[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  The universe ended with a whimper. A soft sound of reality folding in on itself like wet cardboard.

  I woke up gasping, my hands clawing at the sheets, my heart doing that frantic drum solo against my ribs. The sweat was cold on my forehead.

  "Same script, different day," I croaked, staring up at the ceiling fan that was spinning lazily, mocking my internal chaos. I turned my head to the corner of the room where I usually directed my grievances.

  "You know," I whispered to the empty air, "if we're going for character development through trauma, I think we've hit the quota. Can we schedule a dream about puppies? Or perhaps a dream where I'm just eating a really good bagel? Is that too much to ask from the subconscious of a god?"

  I dragged myself out of bed. The floorboards were cool, grounding me in New Jersey.

  "Apparently so," I answered myself.

  I showered, washing away the lingering dread of the void and dressed in something that screamed 'casual Tuesday' rather than 'haunted by cosmic guilt.' Jeans, a white t-shirt and a flannel shirt left unbuttoned because I was trying to channel a lumberjack lite aesthetic.

  I headed downstairs. The house was quiet. The Wanda Wing was silent.

  "She's sleeping in," I noted, checking the microwave clock. "Good. Grief is exhausting. Let her sleep."

  I moved to the kitchen. Today felt like a Frittata day. Eggs, spinach, cheese and potatoes. One pan. minimal cleanup. Maximum comfort.

  I whisked the eggs with a little more aggression than necessary.

  "Whisking is therapy," I told the spatula. "It's violent, but productive."

  I poured the mixture into the cast iron skillet, watching the edges bubble. I added the cheese and slid it into the oven.

  While it was baking, I prepped a tray. Fresh orange juice. Two plates. A small vase with a single daisy from the garden (sorry, Sir Drinks a Lot, for the amputation).

  When the timer dinged, the smell was heavenly.

  I pulled the skillet out, sliced two generous wedges and plated them. I carried the tray up the stairs, balancing it like a high end waiter who definitely didn't just have a mental breakdown an hour ago.

  I stood in front of her door.

  Knock. Knock.

  "Room service," I called out softly. "Housekeeping. The IRS. Take your pick."

  There was a shuffle inside. A pause. Then the door creaked open.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Wanda stood there. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt that hung off one shoulder and her hair a magnificent disaster. She blinked at me, her green eyes sleepy and confused.

  "Aryan?" she rasped.

  "Morning, Lemon Queen," I grinned, holding up the tray. "I come bearing eggs and Vitamin C. I wasn't sure if you were awake, but the Frittata waits for no one. It gets sad. We don't want sad eggs."

  She looked at the tray, then up at me. An incredulous smile spread across her face.

  "You... brought breakfast?"

  "I made breakfast," I corrected. "Bringing it was just the logistical part. Are you decent, or should I leave this on the floor like an offering to a moody deity?"

  She laughed, stepping back and opening the door wider. "Come in, you fool."

  I walked in and set the tray on the small table by the window. The morning sun was streaming in, catching the dust motes.

  "It smells..." she inhaled deeply. "Like cheese."

  "Gruyère," I said, pulling out a chair for her. "Sit. Eat. We have a big day ahead of us."

  Wanda sat down, tucking her legs under her. She picked up a fork.

  "A big day?" she asked, taking a bite. Her eyes widened. "Mmm. This is... very good."

  "I know," I said, sitting opposite her and attacking my own portion. "I'm a genius. But yes, a big day. I was driving around yesterday and I took a wrong turn down near the old creek road."

  I leaned in, lowering my voice conspiratorially.

  "And I found a spot."

  Wanda chewed slowly, intrigued. "A spot?"

  "A secret place," I said. "Totally off the map. It's perfect for a picnic. And since the weather is suspiciously nice for New Jersey, I figured we should exploit it."

  Wanda looked at the window. The sky was a brilliant blue.

  "A picnic," she mused. "I have not been on a picnic since..." She trailed off, but the shadow didn't descend. She pushed it away. "Since a long time."

  "Then it's settled," I said. "Finish your eggs. Put on your adventure shoes. We leave in an hour."

  [The Secret Place]

  The drive was short. We took my car again, the one with the suspension made of magic and dreams. Wanda controlled the radio, settling on a station that played soft acoustic covers of 80s hits.

  "So," she said, looking out the window at the passing trees. "This secret place. Is it legal?"

  "Define legal," I said, keeping my eyes on the road. "Is it private property? Probably. Do I care? No. If anyone asks, I'm a land surveyor and you're my assistant, Brenda."

  "I do not look like a Brenda," she noted.

  "You look like a Wanda," I agreed. "Which is better."

  I turned off the main road onto a dirt track that wound through a dense patch of woods. The car bumped gently (or would have, if I hadn't smoothed the ride).

  "Trust the process," I said as the trees began to thin. "We're almost there."

  I pulled the car into a small clearing and killed the engine.

  "Okay," I said. "Close your eyes."

  Wanda raised an eyebrow. "Aryan."

  "Humor me. It's part of the experience. The reveal is key."

  She sighed, but she closed her eyes. "If you leave me in the woods, I will haunt you."

  "Duly noted."

  I got out, walked around and opened her door.

  "Okay," I said, offering her my hand. "Step out. Watch the root."

  She stepped out, her hand warm in mine.

  "Can I look?"

  "Not yet. Walk with me. Ten steps."

  I guided her through a small gap in the hedge.

  "Okay," I whispered, standing behind her. "Open."

  Wanda opened her eyes.

  And gasped.

  In front of us stretched a field.

  Acres of tall grass, dotted with an overwhelming carpet of deep blue Cornflowers. Centaurea cyanus. The national flower of a country that no longer existed.

  They rippled in the wind like water. The blue against the green was so intense it looked painted.

  "Aryan," she breathed, her hand flying to her mouth.

  "I know," I said, playing the part of the surprised discoverer. "Crazy, right? I stumbled on it and thought... well, it looked familiar."

  Familiar because I spent three seconds last night knitting reality together to grow them, I told the audience. I had to adjust the soil pH, the nitrogen levels and accelerate the growth cycle by three months. But look at her face. Worth every calorie of cosmic energy.

  Wanda walked forward into the field. The flowers brushed against her jeans. She reached out and touched the petals, her fingers trembling.