Nostalgia can overwhelm you in the most unexpected of ways, and when the wave comes, it hits like a blacksmith's hammer.

The smell of silkworm stew filled the house, running through him like a memory. The Kir would task the boy's with wrestling the chunky worms into cages for the chef. They would compete to see who could catch the most of them. Murphy was stronger than his friend in those days, thanks to his work with his grandfather. The extra muscle helped him hold the critters firmly in his arms, and they couldn't kick their way free like their porky little pen mates. Coil always insisted that he only lost because Murphy targeted only the weakest worms, and Murphy never admitted that there might be some truth to that declaration. It was a nice memory, a happy one. Most of his favourite memories involved his friends. If astral projection was the only way to see them, he was happy for that at least.

The entryway looked the same as it always had. Murphy was sure the red rugs that traced the ground floor walkways had been there as long as the town had. One ran upstairs to the right of him, and led to the living quarters. Murphy knew if the smell of stew was heavy in the air, that Coil would surely be close to its source.

He made his way towards the dining room, making sure to take in the sights of his childhood. The sitting room beside the kitchens was where their tutor held classes. Part of him hoped to see the old crone propped up in the big wing-backed lounge, peering over the edge of a book at him through her wire framed glasses. Instead, he saw a young girl he didn't recognise, dusting away at a shelf. She had an apron tied around her waist, stained with the colourful smears of decimated vegetables. She must be a new serving girl, he thought.

Voices sounded from the dining room behind a wall, so Murphy practised his new trick, and stepped right through.

Sitting at the head of the table was a man with dark skin and copper red hair. His face was covered by a scruffy beard, but Murphy saw right away that it wasn't the Kir. Perhaps a relative that he didn't know about, since he did resemble the bearded chief rather closely.

He casually spooned stew into his mouth, not caring for the laters that he saved in his scruff. In his other hand, he held a sheet of paper, the contents of which seemed to offend him greatly. He chewed at his stew, and tossed the apparently scandalous document onto a stack of similarly crumpled bits of information. He tapped the pile with the back of his knuckles, and thrust his hand into the air, making an explosion sound with his mouth. Murphy held in a chuckle, even though he didn't need to. It felt intrusively intimate, spying in on a strangers private moments. He didn't want to make any noise, so as not to pervert the moment further.

"Mayloway!" The man shouted, calling his lover. His voice sounded familiar, and Murphy searched his mind again to find his face.

"Mayloway, have you read this damned thing?"

Murphy had a sudden moment of realisation, just as he heard another voice call for somewhere nearby.

"I've read it, Coil," a sweet and feminine voice answered. "You can't get mad about it, we can work it out," she continued, walking into the room.

It was Annabell, without any doubt.

She stepped right through him, clearly not knowing he was there. She was dressed in the finery of an accomplished woman, and carried a baby on her hip. The baby had Coil's copper hair, leaving no doubt in Murphy’s mind about their relationship. It warmed him inside to know they had made a family, but one thing about the entire situation had him struck still with questions. Annabell was old.

Not elderly old, but a lot older than he'd expected her to be. He immediately noticed the same thing when his eyes fell back onto Coil. The man's eyes were weathered beyond Murphy’s twenty something years, and the wear on his hands told of a life lived busy.

None of it made any sense, and Murphy’s mind raced with the possible answers.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"Twenty six slab for a busted down wall!" Coil scoffed. "Their wall ain't made a' the feckin' slabs. I don't care how many bricks they need, won't need twenty six slab worth though."

"They have water damage, Coil. Besides, you know as well as I do that they're having trouble. The last caravan sold them a rotten batch of flowers, they won't have any dye to sell for the next one," she replied, pulling a chair up to sit next to her husband. "It's not personal Mayloway. You didn't think being the Kir would be easy, did you?"

Coil shook his head and tapped the pages again. "There's helping out, Anna, then there's taking advantage," he said, still shaking his head. "We're already paying to have the roads and the lamps fixed up. It's not my damn fault the silo burst. It was on that bastard Heme's property, but you don't see nobody saying he should be paying for none of it."

"I'll work it out with them," she insisted. "I'll have them pay us back with a percentage of the sales they can make, and I'll be sure our family won't be wanting for their services as a thanks for the loan."

"Good that too," he scoffed. "I'm always needing fresh bottles of dye in my day to day."

Murphy watched in awe as his friends continued talking. Their conversation was entirely mundane, the normal dealings of a leader's life. To Murphy however, the implications of nearly every word had him mesmerised.

Coil had become Kir, meaning his father must have flown his path. That made him sad. The old chief was a boisterous and strict leader, but he was a good man. He had plenty of memories of the burly man taking part in their childish games, and he'd always cherished them. His old friend would have big shoes to fill, but it seemed he was taking to the job well enough.

"What does that matter anyway," Annabell said with an irritated cadence, drawing Murphy’s attention back to their conversation. "You won't even go to downtown. Half of them there probably think you're off dead somewhere by now."

"That's not fair, Anna. You know I'm not ready to go back there," Coil said, suddenly very interested in the floor beside him.

"It's been fifteen years, Coil," she groaned. "You can't just pretend he isn't gone."

"I don't want to talk about Dodo," he growled, this time staring into her eyes. "I told you I'll deal with it when I'm ready. Don't go pushing me around like that."

She sighed, and hung her head. "I miss him too, Mayloway, but we have to move past it. You have people there that need you."

The conversation faded again to white noise between Murphy’s ghostly ears. He felt that if he had a breath, it would be heavy with dread. His mind tried to race, but the stone dragging his heart down demanded too much attention.

Gone? He wondered, spurring the pain to begin its hold. Move on? He questioned, Annabell's words echoing in his mind. How could that be? An accident at the pub maybe?

None of the wonders mattered in that moment. All that mattered was his love for his friend. He wanted to cry, but had no way to achieve it. He would never see Dodo again, and the thought drudged up the recently persistent sense of mourning.

Again, his surviving friends demanded his attention. His shock was interrupted by their eyes looking directly at him. He felt a moment of panic as they seemed to see him.

"Murphy?" Coil questioned in his direction. "What are you doing home?"

Murphy stared in awe, slack jawed and with a rare lack of words. He was about to try and speak, to attempt to explain himself, when he was cut off by a voice behind him.

"Pits all full of rocks," the voice of a young man sounded.

Murphy spun on his heal to take in the sight of a lanky teenager. He looked to be in his late teens, around the same age Murphy was when he left home. The boy was the spitting image of Coil at that age, if Coil had hair long enough to cover half of his back.

"Tate is going to sort out some better tools," the boy continued. "We're going back at it after midday."

As soon as the young man was finished speaking, Murphy felt a weakness at his core. He knew all too well that it was the feeling of a fading spell, so he quickly turned his attention back to his friends. He watched as Coil stood, and the corners of his own vision began to blacken. He fought against being torn away, trying to take in the sights of their faces, attempting to etch the visages in his mind.

He reached out as Coil crossed the room, trying to get as close to touching him as he could. With a bitter sting of loss, he allowed the spell to fade, sending his mind and his aching heart back to the other side of the world.