Someone didn’t get the memo that it wasn’t polite to make a house call so early. Guest or no guest, there were rules, dammit. Or, maybe not rules, but basic manners and common sense.
More pounding at the front. Not urgent, but insistent.
I answered the door in my pajamas. Sure, I could've put on real clothes, but whoever was visiting this early could have waited until the sun was up. They got what they bargained for.
Immediately, I tried to cover up better. It was a young boy.
Well, maybe young wasn't the best description. He was probably sixteen or seventeen, but I was old enough now that any teenager looked like a child to me.
"Good morning." I rubbed his eyes and yawned.
"Good morning, sir! I bring a message from the cider house. Are you the proprietor?"
"Kind of?"
"That sounds like a yes to me." The boy fished into a satchel slung over his shoulder. After rifling through several parchments and letters, he pulled one out. Following a brief inspection of the address, he nodded curtly to himself and presented it, hand outstretched.
"What's this?"
"I don't know, sir. I just deliver the mail—I don't read it."
"Huh. Thanks." Then, before the boy could turn and scamper off to the rest of his deliveries, I called out to halt him. "Do you always deliver this early?"
The boy thought about it for a second, then shook his head. "No. Sometimes I get waylaid by bandits. They take what they want, and sometimes what they want is my horse." He said it like he was complaining about a long walk to school. He continued, muttering, “But always, they want my lunch. My mom doesn’t even pack me a good one.”
Every time I thought it might be nice to venture outside of Seaport, somebody reminded me that this was an actual fantasy world, not simply a cozy idle village by the sea. The adventurers told me stories of beasts and monsters. The rum-runner captain and his pirates had proven there were dangers just offshore, both mortal and political. And of course, there were rumors of the crown's army moving and maneuvering, though word was scarce in Seaport.
Once, I’d thought small-town people unfortunate. They never spread their wings and got out. But as the years slowly dragged on, I saw it differently. They were comfortable. Happy. Perhaps they didn't challenge themselves to grow as much, but perhaps they were better adjusted for it.
And it wasn't like I needed to go out seeking adventure, anyway. I was already on one. My hometown was a world away, and humans were rare around these parts.
On Earth, I’d turned a decent education into stressful nights and a drinking problem. Accolades and recognition felt nice, but they didn’t pay off my student loans. Not only that, but winning a bartending award doesn’t mean the guy having a bad date wouldn’t take it out on me.
He always did. Tip and attitude, plus the occasional Yelp review to boot.
Here, I’d turned a handful of worthless coins and a useless phone into a bar and a beautiful girlfriend. My vice had saved the day. And maybe I hadn’t quite followed in the footsteps of other Reborn, but the strict local constable certainly seemed thankful for my efforts.
Everything had changed, and yet nothing had. I’d been given a second chance. But had I used it well?
I was proud, but maybe the bar I’d set for myself was never that high. If I wanted perspective, or to see continued disappointment, I could always tell my parents I was still a bartender.
Maybe mages here had sending spells or something.
The corner of the letter bit into my thumb under the nail. Parchment bent even as the sharp, satisfying pain built up. I almost didn’t want to open the thing. I knew what it was about, though I didn’t know the decision. It would determine a small but indelible piece of our bar going forward.
Would we add one more spirit to the list?
The floorboard bowed slightly under my feet. One spot always creaked, though you couldn’t tell if enough people filled the room. I padded over to the front desk and almost tossed the mail into the wooden basket that now organized our papers. Now that everything was organized and easy to manage, Wynnie was far more on top of the administrative side of things.
Yet before I could deposit the letter, curiosity got the best of me. I had to know.
Carefully, I removed the forest green wax seal. The parchment came free with a crackle as it peeled away.
Dear proprietor(s),
We would happily provide two casks of our recent seasonal cider. Please arrange for three gold to safely arrive here, and we shall return the kindness forthwith.
Transit is covered by the sum. Unfortunately, insurance is not.
Bandits, you know.
Sincerely,
Northridge Cidery and Punchout
I turned the paper over in his hands. “Huh. What’s a punchout?”
Maybe Wynnie could inform me later. For now, all I could think about was getting back in bed with her. Before we were so rudely interrupted, we’d been spooning dreamily. Every moment I spent snuggled up next to her was a treasure. I wanted to feel he steady rise and fall of her chest as she slept, the little whimpers as she adjusted her position and clung onto me. It all filled my heart.
And soon, she’d wake to warm pastries for guests and boil water for coffee. She’d set aside a little for both of us, waiting until we were both up before finding a quiet spot to share our dreams and plan out the day ahead.
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