Page 9 of With the Key in the Office

Mr. Clarke waitedoutside the workshop with an envelope in his hand. He inclined his head to Jessie, then turned to us. The label on the manila read our names and today’s date. He tapped it once, then slid the contents onto a side table.

“Case details,” he said. “Clay Mendez. Cannon Beach, Oregon. Eighty-four years old. Retired fisherman. Wife deceased. No children. Objective, ensure he doesn’t die of a broken heart.” His tone didn’t warm up on the last sentence, but something in his eyes steadied, as if the summary hit a nerve he didn’t advertise.

He set the first page aside and held up a small metal circle on a tiny ring. The surface gleamed through a thumbprint swirl. “Support token. Single use. The return form is in the envelope. Today you observe only. No casting. No interference. I will handle the work. Questions before we travel?”

Questions? I had so many questions, but my gut told me to just wait and watch. This was something every godmother before me had to learn, I was just following in their footsteps, like I was meant to do. So I pushed down my nagging questions, took a deep breath, and prepared myself for whatever was to come.

Robbie glanced at me and then back to Clarke, looking thoughtful. “Is invisibility in place for us, or will the client simply overlook us?”

“Overlook,” Clarke said. “We’ll be using a veil that works on a person’s attention, not on light or sound. Stand where I put you. Speak only when asked to.”

“Understood,” I said. My palms had already started to sweat. Observation sounded simple and impossible at the same time.

We stood around the token. Clarke placed it on his palm and nodded. I set two fingertips to the cool metal. Robbie did the same, jaw set in that soldierly way he had when he expected turbulence.

“Think of the client,” Clarke said. “Picture him clearly. Name, age, grief, the park bench he favors. Hold steady while the charm does its work.”

Salt moved through the air. A gull cried and the sound split the moment. The room thinned, edges went white, then color rolled back in with a rush of wind that tasted of ocean and cold steel. My knees stiffened against the new ground. A park spread around us, small and well kept, with a row of benches turned toward the sea.

Waves pounded the shore beyond a stand of grass and low pines. A bank of clouds pressed the horizon. Wind cut across the dunes and moved a paper bag on the path, which skittered away. It was a beautiful place, but something about it felt lonely. It needed a children’s birthday party, or a group of joggers, to give it some life. The scattering of park-goers just didn’t feel like enough.

An old man sat two benches down with a gray cap shadowing his brow. He scattered crumbs in a patient rhythm, hand to lap, lapto air, air to ground, pulling small handfuls from a paper sack. A pigeon and a brave gull argued in low hops until the gull stole a piece of crust and wheeled off. The old man huffed without anger and tossed more, determined to even the odds.

We took him in without comment. Clarke lifted one hand an inch. The gesture moved our attention. A young couple rounded the trash can near the bench and paused for a beat. The girl admired the waves, tipped her head back, and grinned. The boy cracked a joke about birds and scavengers. The old man brightened and turned his head, offering the bag as if he had prepared it for sharing.

They smiled and waved the offer away, then the boy checked his phone. The girl tugged his arm and moved on. The old man watched them go and tried to pretend he had meant to keep all the bread for himself. His mouth went small. His shoulders sank a little deeper into the coat. A deep terrible loneliness seemed to cover him like a blanket, and my heart ached at the sight of him.

Clarke exhaled through his nose. “Read the room,” he said quietly. “Cendolyn first.”

I’d never considered myself to be someone who was good at reading a room. Sometimes I failed to notice when the people around me wanted me to stop talking, or to notice when others wanted me to add more to the conversation. Sometimes I made jokes that landed flatly, and other times I thought of funny jokes that I never spoke aloud. But it was as if the Cendi who often had a hard time reading others had simply vanished, and a new version of myself was standing here, painfully aware of everything going on around me.

“His hands are steady,” I said, slowly speaking the things in my head aloud, “and the bag in his lap is nearly empty. He’s onlyputting a little bit of the breadcrumbs out at a time, drawing out his time here, which means he likely came for the connection as much as for the ritual. The couple reminded him of a life he once had. He was eager to speak to them, probably because he needed a reason to speak to someone who would answer.”

Clarke nodded once. “Do you think he needs a temporary or durable companion?”

“Durable,” I said. “Someone who will stay with him.”

Robbie watched the old man adjust his cap. “A club may help. A morning coffee group. A fisherman’s association. They don’t always accept strangers at first, but the sea culture here runs on routine. He would find a slot.”

“Possibly,” Clarke said. “What else?”

“A neighbor,” Robbie said, the breeze ruffling his dark hair. “A regular check-in. A shared task. Snow shoveling in winter. Someone who expects him on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

Clarke weighed it, then tucked his chin down. “Useful ideas, both of you. Neither guarantees a result quick enough for a heart in freefall.” He tipped his head toward the man. “We need something that reframes his day without asking him to audition for a new life.”

He reached into his coat for a slim wand. The wood had a worn sheen, the kind that comes from years of use. He held it low, then drew a small circle in the air where the man couldn’t see. He didn’t speak a word. The turn of his wrist had the clean geometry of handwriting done with patience.

Nothing changed for a moment. Wind ran the flags at the park entrance up the poles and tugged them down again. The seachewed the shore. The gull returned and teased another crust away from the pigeon. Then a shape moved out from the shelter of a cedar and pointed itself toward the bench.

A stray dog trotted across the grass, ribs faint under a rough coat. Not a yard dog on holiday. A mother. She carried a small bundle of fur by the scruff, careful and determined. The puppy dangled with a serious expression. The mother’s eyes measured the man, then made a decision that belonged to older gods than ours.

She set the puppy on the old man’s lap with a small huff, then placed both paws on his knee. The old man went very still, as if a miracle would vanish under a sudden movement. The puppy blinked and then tipped forward into his palm. The old man’s hand closed around that tiny chest and stayed there without trembling.

He laughed, not a bark of sound but a surprised, soft thing that seemed to unstick something in the air. The mother’s ears flicked. She licked his wrist as he kept one hand on the puppy and reached for the paper sack with the other. Half a sandwich remained, wrapped in wax paper. He unwrapped it and pulled the ham free, then divided it and laid pieces at their feet. The mother took her share with restraint. The puppy considered eating and then decided to chew on the man’s thumb instead.

He didn’t mind. “Where did you come from,” he asked in a voice that had barely spoken to another person all day. “Look at you. A whole bunch of trouble.” He checked the neck of the mother for a collar and found only fur and a burr. He checked the puppy and found nothing but softness. The puppy reached his chin and licked him. He closed his eyes and let that happen, then opened them quickly as if embarrassed and ready to pretend that salt had watered them.

Clarke watched, expression unreadable, wand quiet at his side. He had not conjured a creature from thin air. He had bent the wind and the timing so that a mother without a plan decided to trust a stranger.