Nightingale woke earlier than Sebastian. Dawn barely touched the sky, and the house rested in gentle silence. Today she would lay the old souls to rest and open the way for the new. It was the last morning before their long journey across realms, and she wanted to begin it with intention. Before anything else, she needed to visit the room that had once held all their hopes.
She walked down the hallway, trailing her fingertips along the cool wall until she reached the baby room. When she stepped inside, the faint morning light softened the pastel colors on the walls. The folded blankets remained untouched. The chair beside the crib waited for nights that had never come. Nightingale approached the crib and brushed her fingertips across the wooden rail. Her hand lingered there, remembering the warmth and fullness she had once carried. The ache rose slow and sharp, and tears gathered before she could stop them.
After wiping her cheeks and steadying her breath, she stepped toward the wall pad and tapped the command sequence. A soft hum moved through the floor. A message glowed across the sliding screen door in warm red letters: Are you certain? Once processed, this room cannot be restored.
Nightingale placed her palm on the confirmation panel. A small, peaceful smile formed. "Yes."
The room shimmered as its structure began to dissolve. Furnishings folded into neat packets of ritual-grade firewood. Blankets condensed into squares of energy. The crib broke into golden fragments that spiraled upward before vanishing. Piece by piece, everything teleported into the preparation chamber near the altar. When the last flicker dimmed, Nightingale quietly closed the door behind her.
The gentle chime of the teleport system and the rustling of her ritual movements drifted through the house. Sebastian, buried deep in blankets, stirred. He was never a morning person, usually clinging to sleep long past sunrise. But the subtle shifts in the house, the faint vibration of incense burners, and Nightingale's purposeful energy pulled him awake. Groggy and confused, he pushed himself upright and followed the soft glow of lantern light.
He paused at the altar room's curtain. Even half-asleep, he understood the weight of what she was doing. Sleepiness faded from his eyes as he stepped inside to join her.
The altar room was shaped by ancient intention. Smooth clay tiles carved with symbols for memory, growth, and safe passage lined the walls. Lanterns woven like African prayer baskets cast warm gold light over red lacquered trays and polished brass offering bowls reminiscent of Chinese ancestral altars. A shallow garden bed of rich soil anchored the room. Jars of preserved seeds rested neatly on shelves, each labeled in her native script. Incense spiraled upward in soft curls.
Nightingale knelt before the altar, bowed, and lit three sticks of incense. She waved the smoke toward her heart and whispered blessings for the children she had lost. Her voice remained soft but steady. She lifted the carved figurines that symbolized the little souls and placed them in the central tray.
Sebastian knelt beside her, settling with the heavy manner of a man still halfway in sleep. His hands hovered awkwardly before folding with intention. He watched the altar's warm light flicker across her face. "I am sorry," he murmured. "Sometimes I think our losses happened because of me. My family used the cheapest revival method when they brought me back. They cut corners and damaged my soul. The doctors said my core has been unstable for years. I keep thinking I passed that brokenness into our attempts."
Nightingale took his hand gently. "Sit with me. Let the room hold this with you."
She lifted one figurine and pressed it to her chest. "It is all right. We tried twice. That was enough. Souls find their paths. You offered everything you could. This is not on you. We shared this grief, and we share this healing."
Sebastian exhaled slowly, eyes drifting over the symbols, lanterns, and soil bed. "Are you sure it is time? You prayed here every night."
Nightingale folded the altar cloth with careful reverence. "This is not forgetting them. This is letting them move. My people honor the circle of life. When parents are ready to step forward, we burn the offerings and return the ashes to the soil. Something new grows from what was lost. That is how we open the way for the next souls who may choose us."
She handed him her tablet. "Choose what will grow over them."
Sebastian scrolled until two options called to him. "Dragonfruit and peaches," he said. "Dragonfruit because of you. Strong, vivid, rare, and sweet inside. Peaches because of me. Soft and messy but warm. Together they feel balanced. And my abuela always said peaches bring luck when luck refuses to show up."
Nightingale touched her forehead to his. "Then peaches and dragonfruit it will be."
She lit the ceremonial bowl. The altar cloth curled into flame. The candles melted. The carved figurines softened as fire embraced them. Nightingale lowered her head and began the ancestral prayer.
"May the children we lost be carried well. May the children we gain be brought in safely. May they receive what they need and learn from the struggles that help them grow. May all souls find the homes prepared for them. May our garden open the way."
Sebastian repeated each line, his voice growing steadier. When the flames dimmed to glowing ash, they carried the bowl to the soil bed. Nightingale loosened the dirt with her fingers, forming a cradle. Sebastian poured the ashes. She covered them slowly and pressed her palms over the mound with a final whisper of blessing.
The lanterns flickered softly, as if acknowledging completion.
They left the altar room together. Sebastian closed the curtain and rubbed his hands over his face, as though trying to reorganize the morning. His hair stuck at uneven angles, and he drifted down the hallway like a sleepy kola until he bumped lightly into the wall. Nightingale nudged him back into place. She couldn't help thinking he looked adorable—defeated, but still ready to argue about it.
"You know the first place we are heading," he muttered.
"It is better to handle the most difficult realm first," she said. "We are going to a system world."
Sebastian stopped immediately. His toolkit strap swung and hit him in the stomach. Slowly, dramatically, he sank to the floor like a man accepting a tragic fate. "No. Please. Tell me it is one of the easy worlds. One without quest windows or emotional damage."
"The information broker updated me last night," Nightingale said. "The Sonters confirmed the doll is in the pirate system realm. Ships, reputation bars, forced quests."
Sebastian groaned and lay flat. "Last time I went there, a pirate captain threw a fish at me."
"He thought you were a pelican shifter."
He sat up so fast he hit his elbow on a crate. "I made a startled noise. That was not a pelican noise."
"You flapped your arms," she reminded. "And squawked."
"I WAS TRYING TO BREATHE!"
They continued walking, but Sebastian slowed again, then stopped, placing his hand dramatically across his forehead. Nightingale didn't break stride.
"I cannot do this part of the mission," he announced. "Please tell the universe I loved you."
"Sebastian," she said without turning, "get up."
Instead, he slid dramatically down the wall and began crawling across the floor. "I am too emotionally delicate for system worlds. Leave me here. Tell the Sonters I tried."
"Sebastian," she said, "you are crawling toward the garden room."
"I am escaping emotionally."
She approached, crouched beside him, and tapped his forehead. "If a system window appears, you can press 'ignore.' It works most of the time."
"That is a lie," he said, gripping her ankles. "They hunt me."
Nightingale leaned close, her whisper warm and knowing. "Then get up."
"No," he said stubbornly.
"Then let me motivate you." Her lips curved. "If you help me finish this quickly, I will use one of the spells you like."
Sebastian froze. "…Which one?"
"The one where I touch your soul," she murmured, "and you forget how to breathe."
He shot upright instantly. His clothes straightened. His posture sharpened. "Say less. I am ready. I will face the pirate realm. I will face the system. I will even face the fish captain again."
Nightingale brushed her fingers along his collar, lingering just long enough to make him shiver. "Good. Then come with me."
With newfound determination, he followed her into the garden room, where warm lantern light glowed over rich soil beds and the air smelled of earth and incense. Whatever challenges waited for them next, they would face them side by side.