Saturday morning arrived gently.

  Olivia slept in, deeply and without dreams, finally stirring sometime after nine. The bed was warm—too warm—and impossibly comfortable, almost as if it had decided she was not finished resting and intended to keep her. There were no polite nudges this time, no subtle shifts or encouragements to rise and face the day. Just soft sheets, steady warmth, and a quiet, insistent sense of stay.

  She very nearly did.

  Unfortunately, her bladder had other opinions.

  “Oh no,” she muttered, eyes still closed, wincing slightly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I really am.”

  The bed seemed to tighten around her for just a second, as though pouting, then reluctantly released its hold. Olivia swung her legs over the side and stood, padding into the bathroom just in time, handling the necessary business with a sleepy sigh of relief.

  By the time she washed her hands and glanced at herself in the mirror—hair wild, ears slightly askew—she was awake enough to feel it.

  Hunger.

  Not the desperate, gnawing kind she’d grown used to in her old life, but a pleasant, expectant sort. The kind that promised something good was waiting, whenever she was ready to go find it.

  She smiled at her reflection, straightened her ears, and headed back toward the bedroom, already wondering what the station might have decided breakfast looked like today.

  She paused at the wardrobe, one hand resting on the door, suddenly unsure.

  She was officially off duty. That alone felt strange enough to warrant a moment’s consideration. For the past week, getting dressed had been simple—slacks, blouse, jacket, done. The uniform, even if no one had ever actually called it that, had become a comforting default.

  She could do that again.

  Or…

  Her eyes drifted to the other side of the wardrobe. Tee shirts. Jeans. Comfortable things. Things that didn’t ask anything of her.

  For just a moment, she noticed the short satin robe hanging on a hook inside the door. It was lovely—soft-looking, elegant in a way that felt far too confident for a Saturday morning version of herself. Charles had been very clear: the dress code was extremely lax, provided you wore something on the ground floor.

  She snorted quietly. “Not today,” she told the robe, firmly.

  Instead, she grabbed a tee shirt from the stack—a faded one from a furry convention years ago, featuring a cheerful cartoon dog proclaiming WOOF! in bright, unapologetic letters—and her favorite jeans. No shoes. She wasn’t sure why, exactly, but she felt like her feet wanted to be free today. Besides, the floors around the station were always pleasantly warm.

  Dressed, ears straightened, tail clipped securely into place, she headed downstairs, hoping—briefly—that she hadn’t slept too late for breakfast.

  A fear she should have known better than to entertain.

  The breakroom was already lively.

  A handful of Hosts were gathered around the big table, mugs in hand, chatting easily as they ate. The buffet counter nearby was loaded—loaded—with breakfast sandwiches arranged in tidy rows, each with a small card in front listing its contents. Eggs, cheeses, vegetables, meats she recognized and some she decidedly did not.

  Several of the cards bore neat red X marks.

  Olivia was still puzzling over that when a woman with flaming red hair and a gown to match leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

  “Might want to avoid those, honey,” Mistress Malicious said with a wink. “Don’t want you getting sick on us. Those aren’t for Mundanes.”

  “Noted,” Olivia said promptly, steering well clear of anything marked with an X. She did, however, take a moment to read the labels—curiosity undefeated—even as she made her selection.

  Breakfast sandwich secured, along with a bottle of juice, she made her way to the table and slid into her usual spot.

  Charles sat nearby, newspaper spread wide, appearing completely absorbed in its pages. Olivia smiled to herself. By now, she knew better.

  He wasn’t missing a thing.

  Charles lowered the newspaper just enough to peer over the top of it, eyes twinkling.

  “Interesting choice of shirt,” he remarked mildly.

  Mistress Malicious, already mid-sip of her tea, turned and looked Olivia up and down with theatrical appreciation.

  “Oh my,” she purred. “And she fills it out so nicely.”

  Olivia felt heat rush straight to her face. “H-hey!” she protested, laughing despite herself, real ears flushing crimson.

  Charles didn’t even look up again as he folded the paper neatly. “Plans for the day, Olivia?” he asked conversationally. “Do remember, you are completely off duty.”

  He paused, just long enough to be dangerous.

  “And if you get caught doing any work,” he went on, “we’ll have no choice but to let Mistress there… punish you.”

  There was a beat of silence.

  Then the breakroom erupted.

  Mistress Malicious laughed first, delighted. “Oh, don’t threaten me with a good time, darling.”

  Several Hosts hooted. Someone choked on their drink. Olivia buried her face in her hands, mortified and giggling all at once.

  “I—I get it!” she said, waving them off once she could breathe again. “No work. Promise.”

  “Good girl,” Mistress Malicious said sweetly.

  That just made it worse.

  Eventually the laughter faded back into the easy hum of weekend chatter. Olivia took a bite of her sandwich, still smiling, and let herself actually think.

  What did she want to do today?

  She could go up to the roof—stretch out under those impossible trees, soak up that eternal summer air. Or spend a few hours drifting in the pool on the third floor, floating with nothing but the sky reflected above her. She could even go back upstairs, crawl into that treacherously comfortable bed, and laze away the entire day without a shred of guilt.

  Or… something else.

  For the first time in a long while, the question didn’t feel loaded with anxiety or scarcity. There was no clock ticking down to the next shift, no rent hanging over her head, no exhaustion dictating her choices.

  Just options.

  Olivia smiled to herself.

  She finished her breakfast slowly, savoring the rare luxury of deciding what came next—purely because she wanted to.

  By the time Olivia finished her sandwich, the idea had settled comfortably in her mind—solid enough to share.

  She glanced toward Charles. “Would it be all right if I used the pool for a bit? And maybe… went up to the roof afterward? I haven’t swum in ages, and it’s been even longer since I just laid in the sun.”

  Charles folded his newspaper with deliberate care and set it aside.

  Then he looked at her fully.

  It was still mildly startling when he did that—when all of his attention landed on her at once. Those bright, vertical pupils caught the light as he smiled, warm and entirely genuine.

  “A splendid idea,” he said. “An excellent use of a Saturday.”

  Olivia relaxed immediately.

  “You’ll have as much privacy as you like,” Charles continued. “Just outside the pool room there’s a small switch labeled Privacy. Flip it, and a light comes on in the hall. Anyone passing will see it and know the room is spoken for.”

  “Oh,” Olivia said, impressed.

  “Same on the roof,” he added. “Flip the switch at the stair door. The world will politely keep its distance for as long as you need.”

  Mistress Malicious leaned over her mug again, eyes dancing. “Perfect for nude swimming and sunbathing, you know.”

  Olivia nearly dropped her juice. “I—!”

  Doctor Torpor nodded thoughtfully. “Tan lines are a nuisance.”

  The table erupted in amused murmurs and laughter.

  Olivia’s ears went hot, tail flicking as she laughed along despite herself. “I hadn’t— I mean— probably not—but thank you for the information?”

  Charles cleared his throat, entirely too innocent. “Entirely optional, of course.”

  Decision made, plan agreed upon, Olivia finished her breakfast quickly, still smiling. She slid out of her chair and headed for the stairs, feeling lighter than she had in years.

  Back in her apartment, she opened the wardrobe—and there it was.

  A swimsuit hung neatly among her clothes, unmistakably hers in taste and size, as if it had been waiting patiently for this exact moment.

  Olivia laughed softly, shaking her head. “Of course you are.”

  Grabbing it, she headed off to change—already looking forward to water, sunlight, and a rare day with nothing expected of her at all.

  Up to the third floor, through the unassuming door marked “Towels and Accessories,” and then—

  The pool room opened up around her.

  It caught her breath every time.

  The space was vast—absurdly so. A soaring chamber with a ceiling that seemed impossibly high, sunlight pouring in from tall windows at the far end, the sky above rendered in perfect, living detail. There was no reasonable way this room should fit inside the station’s footprint, let alone on the third floor.

  And yet.

  Here it was. Waiting for her.

  Olivia paused just inside the doorway, letting the scale of it sink in, then padded over to one of the loungers. She adjusted her swimsuit, slipped off her ears and unclipped her tail, laying them carefully on the chair well out of splash range. They looked oddly peaceful there, fur catching the light.

  For just a moment, she glanced toward the small switch on the wall labeled PRIVACY.

  She imagined flipping it. Imagined shedding the suit entirely, letting the water and light touch her skin without barrier or pretense. Apparently, it was perfectly acceptable here.

  She smiled to herself.

  “Maybe someday,” she murmured.

  Not today.

  With that settled, she stepped to the edge of the pool and dove in.

  The water closed over her in a cool, silken rush, and she laughed aloud as she surfaced, feeling—truly—like a teenager again. Free. Weightless. Alive.

  She struck out across the pool, long strokes carrying her forward easily. As she swam, something curious became apparent. The water changed.

  Not abruptly—smoothly. Almost musically.

  Here, it was brisk and invigorating. A few strokes to the left, and it warmed, soothing muscles she hadn’t realized were still tight. Another subtle shift, and the temperature settled into a perfect, just-right balance.

  Lanes.

  Currents.

  Not marked by ropes or lines, but by feel alone.

  She experimented, drifting from one to another, delighted as she found she could choose exactly the temperature she wanted just by adjusting her path. Cool when she wanted to push herself. Warm when she wanted to float and breathe.

  “This place…” she said softly, treading water and gazing up at the sky projected above.

  Delightful didn’t begin to cover it.

  She swam until her limbs were pleasantly tired, until her thoughts slowed and smoothed out like stones in a stream—changing lanes whenever the mood struck her, letting the station meet her exactly where she was.

  And for a while, nothing else mattered at all.

  She swam until even delight began to blur into familiarity, then floated lazily on her back, arms spread, eyes tracing the perfect sky overhead. When she finally climbed out, she noticed something odd only in passing—no pruned fingers, no wrinkled toes. Just warm skin and relaxed muscles, as if the water had known better than to overstay its welcome.

  She dried off, clipped her ears back into place, reattached her tail, and stretched. There was no clock anywhere in the pool room, but time felt irrelevant anyway. She was off duty. Properly off duty. The station would take care of itself.

  Next on the list: the roof.

  She made her way up the stairs, passing once again that strange open room on the fourth floor—the one with the large, unmarked door. A shiver traced her spine for no reason she could quite name, and she quickened her step, not looking too closely this time.

  At the heavy fire door leading outside, she paused.

  “Richard,” she whispered.

  Right on cue—or perhaps always there—sat a small box tucked into a niche in the stairwell: chicken nuggets, still warm, and a packet of honey mustard sauce. Olivia let out a grateful laugh, grabbed them, and pushed the door open.

  The moment it swung shut behind her, the hissing started.

  She spotted him immediately—Richard, the tower’s guardian—swinging down with surprising agility, his beady eyes locked on her, posture radiating pure raccoon fury. He stalked forward, low and deliberate, hissing and spitting like she had personally offended every raccoon ancestor he possessed.

  “Hey,” Olivia said softly, holding her ground. “Hey, Richard. It’s okay. I brought… offerings?”

  He reared up on his hind legs directly in front of her, arms raised, teeth bared, fury incarnate.

  Heart pounding, Olivia held out the nugget box.

  For one terrifying heartbeat, nothing happened.

  Then Richard saw it.

  His entire demeanor changed instantly.

  The hissing stopped. The fury vanished. He reached out with startlingly human hands and snatched the box from her, clutching it to his chest. He sniffed it, eyes narrowing in approval, then looked back at Olivia and made a small, impatient grabby motion with one paw.

  “Oh—right! Sorry,” she said quickly, holding out the sauce packet.

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  Richard took it delicately, nodded at her once—very politely—and waddled back to his junk pile beneath the tower, already opening the box.

  Peace restored.

  Olivia let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

  She found a sunny spot, spread out her towel, and stretched out on the warm surface of the roof. The air was perfect, the light gentle but generous. Somewhere nearby, Richard crunched happily on nuggets.

  Olivia closed her eyes, soaking in the sun, feeling wonderfully, impossibly content.

  For once, everything was exactly where it should be.

  After a while, she rolled onto her stomach, satisfied that her front had soaked up enough warmth for the moment. The roof radiated gentle heat beneath her towel, the air humming with late-morning quiet.

  A few more minutes passed, and Doctor Torpor’s earlier comment floated back into her mind.

  “Tan lines are such a pain…”

  She smiled to herself.

  “Why not?” she murmured.

  With an unhurried ease, she untied the top of her swimsuit and let the straps fall away, then slipped out of the bottoms as well. No rush. No self-consciousness. Just the simple, private certainty that no one was watching, no one would interrupt, and she was allowed—encouraged, even—to exist comfortably in her own skin.

  The sun warmed her slowly and evenly, not harsh, not demanding. A light breeze drifted across the rooftop, keeping her just cool enough that the heat never became oppressive. It felt good. It felt right—in a way she hadn’t realized she’d been missing for a very long time.

  For once, there was no tension in her shoulders, no guarded edge to her thoughts. Just warmth, air, and the steady rhythm of her breathing.

  Sunning herself on a perfect rooftop in the middle of New Jersey—of all places—Olivia let her eyes close.

  The day wrapped around her gently.

  And before she quite noticed it happening, she drifted off into a soft, contented doze, without a care in the world.

  A while later, Olivia drifted back toward wakefulness.

  At some point she’d rolled onto her back, instinctively arranging herself so the sun could do its work evenly. She came to slowly, wrapped in warmth, skin pleasantly heated, the light breeze brushing over her just enough to keep things comfortable. She felt loose, unguarded—more relaxed than she could remember ever being.

  She opened her eyes.

  Charles sat nearby in a simple folding chair, his ever-present newspaper spread wide in front of him.

  “Awake at last, I see!” he called cheerfully, without looking up.

  Reality crashed back in all at once.

  Olivia realized—fully realized—that she was stretched out on the rooftop without a stitch of clothing on.

  “Eeep!” she squeaked, scrambling to grab the towel beneath her and clutch it awkwardly to her chest, ears flattening in reflex as her face went crimson.

  Charles chuckled gently and folded his paper, setting it aside. “No need to panic, my dear. There’s nothing there I haven’t seen thousands of times before.”

  That did not help.

  “You’re perfectly safe here in any state of dress—or undress,” he continued mildly. “Though I would suggest, next time, turning on the privacy switch before you disrobe. It saves surprises.”

  He stood and draped something over her shoulders before she could protest.

  A robe—sapphire blue, soft as a dream, scandalously short. The station’s logo was embroidered neatly on the left breast.

  “I thought you might like something to throw on,” Charles said, unfazed. “And perhaps a bit of refreshment. Hungry?”

  As if on cue, her stomach growled—loudly.

  Olivia froze, mortified.

  “…Yes,” she admitted, still blushing furiously. “Very.”

  Charles waved away her flustered apologies with an easy flick of his hand. “Perfectly natural. Sun and swimming do that.”

  He gestured to a small table beside his chair that she hadn’t noticed before. On it sat a pitcher of sweet tea, brimming with ice, two frosted glasses, and a neat platter of sandwiches.

  With a snap of his fingers, another folding chair popped into existence opposite his own.

  “Come,” he said warmly, motioning her over. “Sit. Eat. Recover.”

  Still pink-cheeked but undeniably grateful, Olivia tightened the robe around herself and moved to the chair, the sun, the breeze, and the sheer rightness of the moment settling back around her as she joined him.

  They ate in companionable quiet for a few minutes first.

  The sandwiches were simple—fresh bread, crisp vegetables, something savory and satisfying tucked between—exactly what she needed after swimming and sun. The sweet tea was perfect, cold enough to make her sigh as she drank. Olivia could feel the last of her lingering tension draining away with every bite.

  Eventually, curiosity won out.

  “…Can I ask you some things?” she said, fingers tightening briefly around her glass.

  Charles smiled at her over the rim of his own. “You always may.”

  She hesitated, then decided to start small.

  “Were you… watching the whole time?” she asked, gesturing vaguely at the towel, the robe, the situation.

  Charles chuckled softly. “Not particularly. I came up when I felt you stirring. The station lets me know when its people wake up in places they shouldn’t be alone.” He tilted his head. “You weren’t unsafe. Merely… potentially embarrassed.”

  She laughed despite herself. “Mission accomplished.”

  They ate another sandwich in silence.

  “…You’re really a goblin,” Olivia said at last. Not accusatory. Just factual. “Not a metaphor. Not a costume.”

  “Yes,” Charles said easily. “A goblin.”

  “And you’ve been… around a long time.”

  “A bit,” he agreed.

  She glanced at him sidelong. “How long is ‘a bit’?”

  Charles considered. “Long enough that I’ve learned not to count years the way Mundanes do. They get… attached to numbers.”

  That felt honest without being evasive.

  “…Why a TV station?” she asked next. “Of all things. You could do anything.”

  Charles leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach, eyes drifting toward the tower.

  “Stories,” he said simply. “Stories are how Mundanes practice understanding the world. Horror. Wonder. Fear. Hope. We let them encounter the strange safely. From their couches. At three in the morning.”

  “And the Hosts?” Olivia asked.

  “Caretakers,” he said. “Each in their own way. Some teach courage. Some teach curiosity. Some teach discernment.” A faint smile. “Some just teach how to laugh at the dark.”

  She nodded, chewing on that.

  “…Why me?” she asked quietly.

  Charles looked at her then—really looked—and his voice softened.

  “You were listening,” he said. “Even when you didn’t know what you were listening for. You were kind when you could have been bitter. Curious when you could have shut down. And you kept choosing to be yourself, even when the world kept telling you that was inconvenient.”

  Olivia swallowed. “That’s… a lot to put on someone.”

  “It’s not a burden,” he said gently. “It’s an invitation.”

  She stared down at her hands. “And the Unfolding?”

  Charles didn’t rush the answer.

  “If it ever comes,” he said, “it will come because you are ready. Not because the Signal demands it. Not because I expect it. Not because anyone else thinks it would be poetic.”

  “And if I decide I don’t want it?”

  “Then nothing happens,” he said simply. “You remain Olivia. Whole. Valued. Employed.” A pause. “And still welcome.”

  That landed solidly in her chest.

  “…You’re not disappointed,” she said. “That I don’t know yet.”

  Charles smiled, small and sincere. “On the contrary. Uncertainty is a sign of wisdom.”

  She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

  They finished their lunch slowly after that, the sun drifting overhead, the breeze shifting just enough to stir the edge of her robe. Richard crunched noisily somewhere near the tower, content in his junk pile.

  Olivia leaned back in her chair, relaxed, fed, warm in every sense of the word.

  For now, questions could wait.

  She was exactly where she needed to be.

  They lingered a while longer, finishing the last of the sandwiches and sweet tea as the afternoon slid lazily toward evening. When there was nothing left but crumbs, Richard waddled over with all the solemn dignity of a cleanup crew chief, scooped up the remaining sandwiches with practiced efficiency, and trundled back toward his junk pile beneath the tower.

  “Waste not,” Charles observed mildly.

  Olivia gathered her towel and bikini, clutching them to her chest as she stood—and promptly blushed again.

  “I’m so sorry about the, um—” she waved vaguely at herself, the robe, the day.

  Charles laughed softly. “My dear, the robe is more than sufficient to satisfy the ground floor’s sense of propriety. And anyone scandalized by bare shoulders has already learned not to come here.”

  That helped. A little.

  They turned toward the door that led back into the station, the afternoon sun warm on their backs. Just before they stepped inside, something tugged at Olivia’s thoughts—an image she hadn’t quite been able to shake.

  “Charles?” she asked.

  “Yes?”

  “That room on the fourth floor,” she said slowly. “The one in the middle. With the big slab door.”

  Charles stopped.

  “And,” she added, “why do I feel… cold every time I look at it?”

  He considered her for a moment, then nodded once, as if she’d passed some quiet test.

  “That,” he said, “is the Core Room.”

  Olivia waited.

  “If the Archive in the basement is the heart of the station,” Charles continued, “then the Core Room is its soul.”

  She almost felt her ears tilt forward despite herself.

  “It is the most secure location in the building,” he went on. “Nothing enters or leaves it casually. Inside is the broadcasting apparatus—equipment older than television, older than radio, older than most words for either.”

  He tapped his cane lightly against the rooftop surface.

  “It takes a very small segment of the Signal,” he said, “attenuates it, shapes it, and uses it as a carrier wave. Our shows ride atop it—broadcast across all realities. Mundane and… not.”

  Olivia swallowed. “So that’s why you’re everywhere.”

  “Precisely,” Charles said. “We don’t replace the Signal. We borrow a whisper of it and let our stories travel where it already goes.”

  “And the chill?” she asked.

  Charles’s expression softened. “That room is aware of itself. It knows when it is noticed. Not hostile—just… alert. Like standing too close to a deep, cold lake.”

  That made unsettling sense.

  “…Would I ever be allowed to see it?” Olivia asked, half-expecting the answer to be no.

  Charles smiled.

  “Of course,” he said. “With proper safety precautions. I’m very fond of my staff remaining intact.”

  She laughed, relieved.

  “Not today,” he added gently. “But someday, if you’d like.”

  Olivia nodded, the question satisfied—for now.

  They stepped back inside the station together, the rooftop door closing behind them with a solid, reassuring thud.

  Some doors waited.

  And when the time was right, they would open.

  Olivia spent the rest of the afternoon drifting.

  Not working—she was careful about that—but wandering. Letting the station reveal itself in quiet corners and familiar hallways. She peeked into rooms she hadn’t lingered in before, traced routes she’d only taken with purpose during the week, and stopped to say hello whenever she crossed paths with a Host. Each greeted her warmly, some with fond smiles, others with dramatic flourishes, all treating her like she belonged.

  Eventually, she found herself near the bakery alcove.

  The smell alone was enough to slow her steps.

  On the counter sat a small pastry box, tied neatly with ribbon, a handwritten tag affixed to the lid:

  For Bernard

  Olivia smiled.

  “Of course,” she murmured.

  She lifted the box gently, murmuring a quiet thank-you to no one in particular, and made her way toward the basement. The stairwell cooled as she descended, the familiar hum of the station deepening with every step.

  At the Archive door, she pressed the intercom button.

  “Delivery for Bernard!” she called cheerfully.

  There was the briefest pause—then the unmistakable sound of Bernard’s voice, warm and amused, drifting through the speaker.

  “Oh? On a Saturday? How intriguing. Do come in.”

  The massive door hissed softly and opened just an inch.

  Olivia slipped through, the door sealing behind her with a deep, comforting thrum.

  The Archive greeted her like it always did—cool air, dim lights, and the impossible sprawl of shelves stretching away into shadow. Racks upon racks of film reels, tapes, formats she recognized and many she didn’t, all humming faintly with stored memory.

  She never got used to it.

  Bernard rounded a corner near the entrance, floating into the light, his many eyes bright with interest.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of such an unusual Saturday delivery,” he asked politely, “from such a lovely young lady? And isn’t she off duty at present?”

  Olivia felt her face heat instantly.

  She glanced down at herself, suddenly very aware that she was still wearing the scandalously short sapphire robe from her rooftop sunbathing.

  “I—uh—yes,” she admitted, laughing softly. “I am off duty. I just… saw this box in the bakery alcove and thought you might like it. And I was hoping you weren’t too busy. I wanted to come say hello. Get to know you a bit better, if that’s okay.”

  Bernard’s eyes softened, several of them blinking in what she’d come to recognize as pleasure.

  “Delighted,” he said simply. “Absolutely delighted.”

  He drifted ahead, gesturing for her to follow, and guided her between the towering shelves. The deeper they went, the quieter it became, until they reached a small clearing she hadn’t noticed before—an island of calm amid the endless archive.

  A little tea table sat beneath a warm lamp, flanked by two comfortable wingback chairs.

  Bernard opened the pastry box with ceremony, revealing two lemon pastries nestled inside.

  “Oh my,” he murmured. “My favorites.”

  He poured tea—somehow already prepared—and gestured to one of the chairs.

  “Please,” he said. “Sit. Share them with me.”

  Olivia smiled, her earlier self-consciousness easing as she took a seat.

  For a little while, in the heart of the station’s memory, they shared tea and pastries—quiet, unhurried, and perfectly content.

  They lingered.

  Tea steamed gently between them, the lamp casting a warm pool of light that softened the endless shelves into something almost cozy. Bernard poured with practiced care, his tentacles moving with an elegance that felt deliberate rather than alien. The lemon pastries were exactly as promised—bright, delicate, the sort of sweetness that made you slow down without realizing you’d chosen to.

  “This is wonderful,” Olivia said after her first bite, genuinely delighted.

  Bernard’s eyes brightened. “The bakery alcove has been in an excellent mood lately. It does that when it feels appreciated.”

  She laughed softly. “That explains a lot about this place.”

  They talked easily after that.

  Bernard told her stories—not lectures, not grand histories, but little vignettes, the kinds of memories that accumulate when one has been around for a very long time. He spoke of films that no longer existed anywhere else, of broadcasts sent out into realities where television had never quite been invented but was nevertheless received. He spoke fondly of the early days of the station, when the equipment was temperamental and the Signal had to be coaxed like a shy animal.

  “And you remember all of it?” Olivia asked, awe creeping into her voice.

  “Most of it,” Bernard replied, thoughtfully. “I consume media, yes—but memory is not merely data. It is… context. Feeling. Intention.” One tentacle curled slightly. “There are gaps, of course. Things I should know that I do not. But I have learned not to mourn those absences too deeply.”

  Olivia nodded, understanding more than she could explain.

  She asked questions too. About the Archive. About how the shelves seemed to rearrange themselves when she wasn’t looking. About why some tapes hummed faintly while others were silent.

  Bernard answered what he could.

  “The Archive responds to curiosity,” he explained. “It grows quiet for those who only seek control. You, however, ask because you wish to understand. That makes all the difference.”

  She flushed a little at that. “I just like knowing how things work.”

  “A noble impulse,” Bernard said warmly.

  At one point, she hesitated, then asked, “Do you think… the Signal knew I’d end up here? With all of you?”

  Bernard was quiet for a long moment, eyes dimming slightly as he considered.

  “The Signal does not plan,” he said finally. “It listens. It responds. When something resonates strongly enough, paths align.” A pause. “You resonate, Miss Olivia.”

  That settled in her chest, gentle and steady.

  They finished their tea, unhurried, the silence between them companionable rather than awkward. For the first time since she’d arrived at OtherWorlds, Olivia felt something click fully into place—not excitement, not fear, but belonging.

  Eventually, she glanced at the time—wherever time was kept down here—and smiled apologetically.

  “I should probably let you get back to… archiv-ing,” she said.

  Bernard inclined his head. “You are welcome here anytime. Off duty or otherwise.”

  She stood, smoothing the robe instinctively, and gave him a small, sincere smile.

  “I’m really glad I came down,” she said.

  “As am I,” Bernard replied.

  And with that, Olivia stepped back out into the station’s winding halls, leaving the Archive humming quietly behind her—full, as ever, of memory, stories, and now, one more gentle conversation added to its depths.

  After her visit with Bernard, Olivia decided it was probably time to put on some actual clothes before dinner.

  She headed back upstairs, robe swishing softly around her legs, but when she reached the second floor she slowed. Curiosity tugged at her. She knew her own apartment—second door on the right—but… what else was down here?

  Apartments? Offices? Something stranger?

  “Well,” she murmured, “I am off duty.”

  She tried the first door on the left.

  Bathroom.

  Just… a bathroom.

  Painfully ordinary. And aggressively pink.

  Pink sink. Pink toilet. Pink walls. Pink towels. Pink toilet paper. A fuzzy pink toilet seat cover. Shag carpet that should have been outlawed by several international conventions.

  Olivia recoiled.

  “Mental note,” she said firmly. “Never. Ever. Use this bathroom.”

  She closed the door and moved on.

  Across from her own apartment was another door, its plaque tarnished beyond legibility. The knob turned easily. Inside was an apartment similar in layout to hers—living room, kitchenette, bedroom—but without the sunken conversation pit. Different curtains, neutral and unremarkable. Everything was clean, but unmistakably unused. The wardrobe stood empty, not even a single hanger inside.

  Unoccupied. Waiting, maybe.

  She closed it quietly.

  Next door down, a plaque read—after some squinting—“Su--- -il----s & M- -----.” Whatever it once said, the door absolutely refused to open. She tried gently, then a bit more firmly.

  Nothing.

  “Okay,” she muttered. “Message received.”

  She continued down the hall, trying a few more doors. Some opened into storage rooms stacked with dusty boxes. Others revealed more empty, simply furnished apartments. A few didn’t budge at all, no matter how politely she asked.

  Then she reached a door with a plaque that was only lightly tarnished:

  Maintenance Crew

  She turned the knob.

  The door opened easily.

  Inside was a small apartment—clearly lived in. Furniture arranged comfortably. A coffee table in the center of the room. And around it—

  Three goblins.

  Classic goblins. Short. Green-skinned. Long pointed ears. All three were seated around the table playing cards. One of them was chewing on the end of a cigar.

  They all looked up at once.

  The one with the cigar squinted at her, then barked, “Go away, toots! We’re off duty, and you shouldn’t be sneakin’ around here yet!”

  Olivia froze.

  “Oh! I—I’m so sorry!” she blurted, face instantly on fire. She backed out, pulling the door shut behind her as quickly as dignity allowed.

  Heart pounding, she leaned against the wall, mortified.

  “Toots?” she whispered.

  Then she glanced down.

  The robe had slipped open far more than she’d realized.

  “Oh,” she squeaked.

  That explained everything.

  Red-faced and suddenly very aware of her state of undress, Olivia made a beeline for her own apartment, locked the door behind her, and changed as fast as she could into a tee shirt and jeans.

  Only once she was properly dressed did she take a calming breath.

  “Right,” she said to herself. “Exploring later. With pants.”

  She headed back downstairs toward the breakroom, just noticing the time.

  Nearly seven.

  Dinner awaited—and she suspected the station, as usual, had more surprises in store.