories he didn’t want to admit were pleasant. Sitting down with his grandma to eat her cooking for the first time in ages had felt painfully familiar. And even if they’d spent most of dinner in silence, with her only asking a few stilted questions about his life and work, it had still felt just a little bit like it did before. When he’d talk at her with his mouth full and she’d smack him from across the table with her staff, warning him to finish eating before talking.

He’d missed his grandma. There was really no denying that. She’d never been overly affectionate, but she showed care in her own ways. Brusque and clipped most of the time, sparked with criticism and as many side-eyes as she could fit into a conversation, but always underlined with a steely type of love.

There’d been very little of that the night before, and Lorin knew it was his own doing. He didn’t know if he’d change what he’d done if he could, but he could admit the consequences were there now for him to deal with.

“You planning on lazing around all day?” Her voice rang through the narrow hallway outside his room the moment he thought of her.

Like always.

As if she knew.

“I’m awake,” he called back, and she snorted.

“Well praise be to the stars,” she said, and he could visualize the eye roll that followed those words. “Breakfast is in five minutes. If you’re not there I’m feeding it to the chickens.”

He heard her clunk back down the stairs, purposefully loud to make sure he didn’t go back to sleep. It was followed by the sound of dishes rattling so loudly he felt like the neighbors could hear them despite being an entire farmland space away.

He groaned and slipped out of bed with his joints stiff and sleep still lingering in the corners of his eyes. He lifted his handsto rub it away and caught sight of his marks, darker than they’d been before. He knew he was only a single spell use away from the dark hue on his skin taking a more defined shape, and he couldn’t help but dread that moment.

He clenched his hands into fists to stop himself from dwelling on it. His nails dug into the flesh of his palms, getting longer and sharper by the second, it seemed, refusing to allow him what he so desperately wanted.

He’d tried filing them down before bed, but it had done nothing. They were still there. A clear mark of a witch, sharp against his skin and not letting him forget who he really was.

He put on a pair of dark jeans and an oversized black sweater before pulling his gloves on and padding down the narrow staircase, running one hand over the faded floral wallpaper.

“Set the table,” his grandma barked the order the moment she felt his presence in the small kitchen slash dining room area. His grandma had knocked the wall through herself and had never patched over the wall and ceiling where the join had once been.

“Is everything in the same spot?” he asked, wedging his way in next to her in the cramped space. The table had already been set when he’d arrived yesterday.

She gave him a look. THE look.

He nodded and scurried to do as she asked, setting the table with two mismatched plates, cups, and cutlery. It made him smile despite the angst still broiling inside him. She’d never had a matching set of anything in her life. It was almost like a point of pride for her. It was comforting in its own way to notice the many things that had stayed the same. But in the cold light of day, the differences about the house were becoming more apparent to him too.

It still hummed with his grandma’s magic—oppressive, with a tinge of ozone and dirt—but Lorin could feel that it had grownand morphed over time. Magic was fluid and ever changing. Lorin hadn’t been there to witness its growth.

The rafters were lofty and still Sjena’s favorite spot to hang out if she wasn’t riding on the top of Grandma’s staff, but new objects hung from them. Ones Lorin didn’t know the stories for. He used to know which pots held unspeakable terrors, but now he had to hold his breath before opening one, hopeful that it was a sugar pot and not something more unsavory.

With every discovery, Lorin felt sadness brew beneath the surface, making his chest ache uncomfortably.

He’d missed so much.

He sat down as she brought out the fresh bread, homemade butter, and cream, preserves he knew she made and a steaming pan of fluffy scrambled eggs she collected from her chickens. She settled across the table from him, scooping some eggs onto her plate and loading a slice of bread with butter and strawberry preserve before eyeing his empty plate.

“Would you like a formal invitation?” she asked, and he unfroze instantly, tugging his gloves off, grabbing the end piece of the bread that had the most crust, and spreading some butter and preserves over it.

He took a dainty bite, reluctant to admit to himself there was nothing in the big city that tasted even remotely like his grandma’s homemade food.

He closed his eyes to savor the taste.