I look at the book on my bed while I scrub the dishes in what I can only describe as a medieval trash bin. The thing hasn't moved since I completed my [Light]-related homework. It might be a bug or something.

I don't care.

I look at Lucinda simply sitting on a chair and going over some notes she had written down. Saying that our conversation from before went sideways would be a gross understatement.

I take a deep breath.

Look, this has happened before, okay?

Do you think I’ve never tried anything else?

I have. I have been asked to go to college by my high school teachers. I have been begged to do so.

My parents almost forced me to. They threatened me with all the possible threats you could imagine one could make to a ten-year-old child. And more.

But I never...

It's hard to explain.

People never really understood it.

"You are wasting your talent," they would say.

But did I?

Simply put, one of my great skills as a child was the capability of seeing things ahead of time. I could see how stories would play out long before they reached their ending.

It was a bit spooky, honestly.

And when they told me about attending pre-med college while being so young, I could already picture my future. It would have been miserable.

Maybe it was my love for reading that had made me so, but I was able to sketch out a path in my head to what my life as a doctor would have been. Yeah, med school had been my mom's dream for me.

But I couldn't picture a happy outcome for me in any way. I tried telling my parents. And we wasted eight months before they finally accepted the fact that I wasn't going to attend college, child prodigy or not.

I had already been baking with my mother here and there. And that unlocked something in me; I saw a viable path to becoming a baker, something that would allow me to be happy.

Sure, I still thought a lot about every other path I could have gone down. Hell, if you asked my Physics professor, you'd be stunned. The man camped in our garden every day with a camping chair and some books.

I'm still curious about what exactly happened to me after: with the passing years, what had been my prodigious memory actually withered, and my thinking became muddled. Hell, my mother even brought me to the hospital at some point, thinking I had been poisoned or something.

The running theory of some psychiatrists had been that the crippling anxiety I started suffering from in my preteen years as I focused my whole self on baking was the actual cause for those changes. Sadly, the anxiety kind of spiraled to the point where it was omnipresent in my life.

Thank God I decided to become a baker, honestly. If I hadn't, I would have probably died from it. I mean, that's my hypothesis. Professionals have tried... a lot. I don't fancy talking about it, though.

But anyway.

When Lucinda mentioned me going to whatever academy she wanted to attend, I felt the same feeling when my mother tried pushing me into the preclinical college courses.

My happiness is not there. It will most likely never be.

I am a great baker.

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And that's who I am.

Most importantly, that's where my happiness will be.

...

“So, no magic for you?”

“No magic for me, no sir,” I smiled at Lucinda as we reached the center of the Pratus.

Her eyes sparkle but are dimmer than before. She still looks at me sweetly, but she’s also looking for a figure that was never here, and that will never be. The silhouette Lucinda wishes upon me will never overlap with how I feel about the world.

We both know something is amiss, that this conversation should have gone in a thousand other ways. It’s written in the way we look at each other.

“Well, I wanted to visit some friends here at the Pratus,” I tell her with a forced smile.

“Ok,” she glances over at me, waiting for something.

For a second, as I get lost in this connection of ours, I wonder whether I should just jump into her eyes—into her world. Perhaps if I crossed to the other bank of this vast river, I would be happier. I would have Lucinda by my side if I concerned myself with magic.

At the same time, would I? When she looks at me, she’s simply looking at the person that’s not doing all the magic they could. She’s not looking at what I could have done as a baker—or even simply as a person.

She’s looking at the magic that I will never have in my hands, the same one I’ll never be able to share with her.

“I’ll see you around, Joey,” Lucinda says, turning her back to me and walking down the path that goes to the Watch.

I am taking a deep breath when she turns back.

My heart jumps into my throat.

Is she thinking of a second date?

“You—nothing, sorry.” She says, turning again and walking back to the Watch building.

I look up to the clear, azure sky, hoping to find a sliver of peace in my heart.

I decide to walk back to my place, sorely needing a nap.

...

When I come back to the Pratus, I find the tallest mothertrucking Elf I’ve met so far basking in the sun, close to one of the two biggest statues.

It’s around five hours from noon, but the sun still has to set. My sleep schedule is more messed up than I initially thought.

And the fact that I might have forever compromised any future with Lucinda has not put me in the best of moods.

"Yo, Stan," I smile. "What's up?"

Grigio, his Kaiju-sized dog, looks at me with murderous intent written all over his canine expression.

"Friend," he smiles. "You have come."

Yeah. People didn’t believe I would come back, right? And guess who also brought a ton of bread from the ‘failed’ experiments? Hehe.

"Sure thing. Sorry about the hour; I had to get some sleep. I'm still getting adjusted to the whole 27/9 thing. But whatever. I have a bunch of bread with me. Barely fit into my bag. Pilfered some jam as well. Would have been much better with Nutella, but that's that. Shall we?"

The old man nods warmly at me.

“But what is Nutella, friend?”

“Oh, right!” I smile at him. “I’ll make some for you, sometime. I mean, if I ever find any chocolate.”

Stan nods back at me, not particularly understanding what I’m talking about.

“By the way, does your dog always look that mean?” I point at the monstrosity by his side.

“Grigio has had a difficult life. The more you wander around the world, friend, the more you will understand how hardships can change people in their ways forever. Some just need us not to judge them. He might be scary, but he is not going to hurt you,” Stan says while slowly getting up from the ground, using Grigio as a crutch of sorts and giving him a scratch behind his ears.

“Damn,” I say out loud. “Now, you are making me feel guilty. Well, sorry, doggo.”

I think about patting the dog’s head, but then I look at his sharp teeth and reconsider.

"Tiberius has talked about you a lot—you might have turned him to your side.

“That’s cool,” I scratch my head. “I know people hate Humans... I’m happy I can change some minds.”

Stan looks at me for a second before looking back at the tall statue of a young man behind him. I see him shake his head, and then he changes the topic.

“Are you planning on cutting hair today?"

"Sure. I cleaned and wrapped the tools in some leather to avoid contamination inside my bag thingy. I'm still getting the hang of the bag, honestly. It's super freaky how it works."

"You are not used to bags of holding?"

"Nah, it's—"

"Look who's there! I am cut off by three people who approach Stan and me. “Isn't that the worm we saw at the Watch?!"

The three Elves look mean, and they are in armor, with weapons at their waists.

If I’m not wrong, the one at the center, ahead of the other two, the head-goon, is the same guy who insulted my mother when I was at the Watch. As I think of that, I can already feel my blood boiling.

With all the crap that I went through today, I really don’t need any of this.

"I didn't know we let worms in the city, did you, Clementius?"

Said Clementius is a fat Elf with a face plastered with red bumps.

"Oh, Appius, you tell me. Look at that; it is a rotten worm. What should we do now?"

“Look at him, even bothering the homeless,” a thin, tall guy says at the side.

“I know, Finzius,” the boss, Appius, says.

I swear, they look like the greasy version of a Saturday morning show villain.

"Hey, grandpa, why don't you move so we can have a friendly chat with this little worm?"

I mean, all that emphasis on one word is a bit cringe.

"Tell you what, friends," I say with a smile, "why don't we talk this out? I can offer you some good food in exchange for—"

"I would first put a lance through my neck than accept food touched by your dirty hands, worm."

Huh.

That didn't have the effect I was hoping for.