Merlin rose before dawn on his scheduled day off, the rare morning when Mistress Halewick insisted that the staff rest from their daily grind. He had been living in this new world for some time now—long enough that the exact count of weeks had become blurred. Yet each morning's routine and each evening's hush of lamplight reminded him that he had started anew here, a second life folded gently into the old city of Storshallow.
He stood before the small mirror in his attic room, lit by a single candle, and took stock of himself. In his previous life—on that other Earth—he had been a 22-year-old engineering student with short, tidy black hair and ordinary features. Here, he occupied the body of a nineteen-year-old with slightly wavy brown hair that brushed just above his collar. The shade was a deep, warm chestnut, catching flecks of amber in direct sunlight. His face was lean, with a subtle hollowness beneath the eyes that suggested late hours and steady diligence. A gentle widows' peak framed his forehead, giving a soft elegance to his hairline.
Merlin's eyes were brown—warm and steady—set beneath straight, expressive brows. His nose was neither sharp nor broad, just a modest bridge over well-proportioned features. His cheeks still carried a hint of youthful softness, counterbalanced by the subtle angles at his jaw. He had the look of someone calm and patient, not inclined to extravagance. He stood of average height, slender but not frail, with shoulders that had grown marginally stronger from lifting crates and performing chores. A few minor scars and calluses on his hands hinted at physical labor, far removed from the world of keyboards and textbooks he once knew.
He ran a comb through his hair, smoothing it down, and considered his attire. He owned only a few sets of clothes: simple trousers of charcoal wool, cream or white shirts with modest collars, and two vests in shades of brown and gray. Today, he would treat himself to something new. He had Wintrell's advance still tucked away—a portion at least—and clothes would help him blend in among the city's more respectable crowds. Besides, he missed the feeling of choosing his own look, something he never cared about much in his old life, but here every detail mattered.
After slipping into a clean shirt and vest, and tying a simple neckcloth, Merlin stepped out. The boarding house was quieter than usual—Annabelle had gone to visit her sister, Bertha was out procuring flour from a distant mill at a discount rate, and Betram had taken this chance to inspect a friend's workshop. Mistress Halewick allowed the staff these small liberties occasionally: a day to step away and breathe. Wintrell was absorbed in his notes and likely wouldn't stir until midday. This left Merlin truly at ease to roam the city.
He moved through old cobblestone streets as the sun rose, bathing stone facades in gentle gold. A horse-drawn carriage rolled past, its driver singing a lullaby-like tune. The steady clip-clop of hooves grounded Merlin, reminding him that not everything needed mechanical marvels. He headed toward the garment district, where tailors and cloth merchants displayed fabrics under awnings, hoping to catch the morning's first customers.
Merlin considered what he might buy: a proper jacket, perhaps, something with subtle embroidery or good-quality wool; shirts in finer linen, maybe a coat for the cooler evenings. His funds wouldn't allow for luxury silks, but decent mid-range attire should be possible.
As he approached a modest tailor's shop, he noticed a small crowd gathered at the base of a weathered fountain. Curiosity drew him closer. There, huddled in a corner near the fountain's basin, was a tiny cat, a kitten really—scarcely bigger than Merlin's hand. Its fur was a patchwork of soft creams and chocolates, with a dark stripe down its spine and a little dab of white on its nose. The kitten's ears were large and tufted, and it blinked wide amber eyes at the onlookers, mewing softly.
A few people cooed sympathetically. One merchant sighed, "Poor thing. Probably abandoned or lost. I've no place for a cat." Another shrugged, "Better it find a mouser's job in some warehouse," and turned away.
Merlin crouched down, meeting the kitten's eyes. The creature stepped forward timidly, pawing at his shoe. He felt a gentle tug in his chest—something warm and protective. In his old life, pets had been a luxury he never indulged in. Now, perhaps he could offer this little soul a home. After all, the boarding house had no official rules against pets, and cats were often welcomed for keeping mice away. If he was careful, he could present the kitten to Mistress Halewick as a useful addition.
"Hello there," Merlin said softly, reaching out a steady hand. The kitten sniffed his fingertips, then pressed its small head against them, purring faintly. It wore no collar, no sign of an owner. Merlin looked around; no one seemed inclined to claim it.
"Guess you need someone," he murmured. Without further hesitation, he scooped the kitten gently into his arms. The creature purred louder, settling against his vest. A few bystanders smiled or nodded, apparently content that the cat found a caretaker.
With the kitten cradled safely, Merlin entered the tailor's shop. Inside, bolts of cloth lined shelves, and a tailor with a thin mustache and round spectacles greeted him. "Looking for something particular, sir?"
Merlin adjusted his hold on the kitten, who now peered over his arm with bright curiosity. "Yes, I need a new jacket and perhaps a few shirts. Something practical, but well-made. I'm an assistant at a reputable boarding house, so I must look presentable."
The tailor nodded, examining Merlin's stature with a practiced eye. "You have a lean build, about average height. Brown hair with warm undertones—it'd pair nicely with earthy colors or subtle blues. Your eyes suggest a gentle presence—nothing too flashy. Let's try a gray-blue jacket with a faint weave pattern, and shirts in ivory or pale cream. A new vest, maybe forest green, would bring out the warmth in your hair."
Merlin smiled. The tailor's suggestions sounded good. He allowed measurements to be taken while he held the kitten in one arm. The animal remained surprisingly calm, watching as if fascinated by the tape measure and cloth swatches.
Within an hour, Merlin had selected a few pieces: a medium-weight jacket of gray-blue wool, two shirts of fine linen in cream and pale gray, and a forest green vest subtly embroidered at the edges. He spent a careful portion of his funds—enough to upgrade his wardrobe without emptying his purse. The tailor promised to adjust the jacket's sleeves and have it ready by afternoon.
With time to spare, Merlin strolled through the market with the kitten nestled inside his vest, only its small head peeking out. He bought a strip of dried fish and offered it to the cat, who nibbled eagerly. Walking along the canals, he reflected on his old world: concrete towers, digital screens, the abruptness of his death. He remembered how solitary he'd been, chasing grades and deadlines. Here, his life was simpler in some ways—no grand technology, but a warmth and quiet complexity. He felt more grounded, part of a community—especially the boarding house staff who, though not family, provided a stable presence.
In a shaded corner near a bridge, Merlin sat on a low stone bench. The kitten squirmed onto his lap, stretching tiny paws and yawning. Its creamy fur bore faint stripes on the legs and tail, a charming pattern. He imagined telling Annabelle about his new friend—she was fond of small creatures, after all. Bertha might appreciate a mouser to deter kitchen pests. Betram might grumble, but likely come around if the cat behaved. Mistress Halewick would need convincing, but a well-groomed, quiet cat could become a subtle asset and a comfort to guests.
Merlin chuckled softly at the thought. He hadn't named the kitten yet. Something simple… "Cinder," he said quietly, observing the cat's patchy browns and creams like cooled ashes. The kitten looked up, blinked, and gave a soft mew. Yes, Cinder felt right.
By late afternoon, Merlin retrieved his adjusted jacket from the tailor and made his way back to the boarding house. Cinder dozed contentedly against his chest, purring with each step. He marveled at how naturally this new life had led him here—carrying a sleeping kitten home, dressed in nicer clothes, feeling a sense of quiet hope. His old life's worries—assignments, job prospects—felt distant memories. Here, his challenges were different: hidden runes, cautious firearms training, and odd murmurs in the streets. Yet for this one day, he embraced the calm.
At the boarding house, he found Mistress Halewick in the parlor, examining a ledger. He approached carefully, Cinder peeking out with curious eyes. "Mistress," he began gently, "I found this kitten abandoned near the fountain. I thought it might help with mice in the storerooms, and it's quite friendly."
Halewick eyed the cat, sighed softly, then nodded. "Keep it out of the guests' way until it's settled. We can see if it's useful," she said in her clipped tone, but Merlin noticed a faint softness around her eyes. Annabelle would be pleased, Bertha too.
Merlin carried Cinder upstairs, settling the kitten in his attic room with a small bowl of water he fetched from the kitchen. The cat curled up on his bed, purring as if it had always belonged there.
He removed his new jacket and hung it carefully, admiring the improved cut and quality. A simple change, yet it symbolized the subtle evolution of his life here. He thought back to his old world with a quiet ache—no family now, no old friends. But he had found purpose: small steps forward, learning skills, making connections, and now caring for this tiny feline life.
As evening drew close, lamplight flickered in the corridor, and he heard Betram grumbling downstairs and Annabelle laughing softly at something. Wintrell's footsteps paced behind his door, pondering cryptic knowledge. Everything felt in flux, yet stable enough for Merlin to settle into this existence.
He sat on the bed, stroking Cinder's soft fur. The kitten closed its eyes, content. Merlin smiled. He would continue as he had been—observing, learning, integrating into this world without haste. One day, perhaps, he'd understand the deeper mysteries whispering at the edges of his new life. For now, the gentle warmth of a purring cat and the promise of tomorrow's quiet tasks were enough.