Stars dazzled the skies before the city managed to sputter back to life. The balls of gas quickly disappeared into the depths, losing purpose in shining their light. All around, flashing ad signs and glaring street lamps replaced the once beautiful night sky.

Nature. All but ruined from human intervention. The Creator couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed by the sudden artificial intrusions.

In Simular, light pollution had no effect on the view of the stars. His simulation could never be ruined by a mere human. At this point, not even himself. The machine learning model had gone too far for him to even fully comprehend most of the algorithm. It was almost completely unsupervised—constantly changing, evolving, tweaking itself to match with the sometimes exaggerated but theoretically better versions of reality. But there was no use thinking about that now.

“Mam,” he called out. “I believe this is where we part ways. The lights seem to have been restored.”

“The lights?” She clapped her hands together as if the realization finally hit her. “Oh, was that what all the commotion was about?”

“Come again?”

“I’m sorry, dear.” She used her arms to feel around her surroundings. “Could you find me my cane?”

“You’re… blind.” Of course she was. He checked around the vicinity. There. In the corner, crushed under the same pole he had moved over was what was suppose to have been a snow-white cane. Great. “It’s… well, it’s broken.”

“It is? That’s quite—” She gasped, feeling around her wrists like a crazed maniac. “Y-young man, could you do me a favor? Could you help me find my bracelet? It’s very important to me!”

“Bracelet? Why would I—” Something sparkled to his left. A plain, silver bracelet embedded with a dozen diamonds. There was a name carved into it. “Aurora Morgan?” He picked it up.

“That’s me!” the old lady exclaimed. Her demeanor quickly changed to anxious worry. “Did you find it? Did you find the bracelet?”

“I did.” Without much thought, he tossed it into her palms. The sudden contact with the jewelry made her flinch.

“O-oh!”

“Right, you’re blind. Apologies.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright! Thank you, dear.” She grinned proudly as she snapped the bracelet back onto her wrist. Then she reached around until she found a wall and pulled herself up, but it didn’t take long for her to collapse again. “Oh my! Why, I must’ve really hurt my legs this time.”

“You hurt yourself?” It was more instinctual than anything. He didn’t have time for this. The lack of inflections in his voice should’ve told anybody that he didn’t care, but to her, it clearly didn’t seem to matter.

“Oh, you’re so kind to ask. It’s just that I don’t think I can move my right leg as well as I thought I could.” She started droning on about her day. He could tell she was quite the talkative lady. “Today’s such a pickling day. I was just out for a walk and…”

“Of course.” He stifled a sigh, exhaling through his nose instead. The way she talked was annoying; it was a lot of unnecessary words for something as simple as “I hurt my leg.”

It had probably been injured by the pole. Obviously. Was that truly not obvious? Does she truly not understand how her body worked? He knew someone just like that—overworked herself to her death… He cleared the thought away.

“Where do you live?” he instead asked.

“Well, I live just across from the local market.” She tried pulling herself up again but to no avail. “Why do you ask, dear?”

“Across where?” He begrudgingly helped her to her feet, half carrying her on his shoulders. It was more irritating watching her repeat the same process twice, expecting different results. “Give me the address.”

“Address? The address…” She seemed to struggle to remember. “I’m not so sure, but it’s close! It’s that way!”

“That’s a wall.”

“Well, first of all, I’d like to know why you’d like to know, young man? I take care of my privacy dearly!”

“Would you prefer walking then?” He half dropped her, loosening his grip just enough for her to experience the shift in gravity.

“Oh! I-if that’s the case…” She held on for dear life, a nervous laugh leaving her soul. “That was enlightening, dear! Why, you ought to be very intelligent if you can explain the situation so quickly like that!”

The Creator grumbled at her positive attitude. If she’d just declined his help, that would’ve been so much more preferable. Why was he even helping her in the first place? Was it guilt? Boredom? No, he knew exactly why, and he despised himself for being swayed so easily by such minor reasons.

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“We can start at the market.” She pointed to another wall. “I can guide you from there!”

The Creator sighed again. It was audible this time. He had given up on trying to hide his distaste of the situation. Perhaps this was karma for how he’d treated Bread.

“Let’s go, young man!” the old lady cried. “I’ll treat you to some tea while I’m at it.”

“No, thank you.” The comment about privacy was just a lie then. It didn’t seem like she cared one bit about who he was and whether or not he was a dangerous individual. And why did she have so much energy? By the time he’d be her age, he was sure he’d be content just being alive. What more could he do for his life anyway when the one person he’d wanted alive wasn’t even there anymore? This old lady’s vibrant demeanor was in contrast of hers…

She wouldn’t have acted this way. She wouldn’t have asked anybody for help. Instead, she would’ve burdened herself with all that responsibility, walked all the way home without complaint even if offered help. He knew better than anyone…

Because she was never so weak.

…

“And this is your place?” the Creator asked. “This hodgepodge of a place?” He couldn’t help but show his disgust.

The old lady had directed him to a nearby apartment complex. The building was littered with battle scars. Bullet holes and graffiti scarred the surface of the walls, and parts of the foundation were crumbling, but she didn’t seem to mind.

She was blind. It made sense. But had her nose rotted off too? He could barely stand the putrid stench of all the decomposing waste outside—pieces of rotting fruit, dried eggshells, strands of spoiled ham and bacon strips. They were sprawled out across the parking lot in decorative fashion. There was more food waste here than any of the high-end grocery stores he’d shopped at.

He despised it—the stench, the sight, the mess of memories that came with it. He despised it so much because it was a brief reminder…

“Oh, this might be the one!” The old lady hobbled over to apartment 109 and unlocked the door. “Please, come in. Make yourself at home.”

“Again. No, thank you. I’d rather not—”

“I insist. You’ve done far too much for me, dear. How will I ever repay you?”

“I don’t need payment—”

“Ah, you jest.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. “At least let me serve you some tea!” She went over to the kitchen counter and turned on an ancient stereo speaker. A soft orchestral piece started to play.

It was dark; she hadn’t turned on the lights. He sighed. What had he gotten himself into? Whatever. It didn’t matter; he wasn’t planning on staying long. Perhaps this would end quicker if he simply complied and had some tea.

The apartment was an eyesore. It was cluttered with unusable goods—shelves stocked with rusted soup cans, overly flamboyant dishware, and long since dated wireless modems. Old, tattered paintings decorated the walls like some sort of tacky sticker collection. It wasn’t necessarily dirty, but it was a shameful display of taste he’d personally never show the rest of the world, and it constantly made him compare the room to a place from his past…

She was never like this. She would always have that bare minimum line of tact. Even when they couldn’t afford it, even when she never had the time.

The old lady limped over with an electric kettle, two absolutely ridiculously decorated mugs showing sections from an unrecognizable comic strip, and a plastic box full of tea bags.

“Mam.” He really wanted to leave.

“Call me Morgan.”

“Right. Mrs. Morgan, I need to go.”

“You do? At such a late hour? Why don’t you stay the night, dear? I’d feel sorry if I couldn’t offer you something in return.”

“How did you know it was… Whatever, I—” A hotel was preferable. But it was pretty late. The place was crowded, messy, and wasn’t to his style, but it’d be free. He could find another place. It wouldn’t be that difficult… but… “Fine. Just one night.”

“Splendid!” It was almost like she didn’t hear him say that he was staying for just one night. “What tea would you like, dear?”

“I’m staying just one night.” There’d be no misunderstandings. He had that feeling she’d ignore it come tomorrow morning.

“Oh, I heard you the first time. Don’t you worry, dear. Leave or stay, I’ll respect your decisions.” But she continued, “But you’re always welcome to stay, and I’ll cook you breakfast. It’ll be my treat.”

Breakfast? He had wanted a complimentary breakfast. It’d be less work for him… No, he needed to leave. He had more important businesses to attend to—Bread and his mother. But breakfast…

“Tea?” Mrs. Morgan dangled the loosely tied tea bags around for him to see. There seemed to be a wide assortment to choose from, but the Creator only had one flavor in mind.

“Matcha will do.”

“Oh, I don’t have matcha, but I do have green tea. Would that suffice?”

“Yes, that’s fine.” Although minor, he was mildly surprised by her ability to differentiate the two. Most would just tie them together as one and the same.

“Very good!” She placed a tea bag into the mug and poured in some hot water. “Do you have a name I can call you by?”

“Name?” He had never liked telling others his name. There was never a specific reason for it, but nowadays, it always reminded him of her. She was the only one who’d often called him by his real name. Azan too, but he was more so an exception to the rule. Most simply addressed him as the Creator. Everyone knew him as the Creator anyway. It was easy and perhaps a bit pretentious, but otherwise, it was free from any harm.

But Mrs. Morgan couldn’t see him, couldn’t even recognize him. He didn’t have to be the Creator. Oddly, it was relieving that there was still somebody out there who didn’t know who he was. He kind of wanted to keep it that way—maintain a life without any of his previous connections. Be anonymous. Just for tonight. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to tell her…

“Well?”

The steam from the freshly brewed tea billowed up to his nose in bursts of wispy, herbal fragrance. The grassy smell was still exquisite even knowing they were from commercialized, prepackaged bags.

He could never get enough. And as the aroma swirled around, delivering waves of freshness to his mind, he felt a thin smile faintly break through his usual stoic demeanor.

“Gunther,” he finally answered. “Gunther Melaconite.”