"You were meant to be great," came a voice—calm, measured, yet commanding. "That was the very purpose of your birth. To know the fate laid out before you, to accept it, and to walk that path without falter. You were bred for greatness. The prodigy of this Family. The very embodiment of purpose itself."
The voice belonged to a woman cloaked entirely in shadow—her face, her form, all concealed in darkness. There was no softness in her tone, only certainty, as she was shadow, so was the space around her. But then, her voice shifted. A darker tone emerged, bitter and sharp with disappointment.
"However… you failed. And not just a stumble, but a grave collapse. A purposeful defeat." Her voice grew colder, more biting. "What alternatives remain for someone like you? Where will you run to? Who will search for your existence now? And why, knowing your fate, do you flee from it? You know what you must become, yet you cower. You are weak. And if you will not continue—then you shall die and another will be bred to easily replace you."
Jasmine plunged into a dark abyss. There was no ground beneath her—only cold. A cold so barren and isolating, it made every other lonely moment in her life pale in comparison. Her instincts cried out, her hand reaching for a warmth she had only just begun to know. But it wasn't there. It never returned. And gradually, achingly, it vanished beyond her reach—lost forever.
Her eyes snapped open.
Jasmine jolted upright in bed, lungs gasping as though they had forgotten how to breathe. Her wide eyes darted around the room in desperation, searching for something—no, someone. The man who had been there before. The man whose warmth had been greater than any flame.
A savory, smoky aroma wafted into her room—bacon. It drifted from the kitchen, rich with the scent of something slightly sweet beneath the salt. Jasmine sniffed the air, trying to inhale as much of the delicious smell as possible, leaning too far forward—until she toppled off the bed, landing hard with a dull thud against the floor.
Hearing the commotion, the warmth she so longed for returned—Alma.
He stepped into the room, a small, concerned smile on his face as he looked down at her. Without hesitation, he bent forward and extended his hand.
"Are you alright?" he asked gently.
Jasmine took his hand, but instead of rising, she pulled him into a hug. Alma's eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the sudden embrace. He hadn't expected it, though perhaps he should have. In hindsight, walking away to cook without letting her know might not have been the best idea—no matter how peaceful she'd looked while asleep. And she had looked peaceful… more so than he imagined she had in years.
He returned the hug, holding her gently, his hand resting on the back of her head. Jasmine began to cry—quietly at first, then with growing intensity. She clung to him like he was the only solid thing in a crumbling world. Something was clearly wrong. Perhaps the events of the day before were finally crashing down on her. Perhaps she was beginning to face emotions she'd buried.
But Alma wasn't sure.
If yesterday had truly broken her, he reasoned, wouldn't she have cried then? In that moment of horror? This seemed… different. A related problem to past events.
Still, he didn't pry. They'd only known each other for a handful of hours, and trust—real trust—needed time to form. Questions could wait.
"Is everything okay?" he asked again, keeping his voice soft, careful not to push.
Jasmine said nothing at first. She took a few moments to wipe away her tears with a napkin Alma handed her. Her breathing slowed. Her heartbeat, once frantic, began to ease. Then, looking up at him with tired eyes, she nodded faintly.
"I am," she whispered.
"It's nothing, really. Just… thinking too much about what happened to me yesterday," she added, forcing a smile that never quite reached her eyes. Her voice betrayed her—uncertain, fragile—and the sorrow in her gaze undermined the expression she tried so hard to hold.
Alma nodded, accepting her answer even if he didn't believe it. He stood, and with steady sincerity, said, "I'm here for you. Never forget that."
For the first time since waking, Jasmine smiled genuinely.
Then Alma's expression twisted into horror as he remembered the bacon. He turned abruptly and dashed toward the kitchen, yelling, "THE BACON!!!" Leaving Jasmine alone once more.
She watched him go, her smile fading. A whisper escaped her lips, barely audible: "If only you knew what I was…"
Her gaze shifted to the disheveled bed they'd shared, and she sighed—heavy, bitter, burdened with the weight of truth she had no one to share with.
"Well… I guess I better get to it."
With a reluctance that dulled her movements, she began straightening the bed.
Minutes passed. The two of them now sat at the small dining table, paper plates before them, each holding a modest portion of bacon. Jasmine wasted no time—devouring her food with the urgency of someone who hadn't eaten in days. Alma, by contrast, ate slowly, savoring the flavor of each bite.
When Jasmine finished, she looked to him, eyes wide and pleading. Alma met her gaze and smiled, sliding his plate across to her after lifting one final piece for himself.
"Thank you! Thank you!" Jasmine exclaimed, snatching it up and devouring it with joy.
Alma smirked at her enthusiasm. He hadn't felt happiness like this in a long time—not the kind born from victory or survival, but the quiet, soul-deep joy that only family could bring. Rescuing towns from the Beasts of Ruin had brought him joy. But this? This warmth? It was something more. Something more precious.
After breakfast, Alma rose, tossed the used plates into a plastic bin, and washed the pan and tongs in the sink, leaving them to dry. Then he returned to the living room and found Jasmine sitting cross-legged on the couch, her attention locked on a cartoon playing on the television.
He smiled… but the moment was short-lived.
His thoughts darkened as he remembered—they had spent the last of Jasmine's money securing the apartment. If he didn't find work soon, they'd both be back on the streets. Determined, Alma grabbed his old jacket, having yet to wash the new clothes they'd purchased yesterday. As he approached the door, he hesitated. The last time he tried to leave her alone—didn't even have his hands on the knob—Jasmine stopped him.
So, he turned and walked back to the couch, gently tapping Jasmine's shoulder.
She looked up at him, curious.
"We spent the rest of your money yesterday," he explained. "Supplies, rent… everything. I'm going out to find a job to cover next month, and I might be gone all day. Do you want to come with me?"
She nodded instantly.
"Alright," Alma said with a smile. "Then hurry up and get ready."
Jasmine leapt from the couch and rushed into the bathroom. It took less than two minutes before she returned, presentable and ready. Together, they stepped out into the sunlight, Alma locking the apartment door behind them.
They walked side by side along the sidewalk, scanning their surroundings for opportunities. Jobs were out there—Alma knew it. But many required qualifications neither of them had: a high school diploma, a college degree. Words on paper that shut doors.
As they passed a junkyard-mechanic shop, the sharp edge of shouting caught Alma's attention.
"Dammit, you two! Can't you do a simple oil change without getting it all over yourselves?" a voice barked—older, furious. Presumably the shop manager.
"We're sorry, boss! It just sprayed out at us!" one of the young men stammered. He looked older than Alma, but he carried himself like someone still figuring things out.
A sudden, heavy silence fell. Alma knew that silence. He almost sighed aloud.
And then it came.
"Tell me…" the manager said, voice now honey-sweet and dangerous. "Did you replace the oil filter before—or after—you drained the oil?"
"Before, sir," one of the young men answered confidently, a smile tugging at his lips as if he were proud of his response.
"YOU IDIOTS!!" the shop manager suddenly roared, the sheer volume of his voice forcing Alma, Jasmine, and the two men to cover their ears from the outburst.
"I told you—drain the oil first, then replace the filter. That way, you'd avoid this exact mess. You two aren't nearly experienced enough to attempt it in the order you just did… somehow," the manager muttered, his voice unexpectedly calm now, almost eerily so, as if he'd burned through the rage and settled into resigned frustration.
It was then that Alma stepped forward into the shop.
The manager turned, his eyes first drawn to Alma's imposing height, before flicking down and catching sight of Jasmine, who had tucked herself partially behind Alma's right leg, wary and cautious.
"Sorry, sir," the manager said curtly. "We're closed right now. Come back in two hours."
But Alma didn't budge.
"I'm actually here looking for work," he said plainly, his voice steady. "The sign outside says you're hiring—and I'm in desperate need of money."
The manager blinked, studying Alma with a mix of irritation and incredulity. "If you're better than these two morons," he said, jerking a thumb at the flustered pair, "then by all means—you're hired. If not, then get out. I don't need another headache."
Alma didn't react to the insult, his tone confident as he asked, "What vehicle in your lot needs the most work? Are we talking a blown engine? A locked-up one? Transmission seal busted? Maybe a bad clutch flywheel? Whatever it is, point me to it. So long as you supply the parts, I'll have it done before you open."
There was a glint of challenge in his eyes, unwavering and unshaken.
The manager narrowed his eyes and gave a small, knowing smirk. "You're quite confident, boy. But to me, you sound like all talk."
He paused for a moment, then continued. "There's a blue Quicksand X-4 parked in the back. You'll recognize it—it's got a cracked windshield dead center and a dented front bumper on the passenger side. It needs a new engine, rear axle, and catalytic converter. A massive hole was blown in the engine block. Replace all of that before we open—in one hour and fifty-eight minutes—and the job is yours. I'll provide the tools, parts, and equipment. Fail, even by a second, and not only are you not hired—you'll pay for everything you used. Got it?"
The smug look on the manager's face made it clear: he expected failure.
The two workers exchanged shocked glances. One of them spoke up. "Boss… no one—not even you—could finish all that in under two hours. That's not fair."
"Oh no, this guy thinks he's something special," the manager snapped. "Thinks he knows everything."
He turned back to Alma. "Well? What are you waiting for? Time's ticking. You've already lost two minutes."
Alma gave the manager a small, self-assured smile before walking out of the shop, Jasmine hurrying behind him to keep up.
"Um… Alma?" she asked hesitantly, her voice laced with worry. "Are you sure you can do it? That's… a lot of money if we fail."
"Undoubtedly," Alma said calmly, his stride unwavering. "Despite his attitude, that man wants me to succeed."
Jasmine blinked in confusion. "Then why give you such an impossible task?"
"Because he won't actually charge us anything. That was a bluff—just as much a test as it was a threat," Alma explained. "He wants to see if I have the guts to attempt something impossible… and how far I'll go to complete it."
Jasmine listened carefully as Alma continued.
"He'll expect me to start with the catalytic converter. The time it takes fits conveniently inside the deadline—just enough to see if I can finish one of the major tasks. Based on that alone, he'll decide whether I'm worth hiring."
Alma's eyes gleamed with confidence as he added, "But I plan to exceed every expectation he has. I'm not going to do what's necessary. I'm going to do the impossible."
---
One hour and fifty-five minutes later.
The shop manager strode outside, rounding the back of the building with the same two workers in tow. Whether they were about to witness Alma struggling beneath the vehicle or giving up entirely, the manager wasn't sure—but curiosity had pushed him out here.
As they turned the corner, they stopped in their tracks.
The car—still in the same exact position as before—appeared untouched. No signs of jacks, no evidence of the tow truck having been moved, not even the faintest track of equipment usage.
The manager grumbled under his breath, shaking his head in disappointment. But just as he began to turn around, a voice called out from above.
"What's the matter? You're not even going to check if I did anything?"
The manager's head snapped up. Perched atop one of the rusted-out junk vehicles was Alma, Jasmine cradled in his arms.
"What the hell are you doing up there? Get down!" the manager barked, but Alma simply smirked.
He hopped down from the car with ease and approached the group.
"Had to make an entrance. I'm honestly surprised none of you noticed me earlier."
"You failed," the manager said flatly. "Which means you lost the job."
"You never even looked at the car," Alma replied, his voice even.
"I don't need to. No jack, no tow truck—without either, you couldn't have replaced a single thing."
Without a word, Alma walked over to the Quicksand X-4. He opened the driver-side door, reached in, and popped the hood. Then he circled to the front and lifted the hood fully, revealing the engine beneath.
All three men froze.
The old engine was gone—completely removed. In its place sat a gleaming, brand-new V-8, outfitted with twin turbos, a 1.5-liter intake, and a freshly installed alternator and battery.
The manager stepped forward slowly, as though approaching something he believed impossible. His face showed nothing but awe.
"How… how did you do this?" he asked, the disbelief in his voice barely restrained.
Alma simply smirked, satisfied with the reaction.
"Well… like you said—I know my stuff. Oh, and by the way, you might want to bring out that tow truck."
The manager motioned silently to one of his workers, who hurried off and returned moments later, carefully backing the tow truck into position. They lifted the vehicle into the air. Beneath it, the new rear axle gleamed beneath the undercarriage, and the catalytic converter had been perfectly installed.
For a moment, nothing felt real. What Alma had accomplished—in such a short time—defied every logical expectation.
Jasmine beamed up at him, pride glowing in her face. Alma returned the look, giving her a reassuring grin and raising his thumb in quiet triumph.
The manager finally exhaled, brushing dust from his pants as he extended his hand toward Alma.
"You're hired."
Alma took the man's hand and shook it firmly.
"Thank you, sir. It's a pleasure to be working for you."
The manager, still visibly stunned, couldn't help but smile.
"What's your name, boy?" the manager asked, his tone a little less gruff now.
"Alma Alastor," the young man replied.
The manager raised an eyebrow, then gave a short laugh. "Alma Alastor? That's a pretty odd name, but hey—who am I to talk?" He chuckled lightly before offering his own name. "Jody Dwain."
Alma smiled politely. "Nice to meet you. So... when do I start?"
"Well, since I just hired you, I can't throw you into the mix today," Jody replied. "Tomorrow morning. Early."
"Tomorrow works. What time?" Alma asked, ready and eager.
"Be here by six A.M. That'll give me a chance to show you the ropes before the real workday begins. After that, your regular schedule starts at seven-thirty. We open at eight sharp."
Alma nodded, satisfied. "Perfect. I'll see you then, boss." He gave Jody a casual wave and started down the road, Jasmine trailing beside him, still quiet and reserved.
As they walked, Jasmine tilted her head up at Alma, her expression a mix of awe and curiosity. "How did you know that was a test?" she asked.
Alma smiled thoughtfully, his gaze fixed ahead. "It was in his voice—and his body language. He said if I was better than the other two, I'd be hired. But think about it... who lends out tools and parts to a total stranger, no questions asked, unless they're trying to size you up?"
"Like a father testing his son... or in this case, a boss testing a new hire," he continued. "When you're building a team, you've got to know who you're working with. Skill is everything."
Jasmine nodded slowly, understanding beginning to form. But one last question lingered in her mind. "How did you know how to fix a car like that?"
Alma's expression softened. "My father taught me. He started me off with the basics, then a week later, he tossed me into the deep end—working on planes and tanks his old buddy lent him. Eventually, machines just... made sense. Fixing them became second nature. I guess fixing anything did. It's in my blood."
Jasmine flinched slightly at those last words.
"In your blood... huh?" she repeated quietly, almost to herself.
---
Back at the shop, one of the mechanics shook his head in disbelief. "What a weird guy."
"Yeah," Jody replied, still processing what he had seen. "In all my years, I've never watched someone fix that many issues, that fast. It borders on the impossible—not just impressive."
He paused, narrowing his eyes as he thought aloud. "And not one jack was used. No tow truck. No signs of moving the car at all. It's almost as if…"
"He lifted the car by hand…" the mechanic finished the thought, staring wide-eyed at his boss.
Jody didn't respond right away. Then he muttered, "Yeah... that's not talent. That's something else entirely. Alma Alastor... he's not just skilled—he's something beyond human."
---
A few hourd passed, and Alma and Jasmine walked along a wide sidewalk, choosing to explore the capital city rather than heading straight home. The streets bustled with life, decorated in Halloween colors and haunted displays. Statues of historical figures lined the parks and buildings—yet something felt off.
Instead of Abraham Lincoln, the plaques honored a man named Loren Robbie, the thirty-three-year-old president who had abolished slavery after just a year in office. And where George Washington's legacy should have been etched in stone, Alma found the name Riordan James—a man who had died of a burst appendix only two years into his presidency, yet credited with founding the nation.
Alma's stomach twisted. Shock. Confusion. A creeping sense of dread. Was history rewritten? Or had it always been like this? The geography matched everything he knew—Canada to the north, Mexico to the south, and the same borders—but the people, the stories, the events... they were all different.
And yet, the capital city was still called Washington, not Robbie. Every state still bore the same names. Everything felt familiar, but horribly, impossibly wrong. It was severely uncanny.
Jasmine hadn't noticed Alma's turmoil. He continued walking beside her, his steps automatic, his mind far elsewhere. To her—and to the world—they were simply strolling through a normal day. But for Alma, this world was twisted. Uncanny. Wrong in ways he couldn't explain.
To steady his thoughts, he changed the subject.
"Well," he said, glancing at Jasmine, "we've got food in the fridge, and rent's not due until the end of next month. I'd say we're in a pretty good place, wouldn't you?"
Jasmine nodded. "Yeah. We are. And... thank you—for everything."
"You're welcome."
There was a pause. Then Alma spoke again. "Jasmine? Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"You had eight hundred dollars in your wallet. You could've bought food, maybe some blankets, pillows, even a hotel for a few nights. Why didn't you?"
Jasmine stiffened. Her shoulders tensed, and she looked down.
"I... couldn't," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want to talk about it. I'm sorry."
Alma raised his hands gently. "No, no—it's okay. I shouldn't have asked." He offered her a small, reassuring smile.
He didn't press further. Whatever burden Jasmine carried, Alma carried a greater one. One that could shatter everything. Because if she—or anyone—ever learned the truth, that Alma wasn't from this world at all, but from another Earth entirely... the consequences could be disastrous.
And how could he ask for her honesty when he couldn't even give his own? His love for her was real—undeniably so—but love built on lies was a fragile thing.
They continued their walk, passing through quiet parks and city blocks, basking in the rare moment of peace. To Alma, Jasmine felt like his own child. His own flesh and blood. The only thing missing was a partner, a wife. A family. That was his dream—simple, but sacred. For now, though, it would remain just that. A dream.
---
As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting orange and violet streaks across the sky, Alma and Jasmine made their way back to the apartment. Alma carried her on his back, jogging lightly through the city streets. A block away from the complex, he set her down, and they walked the rest of the way hand in hand.
They entered through the main doors, took the elevator to the third floor, and walked quietly down the hall. Alma pulled the key from his pocket, slipped it into the lock, and turned it with a soft click.
The door opened. Home awaited. Alma flicked on the lights as they stepped into the apartment, casting a warm glow across the modest living space. Jasmine, without hesitation, made her way to the couch and sank into its cushions, grabbing the remote and switching on the television. Meanwhile, Alma closed the door behind them, locking it with a soft click, then headed toward the kitchen. He washed his hands under hot water, watching as the day's dust slipped away, then turned to the refrigerator.
Inside, the shelves were stocked with the ingredients they'd picked up the other day—cuts of beef, chicken legs, pork chops, ground meat, and fillets of fish. The options were plentiful, and though Alma's culinary skills gave him many choices, he hadn't quite settled on a specific dish yet.
Leaving the kitchen momentarily, he entered the living room and addressed Jasmine gently, "I'm going to fix dinner. What would you like to eat?"
Jasmine looked up at him, briefly distracted from the television. "What do we have again?" she asked, realizing she had forgotten their recent grocery haul.
"Steak, ground beef, chicken legs, pork chops, and fish filets," Alma listed, his voice calm and measured.
A short pause lingered between them before Jasmine answered, "Chicken legs, please. Do we have any mashed potatoes?"
"Yeah, you should know," Alma said with a soft chuckle, "you were there when I bought them."
Jasmine gave him a sheepish grin. "I forgot…"
Shaking his head in mild amusement, Alma returned to the kitchen.
An hour later, the oven timer beeped. Alma slipped on oven mitts and opened the door, revealing a tray of chicken legs, perfectly browned and crisp, still sizzling in their own juices. He took a fork and carefully separated the meat from the tinfoil lining, making sure no foil stuck to the chicken before placing each leg onto a disposable plate.
Next, he reached for the packet of homestyle mashed potatoes. Emptying the contents into a microwave-safe bowl, he added two cups of water, then placed it in the microwave, setting the timer for two minutes. When the microwave beeped, Alma promptly removed the bowl and began stirring the mixture. His movements were deliberate—quick enough to prevent the water from cooling, yet slow enough to avoid splashing. The consistency formed just right.
He scooped generous portions into a disposable bowl—four large spoonfuls for Jasmine—and kept the main bowl for himself.
By the time he entered the dining area, Jasmine was already seated at the table, her eyes lighting up as she caught sight of the meal.
"Now, don't inhale it all at once," Alma said lightly as he placed her food before her. "We don't want any choking accidents tonight."
Jasmine gave a small nod of acknowledgment, then picked up a silver fork and a black-handled knife. With precise care, she began to peel the crispy skin from one of the chicken legs, eating slowly, almost ceremonially, as though each bite was a delicacy.
Alma watched her with a soft smile. She really did take his words to heart.
After the meal, Alma washed the dishes and wiped down the table, ensuring everything was clean and in order. He then joined Jasmine on the couch, where they watched television together in silence, basking in the calm comfort of the evening.
Three hours passed in quiet contentment. At midnight, Alma turned off the TV, signaling it was time for bed. He carried Jasmine to the bathroom—something she insisted on maintaining as a nightly routine—and gently set her down on her feet. Side by side at the sink, they brushed their teeth together.
Afterward, they made their way to the bedroom, where they both dropped to their knees. With their hands clasped and heads bowed, they began their nightly prayer.
"Dear Heavenly Father," Jasmine began, her voice soft yet sincere, "thank You for allowing us to wake up, yet another day, and to gift us with sleeping, yet another night. Thank You for allowing Alma to get that job at the mechanic shop. Thank You for the continued blessings that You have sent our way—this apartment room, the food in our stomachs, and the food in the refrigerator, and many more. Look after us as we continue to better ourselves, so that we may be allowed to enter the kingdom of Heaven and see Your righteous power up close. Thank You for everything You do, have done, and will do. We have faith in You. We trust in You. And we love You. Amen."
"Amen," Alma echoed, his eyes opening slowly as a warm smile stretched across his face. He looked down at Jasmine, who returned the smile—hers brighter than his.
"You did well. Your prayers are moving. I'm touched," he said gently.
Jasmine flushed and looked down. "Ahh, no, I mean what I say. Everything in my prayers are from my heart, as anyone prayer to our Lord should be."
Alma stood and scooped her into his arms, carefully laying her onto the bed. "You have to give yourself credit every now and then," he told her. "Just don't let it grow into pride and pull you away from God, as it can other things."
"I won't. I never will. No matter how hard this world bends me... I stand alone in the unbreakable."
Alma's eyes widened just slightly, a smirk forming on his lips. "Well... that makes two of us."
"That it does," Jasmine said with a quiet certainty.
---
October 18th, 2032
Alma awoke two hours before his scheduled shift at 6:00 A.M., granting him less than four hours of sleep. Despite the fatigue tugging at his body, he refused to let anything make him late for his first day—not even exhaustion.
Shortly after Jasmine showered, Alma followed suit. With their limited wardrobe, both were forced to wear the same, unwashed clothes they had purchased the other day. Alma dressed in a dark blue denim jacket and jeans, a black leather belt, a red T-shirt, and rugged dark brown steel-toe boots. Jasmine wore a pastel pink T-shirt with an embroidered unicorn on the chest, faded denim overalls with rolled ankles, and simple white sneakers. Their outfits were casual at best—hardly suited for first impressions—but they had no formal clothing, nor the funds to change that.
At exactly 6:00 A.M., Alma and Jasmine arrived at the mechanic shop. Jody met them at the entrance, holding the door open and allowing them inside.
"Alright," Jody began, gesturing to a tall red toolbox with several drawers, "this is where all the wrenches go. Anything below half an inch goes in this drawer, and anything above that goes in the next one."
Alma nodded attentively, taking mental notes. Nearby, Jasmine quietly played with her stuffed unicorn, content to stay out of the way.
"Now, the sockets go over here," Jody continued. "You can either toss them into these coffee cans, or neatly arrange them in rows. Your choice—depends on how you want to spend the rest of eternity."
Alma cracked a smile at the dry humor, silently appreciating Jody's laid-back teaching style.
By the time Jody had finished showing Alma around, the shop was officially open.
Barely fifteen minutes passed before the first customer arrived—an event that caught Alma off guard. He hadn't expected the business to be quite so popular.
Before he could ask Jody about the volume of customers, the driver of the vehicle—a young man in his mid-twenties—stepped out and addressed Alma directly.
"I've been hearing this weird rattling noise," he said, clearly concerned. "And sometimes the engine won't start, it just clicks over and over."
"No problem, sir," Alma replied with calm assurance. "I'll get this fixed up for you."
---
As the hours ticked by, Alma worked steadily, meeting a steady stream of customers and tackling each automotive problem with precision and care. He found genuine satisfaction in his work and enjoyed the interaction with each person he helped. Many customers returned to Jody with high praise, not only for Alma's skill, but also for his warm, respectful demeanor.
A small group of young women—likely in their early twenties—lingered at the edge of the lot, giggling and subtly attempting to catch Alma's attention with suggestive body language. But Alma paid them no mind. Their efforts were wasted; he ignored them completely.
Meanwhile, Jasmine had set aside her stuffed unicorn. She sat quietly nearby, her eyes locked on Alma's every movement as he worked. Though silent, her gaze was focused, observant—soaking in every detail with the quiet curiosity of someone who wanted to understand.
She wasn't just watching a man fix cars. She was watching a man who carried burdens unknown to her. Who had secrets too uncomfortable for him to tell her. But to her, he was also something more: protector, provider, and—family.
As the hands of the clock edged toward 11 P.M.—the official closing time for the shop—one final vehicle rolled up, the sound of its struggling engine echoing faintly in the night air. The driver attempted to pull into the garage, but Alma, standing near the entrance, raised his hand in a clear gesture to stop her.
"Sorry, ma'am, we're closed," Alma said, his voice polite but firm.
Though part of him wanted to assist her, Alma hesitated. He had just completed his first full day on the job, and he wasn't sure if Jody would appreciate any deviations from protocol, especially not on day one. He couldn't risk jeopardizing his position over good intentions.
From behind, a voice cut through the silence. "No, no, it's fine."
Jody stood in the doorway of the cooled, air-conditioned section of the garage, arms crossed casually as he looked at the woman in the car. "She's a friend," he added.
"Hi, Jody. My car's acting up again—darn thing keeps leaking oil," the woman said as she stepped out, revealing an older figure, possibly in her mid-sixties, with the demeanor of someone too familiar with car troubles.
Alma turned toward Jody with a look of disbelief, his brow slightly furrowed, an edge of frustration in his expression. Jody, catching this, held up his hands defensively, palms out.
"Don't get the wrong idea. I ain't sabotaging her car so she has to keep coming back and paying more. These past two visits, I didn't charge her a dime. I'm not that much of an asshole," Jody explained.
Alma exhaled softly and turned to the woman. "Well, ma'am, would you mind if I took a look?"
"Go right ahead," she replied, stepping aside.
Alma gently shifted the car into neutral and, with a bit of effort, pushed it onto the hydraulic lift. He raised it with a mechanical whir, then grabbed a flashlight and began inspecting the engine and transmission components.
Meanwhile, Jody and the woman—Roseanne—engaged in quiet conversation behind him.
"You think he can fix it? Whatever 'it' is this time?" she asked, her voice a mix of curiosity and hope.
"Most likely," Jody said after a moment, watching Alma work. "The way that kid handles machines—it's something else. It's like he's not just fixing them… it's like he's diagnosing them. Like a doctor with his patient. Every tool, every motion—it's precise, instinctive, almost too good."
"So… you're saying he can finally fix my car?" she asked again, a hint of playful sarcasm in her voice.
"Yes, Roseanne. He can fix your car," Jody said, clearly exasperated but amused.
But then his tone shifted, and his eyes darkened with a peculiar intensity. "What's strange though… is I looked him up. Every possible record—lawsuits, employment history, arrest reports. Nothing. Completely blank."
He paused, lowering his voice further. "No wallet. No phone. And I know he didn't just hide it—he never touched anything during his break. No vehicle, either. Just walked up this morning like he'd been placed here by some force."
Jody's voice dropped to a whisper. "It's almost as if… he doesn't exist."
Before Roseanne could respond with equal gravity, her attention shifted suddenly. "Aww, you're just so cute!" she exclaimed, embracing Jasmine in a smothering hug that caught the little girl off guard.
Jody sighed heavily, dragging his hand down his face. Whatever mystery he had just unraveled was clearly lost on her.
"Oh? Sorry, Jody—what were you saying?" Roseanne asked, still locked in a bear hug with Jasmine.
"Never mind," he muttered, turning away.
"Please, ma'am," Alma said gently as he approached, wiping grease from his hands with a blue paper towel, "don't squeeze her like that."
Roseanne, slightly embarrassed, released Jasmine, who gasped quietly for air.
"I'm sorry, truly. She was just so adorable, I couldn't help myself," Roseanne said sheepishly.
Alma chuckled softly. "I agree. But you were hugging her like your life depended on it."
The older woman laughed and covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers. After a brief pause, she composed herself. "So, is my car fixed?"
"Yeah. The issue was actually—"
"Yay!" she interrupted, throwing her arms around him. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank! You!!" She bounced up and down in joy, though Alma barely moved under the excitement.
"Well," Jody chimed in, "this is your third visit with the same problem, so I'm letting it slide. Again. We made enough profit today to cover it three times over."
Roseanne turned to Alma. "Thank you, again. And your name was…?"
"Alma Alastor," he replied.
"Well, thank you, Alma. You seem like a wonderful young man. I hope to see you again—though, hopefully, not for car trouble," she said, sliding into the driver's seat.
"You're welcome, ma'am. Let's hope nothing else breaks," Alma said, with a slight smirk.
"Fingers crossed!" Roseanne replied, starting her car. "Thanks again!" she called out as she drove away.
Jody turned toward Alma, arms crossed and a note of satisfaction in his voice. "Not bad, kid. First day on the job, and you've already impressed a customer—or three. Tomorrow, you're working the short shift: 8 A.M. to 3 P.M. That's the rotation around here. Some days, you'll do fifteen hours like today. Other days, just seven."
Alma nodded, grateful. "Thanks. For the opportunity. And the shorter shift tomorrow."
"You earned it. Now, go get some rest. I'm locking up and heading home."
Alma walked over to Jasmine, who had been waiting patiently, her eyes bright with excitement. "Alright, it's time to go," he said gently. She followed him outside without hesitation.
They made their way back to the apartment complex at a brisk pace. Alma entered through the front door, made his way to the elevator, and pressed the button. When the doors opened with a quiet chime, Jasmine quickly stepped inside and hit the button for the third floor. Another soft ding followed as the doors closed behind them.
Once inside their apartment, Alma locked the door behind them and collapsed onto the couch, releasing a long, exhausted sigh. His body ached, his mind spun with everything that had happened.
Out of nowhere, a stuffed unicorn blocked his vision. Alma looked up, raising an eyebrow to see Jasmine waving her arm playfully.
"Toy?" she asked with a tiny smile.
Alma chuckled and patted her head. "I'm fine. Thank you."
But then, realizing the time, he stood abruptly. "Oh—we forgot your shower!"
Jasmine giggled, dropped her toy on the couch, and grabbed her clothes before disappearing into the bathroom. Alma sat back down, now holding her toy in his hands. He studied it quietly, its soft features oddly grounding. Besides working and providing for Jasmine, he wasn't sure what else he was meant to do. What their future held. He wanted the best for her—but for himself, the path ahead was clouded.
Back on his Earth, there had been a mission. There was purpose—hunt down remnants of J.I.B.R.I.L., find the answers he needed, or at least close the chapter after killing its founder. But here… there was nothing left. Only regret and silence. Even if he somehow returned to his Earth, what would he return to? A fugitive's life. His name and face most likely known across the country. No allies. No redemption.
He sighed, placing the toy gently on the cushion beside him.
Moments later, Jasmine emerged from the bathroom, clean and relaxed. Alma gathered his clothes and went in for his own shower. Fifteen minutes passed before he rejoined her, settling onto the couch once more.
"Ack! We forgot to spray the couch," he muttered, referring to the disinfectant can sitting on the shelf.
---
That night, Alma and Jasmine lay together in bed. She had already drifted off, breathing softly, while Alma stared up at the ceiling, his hands folded across his chest. His mind was a battlefield of doubts and questions. Raising a child had never been in his plans—not in this world or the last. If he had ignored Creighton, he wouldn't be here. And yet…
He looked at the sleeping child beside him.
She was his peace. A stillness in the storm. A reason to keep going.
Maybe ignoring Creighton would have spared him this detour, but Jasmine would've been left in a darker place. This spontaneous decision to protect her, to accept this new life, had pulled him away from his original mission—but it had brought him something real. Something meaningful.
But still, the uncertainty nagged at him. Should he return to North Carolina? Would it even matter? Whether he left her behind or not, would anything change? Every choice led to the same truth—he would be alone in the end. Misunderstood, feared, forgotten.
Even Jasmine, in time, might abandon him.
He clenched his jaw, then forced the thoughts away. That was hopeless thinking—seeing only the worst in every scenario, ignoring even the faintest glimmer of good. That kind of mindset, in himself or in any other person in the world, made him upset. And it would destroy him and anyone else with it.
He turned onto his side and closed his eyes.
He had made a promise—to protect her, no matter the cost. And to never think that way again. Because hopelessness births ruin. And she was worth more than that.
So was he.