The land replied.

  “I cannot move you with my gravity, but with my heart, I draw you into me. I bear myself now simple and true, not holding anger, impurity, bitterness, it's true.

  “But I know your response, I know it well.

  “No matter how long we long for a kiss, the space between us does not make right for this.”

  Miss T.’s ears popped. Her tongue hummed with electricity. Spinning around, looking for the exit, her gaze finally landed upon the door.

  The moon now filled the sky, drawing ever nearer to the land that once held the coffee bean lot.

  She would have to find a new place to grow her coffee, she thought as she walked inside.

  She swung open the door and was met with the rousing rumble of laughter and joy. But before she left, she held her breath—to listen. No, it’s not the kind of listening that most people do. You see, most people just hear well enough about the world around them, and that’s that. But listening is an art of its own. If you can master the skill of listening between the spaces and hearing where true words are never lost, then you will have it in your breath for something special to take place.

  The moon, in full brightness, sang.

  “You presume too much, oh vast and mighty lover. My desire now means to fit the mold; I come to you in holy and bold. I create my word now made manifest and whole. I pull near to you. I no longer hold my breath. No longer does space exist, but we make right, a kiss for a kiss, no longer left wanting for this.”

  The moon in her fullness, the land open faced, the bridge now built, the lovers now embraced.

  Miss T. saw the land and the moon concluding their song with one final breath and word spoken, the true moonlit door shut and made way no more. Lovers need privacy and will find their way back, you see. No, she thought, this part of the story was not meant for her to see.

  She walked back, her arms full of brown sacks. Miss T. heard the roaring laughter and the light prodding that was going on in the main room.

  “I’m just saying, no one ever sounds that cool-headed in front of the Winter Warden,” said Mister D. in a jovial tone. “If he’s anything like our current Winter Warden, he’s a right tough fuck.”

  Crossing behind the bar, Miss T. saw the smiling face of the Winter Warden, hand supporting his chin as his amber eyes danced with subtle delight at the Summer Warden's discomfort.

  The Summer Warden spoke up over the noise.

  “By the first flame, I swear, everything you heard was the truth… mostly.”

  A resounding chorus of noise and jests filled the room.

  “All right, maybe I took some creative liberties with the fight at the end. But I assure you, my efforts were extraordinary,” he continued.

  Another groan answered him, and this time the Summer Warden stood from his chair abruptly and slammed a fist to his chest.

  “Fine then, perhaps a song since the story was too much to your dislike.” He cleared his throat, placed a boot on his stool, and inhaled. A large hand reached over and pulled him down as Mister D. simultaneously kicked the other leg out from under him. The Summer Warden tumbled into the playful chokehold of his winter counterpart. Laughter broke out among all of them, and Miss T. couldn't help but feel joy bubble up in her spirit.

  Miss T. turned and proceeded to wash the coffee beans off in the sink. Then she felt a cold tingling crawl up her back like multiple icy glass spiders. It reached her ears and tried to whisper something. Miss T. quickly brushed her shoulders before shivering more. She felt the old magic behind the ashen black door. They all felt it, and the room fell silent.

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  Miss T. turned to face whoever came next. Placing another mug down on the bar. She clenched her jaw and tried her best to brush off the feeling of spider legs crawling all over. The whole room grew silent and rigid. Well, everyone except the Winter Warden; he was completely at ease.

  She watched the door open and, while the Summer Warden had come in a flash of sunlight, this creature now stepped out of the coldest pit of hell.

  A woman dressed in a black mourning gown stepped in. A dark veil hid her face except for bright white eyes. They shone like two burning stars, fighting against black nothingness all around them. Trailing behind her was a young newsy boy with shaggy, short blond hair and sunken, dark blue eyes. He looked as if he’d been crying recently. He carried a small, maroon case.

  They both paused halfway toward the bar. Her voice came from dark corners that whispered all around them. Every word sounded labored with short breaths.

  “I have come to honor tradition both in story and in song. This young man is my mortal companion. He will be my inheritor.” The last word she said with a grin. “I am the former goddess of webs and misery; you may call me Bliss.”

  An empty kind of silence threatened to take hold of the space, the kind of emptiness that drew unwanted eyes toward this place. Miss T. spoke next to fill the silence with something before the emptiness came back.

  “You are welcome, my lady Bliss.” Miss T. nearly shouted as she gestured to a table nearby.

  Lady Bliss inclined her head, drifting hauntingly over to the table, forcefully gesturing for the boy to follow. The boy quietly shuffled along and stood by her side, not taking a seat.

  “So, what story do you bring to us this time, Bliss?” asked Mister D., his relaxed tones were no longer present; professional and dispassionate dispositions were all that were held now. Any trace of joy previously was now sequestered and held in, as one would hold a breath. Miss T. watched as this immortal’s mere presence shifted the space between all of them.

  Miss T. gathered more dark liquid from the coffee maker, moving from behind the bar. She began to serve drinks to all the patrons. Placing the final drink in front of Bliss, their eyes locked for a moment. Miss T. did her best as a hostess. She tried to treat everyone fairly. But when they locked eyes, the space between them could be described as predatory. This was someone who had survived so much and would not let anything stand between them and survival. She wasn't wrong for coming here; this place was her best chance to survive what hunted her, what hunted all of us. Bliss accepted the drink, Miss T. returned to her position behind the bar, and waited.

  The emptiness was now filled with pressure waiting to burst. Silent conversations passed between different immortals while their companions’ nervous expressions held nothing back. The shift was on a razor's edge. Everyone paused, unsure whether or not to take their eyes off Bliss.

  After what felt like a lifetime, Bliss drew the mug behind her veil and drank. She set the mug down on the table, and the voices from the shadows of the corners rose again. The sound of crawling legs scraping the floor all around.

  “Thank you, my gracious host, a fabulous refreshment, as always,” she commented. “Now, if I remember correctly, the space is still incomplete and needs more stories?

  My companion,” she said slowly, “shall tell a story.”

  The chittering stopped, and Bliss snapped her fingers. The boy moved forward and placed his case on the table where Bliss was sitting. Unbuckling his leather case, he drew out a beautiful, blood-red violin.

  “Hello, everyone, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he said without any emotion. “I am unimportant in my lady’s service, but she hath deemed I tell you a story. This particular story is about me and how I came to the service of my lady,” he said, picking up his bow.

  The young boy moved to the center of the room. The light grew dim as he set his jaw on the violin. He began to play.

  The sound was low but reverent. The more he played, the louder the resonance of his instrument, filling the empty space and breathing new life into the space between them and the coffee shop. Unknowingly, that boy was accessing the space between, at a subconscious level. Miss T. let her gaze drift over to Bliss. No wonder she had marked the boy as her inheritor. The other immortals began to sway, letting their shoulders relax and calm to the rhythm of the music.

  Most music is not fully enjoyed by mortals, as they are incapable of hearing everything that proper music can do. Their minds are too filled already with things of moments to come and moments past that they lack the understanding to enjoy the moment that is.

  Immortals have forever, and forever is their companion, teacher, and guide. They have learned how to fully enjoy the sounds that come with music. They’ve learned not to hear, but to truly listen. Letting the music itself build into a narrative and a story that forms in the minds of immortals.

  The boy played. The immortals listened and saw in their mind's eye the story.

  The Boy With The Red Violin.