EVEREST
Everest had been in the middle of his nightly routine—records squared, tea leaves measured for morning, locks checked (top, bottom, middle, top again)—when the sharp knock rattled the sequence apart. A jolt of adrenaline skittered up his spine: three rapid thumps, late hour, unfamiliar pattern.
But the voice was familiar. Mateo. Important, allegedly in a good way.
Ever counted to four—one‑two‑three‑four—to steady his breathing, then began the door ritual in reverse. Top bolt, bottom, middle. He unlatched the final lock and opened the door just wide enough to see Mateo’s flushed face, shirt half‑buttoned, eyes bright.
"Mateo," he said, a note of quiet surprise slipping through his usual careful monotone. "It’s late." Then—because stating facts only went so far—he stepped back, opening the door wider. "Come in."
The apartment interior was lit by a single low lamp near the bookshelf, everything else hushed and orderly. Ever gestured toward the small sitting area, then noticed the silk‑wrapped bundle in Mateo’s hand. His gaze lingered on it, curiosity flickering behind caution. "You said it’s good?" he asked, closing the door with one precise click. He re‑secured only the middle latch—enough for now—then moved to switch on a second lamp, soft and indirect, so the room wouldn’t feel quite so shadowed.
"Do you need water? A place to sit?" The questions came automatically, but his eyes kept darting back to the handkerchief. Something precious, delicate. Frey’s work, by the look on Mateo’s face.
But the voice was familiar. Mateo. Important, allegedly in a good way.
Ever counted to four—one‑two‑three‑four—to steady his breathing, then began the door ritual in reverse. Top bolt, bottom, middle. He unlatched the final lock and opened the door just wide enough to see Mateo’s flushed face, shirt half‑buttoned, eyes bright.
"Mateo," he said, a note of quiet surprise slipping through his usual careful monotone. "It’s late." Then—because stating facts only went so far—he stepped back, opening the door wider. "Come in."
The apartment interior was lit by a single low lamp near the bookshelf, everything else hushed and orderly. Ever gestured toward the small sitting area, then noticed the silk‑wrapped bundle in Mateo’s hand. His gaze lingered on it, curiosity flickering behind caution. "You said it’s good?" he asked, closing the door with one precise click. He re‑secured only the middle latch—enough for now—then moved to switch on a second lamp, soft and indirect, so the room wouldn’t feel quite so shadowed.
"Do you need water? A place to sit?" The questions came automatically, but his eyes kept darting back to the handkerchief. Something precious, delicate. Frey’s work, by the look on Mateo’s face.
Oh I'm just a house of stones
Somebody hold me steady
Somebody hold me steady
Code stolen from Queen Sky
