The bobber remained still on the vast, grey expanse of the Lee. Roy pulled the line in with a series of short, mechanical rotations, the click of the reel the only sound in the heavy mist. He packed the rod into the bucket, the plastic handle digging into his palm as he stood. He didn't look at the horizon or the miles of water he was leaving behind. He simply stepped away from the crates, his shoulder grazing the damp wood of the 1x scale pier.

  One step landed on the slick timber of the Quay. The next found the dry, red sandstone of the church’s side entrance.

  The five hundred miles of distance didn't snap or fold; they simply ceased to be. Roy didn't break his shuffling stride, his sneakers moving from river-damp wood to sun-warmed stone without a skip in his rhythm. He kept his head down, his chin tucked into his scarf, ignoring the lingering scent of incense that replaced the brine of the river. To him, the transition was as unremarkable as walking through a doorway, a quiet bypass of the "instruments of blasphemy" the others used to bridge the multiverse's impossible gaps.

  Inside the church, the air was thick with a different kind of energy. The usual hollow silence of the high ceilings was broken by the scraping of wooden chairs and the sharp, rhythmic snap of a broom against the floor.

  "Move those benches back!" a voice called out, echoing toward the rafters. "We need the center aisle clear for the presentation."

  The orphans were being lined up, their faces a mix of boredom and mild curiosity. At the front of the nave, a man in rugged, soil-stained canvas trousers stood checking a stack of handwritten note cards. He was a maintenance worker from Blarney Castle and Gardens, his boots still caked with the dark, rich earth of the 1x scale estate.

  He cleared his throat, adjusting a small lapel microphone that hummed with a low-frequency static. He had spent weeks preparing this speech, a sincere plea to the children of the church. He wanted to speak to them about the dignity of the soil—about the 3,000x quantity of gardens that required a steady hand and a patient soul to maintain. To him, the infrastructure of the Third Multiverse wasn't just a sprawling maze; it was a living thing that needed caretakers who weren't afraid to get their hands dirty.

  Roy slipped into the very back row, pressing his back against the cold stone wall. He didn't look at the man from Blarney. He watched the dust motes dancing in a single beam of light from the stained glass, a small, invincible shadow waiting for the noise to end.

  The maintenance worker’s voice carried a rough, rhythmic earnestness. He spoke of the thousands of identical gardens that flanked the sprawling estates, of the patience required to keep the 1x scale hedges from overtaking the 250x quantity of paths. It was a speech about the quiet dignity of labor, and when he finished, the applause from the orphans was sudden and genuine. A few of the older boys leaned forward, their eyes tracking the mud on the man's boots as if it were a badge of office, their minds already wandering toward the prospect of a life defined by the soil.

  Roy remained at the back, his shoulders pressed into the cold groove of the masonry. He wasn't inspired. He was counting.

  Twenty-eight days.

  In exactly four weeks, the reprieve would end, and he would return to the familiar, structured halls of University College Cork for the second semester. The thought of the maintenance worker’s life—the perpetual grit under the fingernails and the heavy, earth-scented canvas—sent a flicker of silent disdain through him. It would be a particular kind of embarrassment to walk through the stone arches of the quad with soil-stained gloves, looking like a man who spent his days wrestling with the landscape instead of simply moving through it.

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  "He has a way with words, doesn't he?"

  The voice was soft, appearing right at his shoulder. Sister Kirsten stood there, her hands tucked into her habit, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips. She had always favored Roy; in a house full of restless, loud children, his motionless adherence to the rules was a relief. She watched him with a tilted head, her eyes searching for any crack in his silence.

  "I imagine a boy as thoughtful as you might have a question for him, Roy," she said, her tone light, dabbing at a phantom speck of dust on his sleeve. "Perhaps about the gardens? Or the history of the Castle? It’s a rare chance to hear from someone who actually works the grounds."

  She paused, leaving a deliberate, heavy space in the conversation for him to fill. It was a practiced maneuver, a gentle trap she had set a dozen times before, waiting for the moment his politeness would override his reserve.

  Roy didn't blink. He didn't shift his gaze from the dust motes. He simply inclined his head—a movement so slight it was almost a suggestion—and stayed within the safety of the quiet.

  Kirsten let out a short, huffed laugh, shaking her head. "Still as a statue, as always. But don't you worry, Roy. I’ll get a full sentence out of you one of these days. I’m quite adamant about it."

  She patted his arm and moved off to gather the other children. Roy watched her go, his expression unchanging. He found her confidence unlikely. Speech was just another instrument he didn't need, a bridge built of breath and sound that served no purpose for someone who was already exactly where he wanted to be.

  The morning chore list was a static, grueling ledger of the 250x quantity of maintenance required for a church of this scale. For the other orphans, the task of buffing the endless rows of mahogany pews and clearing the grit from the stone vestibules was a four-hour sentence. They moved in sluggish teams, their rags graying as they worked through the damp air of the nave.

  Roy took his bucket and cloth to the far north transept. He didn't look at the others. He didn't even seem to hurry.

  To an observer, he was merely a gray shape moving between the shadows of the pillars. Yet, where he stepped, the distance between the first pew and the fiftieth ceased to exist. He didn't scrub with intensity; he simply occupied the space where the work was already finished. Time didn't bend so much as it failed to apply to his movements.

  Two hours before the midday bell was set to ring, Roy placed his dry cloth back into the wooden locker. The north transept gleamed, the wood polished to a mirror finish that reflected the vaulted ceilings above.

  "Finished? Already?"

  Sister Kirsten stood by the heavy oak doors, her brow furrowed as she checked the brass clock on the wall. She looked past Roy at the vast stretch of polished timber that should have taken half a day of back-breaking labor. She walked a few paces into the transept, her shoes clicking on the stone, looking for the teams of boys she assumed must have helped him. There were none.

  "How, Roy?" she asked, her voice dropping into a hushed, wary tone. "There isn't a soul in this parish who could move that fast. Not without... well, not without help that isn't of this world."

  A few of the older orphans stopped their scrubbing, their eyes narrowing. In their culture, the line between the mortal and the divine was a jagged cliff. Magic was a gift reserved for the heavens or a curse from the depths; for a mortal boy to bypass the sweat of his brow was an unsettling defiance of the natural order.

  "Is it a trick?" one of the boys muttered, gripping his brush tighter. "Some kind of clock-work blasphemy?"

  Roy didn't offer a defense. He didn't even look at the boy. He simply tilted his head at the comments, a slight, mechanical gesture that acknowledged the noise without engaging it.

  He knew the truth, though it remained locked behind a door he refused to open even in the privacy of his own mind. There was a secret to his nature—a fundamental "why" behind his invincibility and his disregard for space—that could never be shaped into words or even internal monologue. To think it was to give it a name, and to name it was to invite the world to look closer.

  He turned away from their confused stares, his hands disappearing back into his sleeves. He had two hours of silence ahead of him before the next bell, and he intended to spend them exactly as he was: a small, quiet shadow that the laws of the multiverse simply could not catch.