Page 38 of Grim

NothingIsImpossible

E xiting the fluorescent jaws of the shopping mall, we step out into the open air, and the difference is immediate—no more synthetic oxygen, no more perfume traps, no more cursed overhead music trying to reanimate my soul through nostalgia.

Just warm New Orleans sunlight filtering through centuries-old oaks, the faint aroma of powdered sugar from down the street, and the constant hum of life pressing in from every direction.

I hear a low rumbling noise coming from my left and glance that way. A sound I thought had come from the throat of an angry beast seems to have come from Rue’s stomach.

“You’re hungry.” It is not a question.

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that, Rue,” I insist while surveying my surroundings. “Your body just made a sound that startled pigeons. You don’t have to be polite about survival. You’re clearly in need of food.”

“Sorry about that,” she whispers, evidently embarrassed.

“You don’t need to apologize, and don’t act like needing something is shameful. You are allowed to take up space in this world. You want food? We’ll get food. That’s it. ”

She exhales, her mouth twitching toward a real smile. “Okay. Yeah. I’m hungry. But you don’t eat. I can just get a slice or something.”

“A slice?”

“Yeah, like a piece of pizza?”

“A slice of pizza?” I make a face like she just proposed she drink bathwater.

“No. You live in the heart of one of the most culinarily blessed cities in the world. You’re not eating something that’s been coagulating behind an exposed glass window for hours.

” I shudder. “I’ve got nothing but time, Mayday.

And since I don’t eat, I’m going to need you to indulge enough for the both of us. Let’s get you a proper lunch.”

She squints at me. “Who are you, and what have you done with my broody reaper?”

“I’ve decided to expand my brand.”

“Fun.” Rue laughs, the sound bright against the dull hum of the street. “That sounds great actually, but I don’t really know what’s around here.”

“You’re in luck,” I say, lifting a finger. “I have just the place. About a century ago, I was here for a reap. Some odious land developer who spent most of his life bulldozing historic blocks and replacing them with buildings shaped like tax write-offs.”

“Charming.”

“Oh, he was detestable. Spent the first moments of his postmortem trying to bribe me.”

“Did it work?”

“Rue, I’m incorruptible.”

“You’re full of it.” She snorts.

I ignore that.

“As his soul began detaching—tendrils of energy separating from his decaying ego—he had one final thought. One last pitiful wish before slipping out of existence.”

“This story had better be going somewhere, Grim. I’m not getting any less hungry over here.”

“Hold your horses, Rue. I told you to stand up for yourself, not be an impatient nit who doesn’t have time for a little backstory appetizer.”

“Fine,” Rue says, rolling her eyes sardonically. “Fill me with your big words, Kane. I want them all.”

“Watch that mouth of yours,” I warn, though there is no denying the allure of her sass.

“Anyway, this man’s spirit is separating from his body, wispy tendrils clinging to this place as his essence becomes less like him and more like a cloud.

And then his voice croaks—and I quote—‘I wish I’d had one last étouffée from Simone’s.

Nothing brought me joy like that first bite.

Nothing in this life or the next.’ Then he dematerialized. ”

She blinks. “That’s his legacy? Shellfish regret?”

“I don’t think there was anything selfish about it actually. Probably the only unselfish thing that man ever thought about. Goes to show you, in the end—”

“Shell-fish, you dolt. As in crustaceans and mollusks. Not selfish.”

“You’re a mollusk.”

“Wow.” She shakes her head. “You’re shrimply the worst.”

“Then it seems we have something in common. We’re both shellfish. Anyway, where was I?”

“Shellfish regret.”

“Yes. Precisely. But fortunately for us, he left behind valuable culinary intelligence.”

“And please tell me, where do we find this meal that was a dying man’s final regret?”

“Make a left right up here.”

We walk deeper into the French Quarter, where the streets are a fever dream of wrought iron balconies and faded signs, jazz notes floating from cracked-open windows like ghosts with good rhythm. The air smells like cane sugar.

Rue’s steps slow as we round the corner onto a cobbled alley. Her eyes flick to the storefront ahead—two stories tall, painted deep green, with weathered shutters and gold-lettered signage in script: Simone’s.

“This must be it,” she says.

“What gave it away?” I deadpan. “The giant sign bearing its name? Or the fact that we stopped walking? No, don’t tell me. It was both. It had to be both.”

She turns toward me, already reaching for the handle. “You can wait outside if you’re gonna be rude.”

I press a hand to my chest, scandalized. “Me? Rude? Never. I’m far too excited to live vicariously through you. I do intend to behave.”

I mime locking my lips and tossing away the key before solemnly crossing my nonexistent heart.

Rue arches a brow. “You’re not as charming as you think you are.”

“I’m exactly as charming as I think I am,” I say, stepping aside. “After you, Mayday,” I state, extending my arm and ushering Rue into the two-hundred-year-old family establishment.

The moment we step inside, everything shifts.

Gone is the humidity of the New Orleans streets—the brass-band chaos, the soft rot of history humming in the pavement. Instead, the air inside Simone’s is rich with spice and stories. The walls are deep green, trimmed in weathered gold.

Rue’s boots cause the polished wood floors to creak. I, on the other hand, am silent, to the living at least. The living-adjacent girl beside me carries all the weight of this world, and I… well, I carry the weight of the rest.

“Good afternoon and welcome to our home. Table for one today?”

We are greeted immediately upon entering by a genial old gentleman behind the host stand. His soft Cajun accent is as authentic as the aromas pouring from the kitchen.

Rue doesn’t miss a beat or even flinch. “That would be lovely,” she replies, her tone graceful.

I watch her closely as he leads the way to a small table by the window, warm sunlight breaking through the warped old glass. He pulls her chair out with a flourish. I slip into the seat across from her, unseen.

“Pretty little thing shouldn’t be eating alone,” he says softly as Rue settles in. “But that’s not this old man’s business. What brings you to Simone’s today, darlin’?”

“Heard from an old friend that you have the best étouffée in Louisiana. ”

The way Rue emphasizes the old in that sentence makes me smirk a soft laugh.

“You heard wrong, I’m afraid,” he retorts gravely.

“Oh, perhaps I heard my friend wrong.” This time, she emphasizes friend while staring subtle daggers my way.

He leans in, all slow grin and secrets. “It’s the finest étouffée in the world , darlin’.”

I sneer back at Rue defiantly, but the icy resolve doesn’t leave her eyes.

Feisty.

Rue grins like she’s won something. “That’s what I’ll have then.”

The old gentleman shoots back to the kitchen before returning with a glass of water and an amber liquid, adorned by a twist of lemon.

“Your meal will be right up. In the meantime, enjoy a Sazerac, on the house.”

Rue blinks. “Oh, I don’t drink very often.”

“Live a little,” I say, leaning in, while at the same time, the older man says, “Good thing now isn’t often.”

That riddle leaves us both speechless.

“Care for a story?” he offers.

Rue glances toward me, looking slightly unsettled. I can almost feel the chill running down her spine. She forces a small smile and looks up at the man.

“I love a good story.”

This seems to please the man, his dark eyes dancing under the lights as he sets one steady hand on the table—scarred, heavy-knuckled.

“Jean Simone and his wife founded this place in 1834,” he begins, voice dropping like an incantation.

“Four years later, a Creole apothecary and friend of the family, Antoine Peychaud, created this drink in the back with his favorite French cognac and a splash of absinthe. He would make small batches of it that the owners would share with their favored guests after operating hours.” He pauses, and Rue leans in, completely engrossed with his story.

“Legend has it that some of the first imbibers saw ghosts. When Jean went back to Antoine with the news, Antoine looked decidedly unsurprised. ‘Why, of course, Monsieur Jean. The spirits speak the ultimate truth. That’s why I’ve devoted my craft to learning how to summon them. ’”

The silence lingers after this story.

He slides the drink forward gently. “I’ll leave this here for you. In case you feel like summoning any spirits,” he continues with a gentle smile.

Rue and I stare at the glass, then to each other, countless unspoken questions hanging between us.

I wonder the name of this man, and so must Rue because she voices the question with a small shake in her voice. “What’s your name, sir?”

“My mama calls me Charles. So, everyone else does too.”

“Nice to meet you, Charles. I appreciate the story. And the drink,” Rue says, eyeing the glass.

“Go ahead,” I encourage. “It ain’t gonna kill ya.”

“And the company,” Rue says by way of a toast as she raises the glass to the affable Charles before he walks off. She sets the glass down and looks at me.

“Well,” I say, voice low, “you can’t say he didn’t set the mood.”

She lifts the drink again, staring at it cautiously. “He’s either the best host or the most charming soul stuck here on Earth.”

“I’m undecided,” I mutter jokingly.

She raises the glass in a soft toast. “To amazing stories.”

Rue takes a small sip of the drink, winces immediately, and starts coughing.

Charles’s full-bellied laugh floats from the kitchen as he calls out, “Well, spirits aren’t for everyone, darlin’.”