My shift over, I stand at the edge of the crossing where I must have transmigrated initially. Returning to the scene of the crime, so to speak.

Why is it specifically motor accidents with large goods vehicles that cause this kind of thing to occur? Is there something special about them? I suppose I am the living proof that that there is always a grain of truth in every legend.

Or am I? Is the world of one story truly divorced from the others? If we are all books on a shelf, what is to say our story is the progenitor? Have I really moved across at all; or is it just that consciousness likes to think so, likes to think it is the protagonist in whatever narrative it currently finds itself?

This morning, there is less of an ethereal mist, and it is raining, the standard British weather. I’m a reader of fantasy so I know that strange fogs are fae. Which are confirmed to be real here (and following my previous logic, what’s to say they were not in my old world?).

Science assumes that if something is observable, measurable, and repeatable, then it is true. So, I therefore must believe in this world, and its magic, for I myself was able to see, measure, and repeat my own power of regeneration in the last few hours.

That’s all there is to it at the end of the day.

Then I get a text from Paul. It really puzzles me.

<>

I have no idea what he’s talking about; so old me must have been responsible for whatever he’s talking about.

I simply reply with a thumbs-up emoticon. There is nothing in my chat history to indicate what is being referred to, and I get the feeling that I shouldn’t enquire; because whatever it is sounds rather illegal, which is concerning.

Very concerning, actually. Paul got caught for shoplifting when he was in his teens but got off with a warning and was clean ever since, to my knowledge, but again, that is knowledge that is probably no longer relevant. The worst crime I’ve committed is pirating movies and software. I don’t see either of us being bad guys, but what do I know?

Well; even if that was the case; I’m not going to suddenly start living my doppelganger’s full life. I’m me, and I’m going to live like I used to, with the exception of magic, and one other thing.

I sigh, shake my umbrella, and start to walk back home, anticipating my cute wife, who surely awaits me.

. . .

“I’m back!” I state. Not so loud as to annoy the neighbours at 7:40 in the morning, but sufficient for anyone inside with ears to be aware of me. But there is no response.

Did she bail in the end? Was it a 24-hour dream?

The bedroom door is open and the hallway light is on.

I tap on the bedroom door as I look in.

“Fuuu… fuuu… zzz… zz…”

So, she sleeps like the dead? I suppose I can’t be disappointed. Taken out of context, I could say my wife was awaiting me in bed and feel mighty smug about it.

And as usual, her defenceless is truly to be admired and feared in equal measure. Sleeping on her side, facing the door, her flannel pyjama top is open two buttons at the top, and one leg of the trousers has hiked up nearly to her thigh, sticking out of the duvet, her blue painted toenails curling somewhat as she snoozes.

I sigh, close the door gently with a light click, and turn off the hallway lights.

Well, teenage girls need their beauty sleep, so it stands to reason, that the more beautiful, the more that they sleep. I snicker at the fridge logic.

Still; I wonder how she was previously so alert and clearly lucid at this time yesterday in order to accept a marriage proposal. I expect it to be the result of that maid I met yesterday.

Well, as I know from experience with my own little sister, the easiest way to wake up zombie girls is to tempt them with bacon.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Considering how well she reacted to the simple arrabiata yesterday, I wonder if a bacon butty will be equally effective? Good for me as well; I’m way more famished than I usually am after coming off a shift. Is it the magic that does that? Does food restore my MP?

. . .

Yep, its effective every time. The zombie Lapis comes shambling around the corner, eyes barely open.

Unfortunately, it’s too effective in this case, as the zombie is still on the verge of a wardrobe malfunction.

“Good morning” I say, “There’s one for you on the counter.” I beckon, and take a munch of my sandwich.

The zombie should have a spinning circle over its head as it is clearly processing new information at a reduced speed. But suddenly, it starts to shake, and then changes species as it yelps and runs off.

. . .

Lapis is grumbling to herself as she bites into her sandwich whilst I wash up the frying pan. She is still in her pyjamas, but they are now very much fixed up.

I’m done here. I sit back down at the table on the same side as her, with a glass of orange juice. It seems the better option than sitting facing her.

“Did you have trouble sleeping? Sorry if the bed wasn’t up to your usual standards.” I apologise.

“No. It was fine.” She whispers. “Really good…”

Oh good. I’m the sort to never skimp on my own personal comfort, so my gel mattress was way more expensive than my television. You spend a third of your life there, after all, why would you ever want to cheap out on it?

I see her eying my orange juice, so I also pour her a glass, and push it across the table to her.

“Why?” She asks.

“Because you might be thirsty?” I reply, confused.

“No. Why are you nice to me?” She looks frustrated.

I get the feeling that this is a trick question. But even so, I’ll bite, and tell her my true thoughts.

“I need a reason to be nice to someone? I really don’t. Especially not my wife.” I shrug.

“But… I’ve not done anything for you. I’m just… just a freeloader. I can’t even greet my husband when he comes home from work. Or cook for him. Or make useful magical products. I’m not even giving you my… my body…”

Oh dear. She has such low self-worth, doesn’t she?

“And? So what?” I cock my head.

“Eh?”

“Lapis. I don’t need anything from you.”

“Yeah, I am useless after all.” She whispers.

Ah hell! That came out wrong! Gah! Women! No… it’s not even that. She was raised in household that was happy to sell her off. What would that do to a girl? Right.

“No, sorry, I said that wrong. Hmm… let me ask you something; what do you want from your marriage?”

She blinks, looking surprised. She looks down again.

“Uh… I need to provide children and benefits to yo…”

“NO. I didn’t ask what you’re supposed to do. I asked what you ~WANT~” I cut her off.

“Eh?”

“What can I give to you? What benefits do you get?”

“…full access to your Vapour game library?”

I can’t help but laugh. What an easy to please bride!

“If that’s truly all you want, I’ll happily spend all 65 thousand of your dowries on PC games.” I chuckle. “But I think you can aim a little higher.”

I stop laughing and put on a more serious face.

“Lapis; you called me your hero, right?” She looks horrified at recalling our first meeting.

“Well; that’s a mighty title you bestowed to me. I should try to live up to it. Heroes are supposed to rescue damsels in distress, right?”

“I… I’m not in distress!” She cries, panicking. “I’m just… really concerned, I can’t give much at all to you! I!”

I take her hand and she flinches.

“Look… Like I said. I don’t anything FROM you. I only need YOU.”

Her eyes go wide.

“I’ll trust you. Rely on you. Talk with you. Spend time with you. And if you do the same in return for me… well whenever you’re ready for that… that’s all I need back.”

“To me, that’s what a marriage is. So, I’ll ask you one more time. What do YOU want?”

Her mouth works, and her eyes dart left and right.

“I… I just… I just don’t want to be alone!” She almost shouts, and tears start spilling from her eyes, a dam long forgotten suddenly bursting.

There it is. Thought so.

“Well, that’s easy. Why don’t you be my wife? We’ll together forever. I won’t let you be alone again, ok?”

She practically bolts into my arms, and bursts into heaving sobs, soaking my chest whilst her hands claw and grasp at me, as if I might go away.

I cringe a bit. I do have serious worries that I am inadvertently grooming this girl. Does it make me a horrible man?

No. I refuse to believe it could be healthy for her to keep this pent up. To ignore her pain… that would be the greater sin by far.

So, I simply hold her and gently caress her head.