Friday arrived almost without her noticing.

  Thursday had passed in much the same way as Wednesday—calls answered, oddities handled, the rhythm of the station settling comfortably around her. By the time she woke Friday morning, Olivia realized she wasn’t bracing herself anymore. She knew what most callers wanted. She knew which questions needed the binder and which just needed reassurance. Even the visitors—strange, spectral, or softly monstrous—had all been perfectly polite once greeted properly.

  And she’d been polite right back.

  Breakfast that morning felt a little different. There was a faint, anticipatory buzz in the break room, like the building itself was stretching.

  Miss LaDonna regarded Olivia over her tea. “Are you ready for your first long split?”

  Olivia blinked. “My first… what?”

  Charles looked up from his plate, ears perking slightly. “Ah. Yes. We should explain that.”

  He folded his napkin with deliberate care. “Fridays are special. That’s when the Hosts arrive for weekend programming.”

  “And that means,” Miss LaDonna added gently, “you’ll be on duty from nine this morning until one a.m.”

  Olivia paused.

  “…Oh.”

  Charles was quick to continue. “It sounds worse than it is. After one, you’re off duty for the entire weekend. You won’t be back at the desk until nine Monday morning.”

  Miss LaDonna smiled. “Plenty of time to recover. Sleep in. Explore. Rest.”

  Olivia considered this for half a second—then felt her excitement bubble up.

  “So tonight is… when they all show up?”

  “Yes,” Charles said, clearly pleased. “They’ll trickle in through the evening. Some early, some late. You’ll be assigning studios, answering questions, helping them settle in.”

  “And making sure no one tries to film in the lobby again,” Miss LaDonna added dryly.

  Olivia laughed. “I can do that.”

  She hesitated, then grinned. “I’m actually really excited. I mean—I’ve seen some of them. Victor Von Psychotron, especially.”

  Charles’s smile widened. “Oh, Victor adores an appreciative audience.”

  Miss LaDonna’s eyes twinkled. “Just remember: they’re performers, but they’re also people. However they happen to be shaped.”

  “That’s fine,” Olivia said easily. “So far, everyone here’s been nicer than anyone I worked with back in Trenton.”

  Charles lifted his cup in a small toast. “An excellent sign.”

  As breakfast wound down, Olivia felt a steady confidence settle in her chest. Friday would be long, yes—but it would also be full. Lively. Different.

  And for the first time in her working life, she wasn’t dreading a long shift.

  She was looking forward to it.

  Just after nine, the station’s mood shifted.

  The phones began to buzz—first one line, then two, then a cheerful cascade that kept Olivia’s hands moving and her voice steady. Callers wanted to know the weekend schedule, confirm airtimes, leave messages for their favorite Hosts. Some hoped—earnestly—that their notes might be read on air.

  Olivia wrote everything down.

  Names. Times. Requests. Compliments. The occasional deeply personal confession that probably belonged in a letter rather than a voicemail. She assured each caller, warmly and sincerely, that their messages would be passed along.

  By ten-thirty, she’d found a rhythm.

  She tucked the handset against her shoulder, fingers dancing over the transfer buttons as she moved between lines with growing confidence. The lobby hummed around her, kettle warm, doors opening and closing softly as deliveries came and went. It was working—mostly.

  Her neck, however, disagreed.

  She shifted, rolled a shoulder, and kept going anyway.

  That was how Charles found her.

  He paused a few steps away, watching for a moment as she handled two calls at once, pen flying across the message pad. His ears flicked, expression thoughtful.

  “Hm,” he murmured. “This will never do.”

  Before Olivia could ask what he meant, he reached into his coat pocket.

  And pulled out a wired headset.

  “Here,” he said, handing it over. “Try this.”

  She stared at it. “You just—”

  “Later,” Charles said gently.

  She plugged it in on instinct, the connector sliding perfectly into a socket she hadn’t noticed before. The headset settled comfortably over her ears, light and balanced, leaving her hands free and her neck instantly relieved.

  “Oh,” she breathed. “This is much better.”

  Charles smiled, satisfied. “Thought so.”

  “Thank you,” Olivia said, genuinely grateful. “Really.”

  He waved it off. “You’re doing splendidly. Carry on.”

  And with that, he wandered off down another hallway, coat swaying, already occupied with whatever quiet, necessary things he did to keep the station running.

  Olivia adjusted the headset, answered the next call, and smiled to herself.

  The phones kept ringing.

  And she kept answering.

  By a quarter past one, Olivia had just taken a breath between calls when the front doors opened again.

  The man who entered was carrying a stack of film reels and a crate of old video cassettes—and singing.

  Not humming. Not murmuring.

  Full operatic projection, rich and resonant, the kind of voice that made the air vibrate gently as he crossed the lobby.

  “Oh,” Olivia said, automatically brightening. “Hi, Dave.”

  His reply came as a rising baritone phrase, elegant and theatrical, clearly announcing the delivery for Bernard and the inevitability of fate as it related to media preservation.

  Olivia didn’t even think about it.

  She answered in counterpoint.

  Her voice slipped naturally into harmony, weaving around his melody as she gestured him toward the desk, her phrasing politely inquiring about signatures and parcel counts while staying perfectly on key.

  Dave beamed.

  They “chatted” like that for a moment—musical phrases traded back and forth between calls—until Olivia finished signing the manifest and stacked the reels carefully on the small table behind the desk.

  “For Bernard,” she sang lightly, indicating the delivery chute.

  Dave answered with a flourish of approval, setting the last crate down with care. As he adjusted his gloves, he leaned closer and dropped his volume just enough to be conversational—still musical, but warmer now.

  “You have a lovely voice,” he sang, sincere and slightly bashful. “Clear tone. Good breath control.”

  Olivia felt her ears warm. “Thank you,” she replied, smiling. “You’re not bad yourself.”

  He laughed—an actual laugh this time—then swept up his coat and let his exit aria carry him back through the doors, the melody lingering long after they closed behind him.

  Olivia stood there for a second, grinning to herself, then shook her head fondly.

  “Well,” she said aloud, adjusting her headset as the phone rang again, “that was delightful.”

  She answered the call.

  The day continued.

  By five o’clock, everything was as it should be.

  The front doors clicked shut. The sign flipped itself over with its usual cheerful finality. Olivia stood from the desk, stretching, already mentally shifting gears from “day quiet” to “Friday evening.”

  Then the lobby doors slid open.

  She froze.

  She was sure she had just watched them lock.

  A chill rolled in—not cold, exactly, but heavy—and with it came fog. Thick, pearlescent fog poured through the doorway, curling low across the floor, swallowing the welcome mat and the lower half of the desk. Outside had been perfectly clear moments ago.

  Olivia leaned forward, heart ticking up a notch.

  Two shapes moved within the mist.

  As they approached, the fog parted around them like it recognized seniority.

  The first was a woman in a long black dress trimmed in deep crimson, the fabric moving with liquid grace. Her hair was midnight black, straight and glossy, with a sharp fringe of crimson bangs framing her eyes. She carried herself with regal ease, every step deliberate.

  Beside her walked a skeleton.

  Not a prop. Not a costume.

  A fully animated skeleton wearing a bright polka-dot bowtie, bones clicking cheerfully as he ambled along.

  They stopped at the desk.

  “Good evening,” the woman intoned, her voice smooth and resonant. “I am Arachna of the Spider People. This is my companion, Deadly.”

  The skeleton raised one hand and waved enthusiastically.

  “Say hello, Deadly.”

  Deadly waved harder.

  “You must be Olivia,” Arachna continued, dark eyes studying her with polite interest. “The new receptionist.”

  Olivia blinked once—then smiled.

  “Hi,” she said, steadying herself. “Yes, that’s me. Welcome.”

  She reached for the sign-in log, fingers moving on instinct now, and flipped to the Host arrivals section.

  “There you are,” she said, scanning the list. “Arachna… and Deadly. Assigned to Studio C.”

  She slid their access pass across the desk.

  “Thank you,” Arachna said, accepting it. “Efficiency is always appreciated.”

  As they spoke, Deadly began pantomiming the conversation with astonishing clarity—gesturing toward the desk, miming writing, then pointing grandly down the studio hall. His expressions, despite lacking a face, were unmistakable.

  Olivia watched, impressed.

  “Deadly doesn’t speak,” Arachna said with fond pride. “No vocal cords, of course. But he is quite intelligent, as you can see.”

  “I can see that,” Olivia said warmly. “He’s very expressive.”

  Deadly struck a modest pose.

  “I hope you are settling into your new position without too much trouble,” Arachna said.

  “So far,” Olivia replied, “I’m adapting pretty quickly. The unusual surroundings help.”

  Arachna smiled, just slightly.

  “Good. This place rewards adaptability.”

  With that, the pair turned and headed down the studio hallway, the fog thinning and dissolving behind them as if their arrival had used it up. Deadly paused long enough to give Olivia one last enthusiastic wave before following Arachna out of sight.

  The lobby settled.

  Olivia exhaled, ears flicking once, tail swaying as she straightened the desk.

  “Okay,” she murmured to herself. “Friday’s officially started.”

  And somewhere deep in the station, the hum seemed to agree.

  By nearly seven, the lobby had grown lively in its own peculiar way.

  Victor Von Psychotron arrived first, immaculate as ever, greeting Olivia with theatrical warmth and a sincere compliment about how well she was running the desk. He barely needed direction—he knew his studio, his schedule, and exactly how much time he had before makeup.

  Don O’Malley followed not long after, trench coat and fedora in place, looking like he’d stepped straight out of a 1940s detective serial. He spoke in that same gravelly, world-weary cadence, thanking Olivia for “keeping the joint running smooth” and asking if the coffee here was “honest.” She assured him it was—tea, mostly—and he nodded solemnly, as if this explained everything about the station.

  Al Omega arrived last of the trio, cheerful and booming, a portly gentleman with an eyepatch, a fez, and a plastic skull tucked carefully under one arm.

  “And this,” Al said proudly, setting the skull gently on the counter, “is Bob.”

  “Hi, Bob,” Olivia said without hesitation.

  Al beamed. “See? Manners. I like her already.”

  Bob did nothing at all. No movement. No glow. No ominous hum.

  But Al spoke to him as though he were a trusted colleague, and Olivia followed suit, addressing Bob politely whenever the conversation drifted his way. It seemed the respectful thing to do.

  She checked them all in, handed out studio passes, confirmed schedules, and made sure they had everything they needed. Every Host so far had been friendly—warm, even—if delightfully strange.

  And every single one of them had known her name before she’d said it.

  By the time the lobby quieted again, Olivia glanced at the clock and realized she should probably grab a quick snack before the next wave arrived. She stood, halfway to the break room—

  Knock. Knock.

  She froze and looked up.

  Someone stood outside the lobby doors, peering in expectantly.

  He looked… ordinary. Mid-thirties, maybe. Sandy brown hair. Jeans. A Hawaiian shirt worn open over a faded T-shirt advertising a VHS tape company that definitely hadn’t existed in decades.

  Very mundane.

  Olivia stepped closer to the glass and raised her voice slightly.

  “Sorry! We’re closed for the weekend! Come back on Monday!”

  She turned to head back to the desk—

  “I’m a Host!” the man called after her. “You’re the new receptionist, Olivia!”

  She stopped.

  Turned slowly.

  Okay.

  That was odd.

  Didn’t the doors open automatically for the Hosts?

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  She looked at the still-locked doors, then back at the man outside, who smiled and lifted his hands in a small, harmless shrug.

  Apparently, Friday night still had surprises left.

  Olivia approached the door carefully.

  She flipped the lock and opened it just a few inches, keeping one hand on the handle.

  “What show are you with?” she asked, polite but firm.

  The man’s grin widened. “Geoff Arbuckle. B-Movie Enema. I run the Poop Chute. My co-host, Nurse Disembody, calls in remotely.”

  Olivia blinked once—then her hand relaxed.

  “Oh. Right. Yes.” She checked the Host log quickly, and there it was. Geoff Arbuckle — Studio F. She nodded, satisfied, and opened the door fully. It swung shut behind him and locked itself again with a familiar click.

  “Thanks,” Geoff said cheerfully. “Sometimes the station likes to play little tricks on us mundanes. Doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s a pain.”

  “That’s… good to know,” Olivia said honestly.

  They were mid-conversation when footsteps sounded from the stairwell. Charles emerged into the lobby, coat already half in motion, and smiled when he spotted them.

  “There you are, Geoff,” he said warmly. “Station wouldn’t let you in again?”

  Geoff rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Just one of those days.”

  Charles turned to Olivia. “You handled that perfectly.”

  Olivia let out the breath she’d been holding. “I was worried I’d messed up.”

  “Not at all,” Charles assured her. “You checked credentials, confirmed identity, and stayed polite. Exactly as intended.”

  Geoff nodded. “Honestly? Best welcome I’ve had all month.”

  Olivia smiled as Geoff collected his studio pass and headed down the hallway, humming tunelessly to himself.

  Charles glanced at the clock on the wall. “That’s your cue.”

  “My cue?”

  “Dinner,” he said. “Staff eats at seven. The Hosts know this. You’ll have a quiet hour.”

  “Oh,” Olivia said, suddenly very aware of how hungry she was again.

  Charles gestured toward the break room. “Come on. You’ve earned it.”

  The lobby settled once more as Olivia followed him, confidence intact, knowing now—without doubt—that she belonged behind that desk.

  Dinner that night was nothing like the quiet, intimate meals Olivia had grown used to over the last few days.

  The breakroom was alive.

  Laughter echoed off the walls. Plates clinked. Someone argued passionately about aspect ratios while someone else cackled at something that had happened in a film sometime in 1956 and was still funny. The long tables were crowded, chairs pulled close, coats draped over backs, hats set carefully aside—or not set aside at all.

  The moment Olivia and Charles stepped through the door, heads turned.

  Smiles spread.

  “Oh! There she is!”

  “Evening, Olivia!”

  “So this is her!”

  Her name rippled through the room like a friendly spell.

  Charles’s hand rested lightly at the small of her back as he guided her in, already in his element. “Everyone—Olivia Harrison, our new receptionist. Olivia, brace yourself.”

  Introductions came swiftly and enthusiastically.

  Lord Blood-Rah swept forward first, tall and commanding in a voodoo priest’s top hat and deep brocade vest, rings flashing as he laughed. His New Orleans accent wrapped every word in warmth. “Darlin’, it is such a pleasure. Any friend of this station is family to me.”

  Bobby Gammonster followed, immaculate in an old-fashioned suit with a dramatic opera cape. A real, live buzzard perched calmly on his shoulder, preening a wing. “That’s Boris,” Bobby said proudly. The buzzard clicked approvingly. Olivia greeted Boris just as politely.

  Doctor Tyranny bounced over next, goggles pushed up into wild hair, lab coat bristling with pockets and pens. “Ah! Fresh blood!” he exclaimed, then laughed at his own phrasing. “Metaphorically! Mostly!”

  And then—

  “AH-HAHAHAHA!”

  Zomboo appeared as if he’d burst straight out of a flickering black-and-white screen. Wild hair exploded from beneath his hat, his entire outfit locked in grayscale tones that somehow defied modern lighting. He seized Olivia’s hand theatrically.

  “I HAVE BEEN A FAN OF YOU FOR AGES!” he declared.

  Olivia flushed scarlet. “I—what?”

  Zomboo cackled again and vanished into the crowd before she could respond.

  Olivia stood there for a moment, stunned, heart racing—not with fear, but with the overwhelming warmth of it all.

  Tonight, the usual modest counters were transformed. A massive buffet stretched across the room, dish after dish steaming gently, every Host’s favorite represented as if by careful design. People filled plates, traded bites, argued good-naturedly over sauces, and drifted between seats like planets in comfortable orbit.

  “This is…” Olivia started, then laughed helplessly. “Wow.”

  As she joined the buffet line beside Charles, she leaned close and whispered, “How many Hosts are there again?”

  Charles chuckled, selecting something that smelled heavenly. “Active roster of about fifty-three. Twenty or so on a regular weekend.”

  She stared at him. “Fifty-three.”

  “You’re doing fine,” he added lightly.

  Plates full, they moved to the table—and Olivia realized something else odd. A chair near the end was already subtly open for her, just enough space, just right. No one questioned it. No one hovered.

  And absolutely no one would dare sit in Charles’s recliner.

  Conversation flowed easily once they sat. Hosts asked how she was liking the job, whether she needed anything, if she’d like to watch live performances sometime—with safeguards, of course. Advice was offered freely, kindly. Jokes landed gently. No one rushed her. No one tested her.

  Despite the noise, the strangeness, the sheer impossible scale of it all, Olivia felt something settle in her chest.

  Not nerves.

  Belonging.

  For the first time in a very long while, she wasn’t just tolerated. She wasn’t passing through. She wasn’t pretending.

  She was already part of the family.

  And the night was only just beginning.

  They ate. They chatted. The hours slipped by in warm, overlapping conversations that ebbed and flowed like a tide.

  Hosts drifted in and out of the breakroom, some lingering, some only passing through on their way to studios or editing bays. Each paused when they saw Olivia—smiling, greeting her by name, introducing themselves not like strangers, but like people picking up a conversation that had merely been interrupted for a few years.

  “So that’s where you’ve been.”

  “Took you long enough.”

  “Glad you finally found your way.”

  It was… unsettling. And comforting. Both at once.

  During a rare quiet moment, when the buffet had thinned and several Hosts were deep in an animated debate about matte paintings versus rear projection, Olivia leaned closer to Charles.

  “…Can I ask you something?” she said softly.

  “Always,” he replied, already smiling like he knew what was coming.

  “They’re acting like they already know me,” she said. “Not just ‘welcome aboard’—more like… re-acquainting. Like I went missing and just turned up again.”

  Charles’s smile turned sly, knowing. He sipped his drink and said simply,

  “Blame the Signal. It knew where you needed to be. And now—here you are.”

  A few nearby Hosts hummed in agreement.

  “Quite right,” someone murmured.

  “About time,” another said.

  Doctor Torpor, who had drifted closer without anyone quite noticing, tilted his smooth, pale head and studied Olivia thoughtfully.

  “Shame about the ears, though,” he said, conversationally. “They’re nice, certainly—but you’d look so much better with real ones.”

  The room went very still.

  Charles didn’t look at Torpor—but his ears twitched sharply.

  Several Hosts hissed under their breath.

  “Wrong place—”

  “Wrong time—”

  “Torpor—!”

  Olivia blinked, then laughed softly.

  “Maybe,” she said easily, with a small shrug, “with enough time around here, I’ll grow real ones.”

  The laughter that followed was… not quite laughter. Too quick. Too tight.

  Charles cleared his throat loudly. “Right then!” he said brightly. “Back to work, before someone says something they’ll regret explaining.”

  He stood, offering Olivia his arm. She took it without hesitation.

  As they left the breakroom, Olivia glanced back once—catching Doctor Torpor staring after her, expression unreadable.

  Miss LaDonna was already at the front desk when they returned, calmly fielding a call and jotting notes with elegant efficiency. She smiled at Olivia as she hung up, warmth in her eyes.

  “All settled?” she asked.

  Olivia nodded, sliding back into her chair. “Very.”

  Charles tipped an imaginary hat. “Excellent. I’ll leave you in capable hands.”

  And with that, the night resumed—phones ringing, doors opening, the quiet hum of the station settling back into its strange, familiar rhythm.

  But something lingered.

  Not discomfort.

  Anticipation.

  The Signal, unseen and unheard, was still very much at work.

  Miss LaDonna and Charles lingered at the front desk as the evening wore on, an easy, practiced rhythm settling in as Olivia checked in the last few arriving Hosts. There was chatter, paperwork, the occasional odd request handled with growing confidence. Between arrivals, Charles and Miss LaDonna spoke quietly to one another, voices low but not secretive—just… mindful.

  Eventually, the lobby fell into a lull.

  Olivia hesitated, fingers resting on the edge of the desk. She’d been turning it over in her head ever since dinner.

  “Um,” she began, then stopped, cleared her throat, and tried again. “Can I ask about something that happened in the breakroom?”

  Charles stilled. Just for a moment.

  Miss LaDonna looked up at her at once, attentive.

  “The comment Doctor Torpor made,” Olivia continued. “About my ears. I thought it was funny, honestly. But everyone else seemed… not so amused.”

  Charles turned away from the desk, staring down one of the side hallways as if it had personally offended him.

  “Too soon,” he muttered. “Too much. Far, far too soon.”

  Olivia frowned. “I didn’t mean to upset anyone.”

  “Oh, you didn’t,” Miss LaDonna said quickly. She rose from her place behind the desk and moved to the other office chair, sitting across from Olivia so they were eye to eye. Her voice softened, took on a careful weight. “But you brushed against something tender. Something unfinished.”

  Charles exhaled slowly and turned back, folding his hands over the head of his cane.

  “Olivia, my dear,” Miss LaDonna continued, “I think it’s time we spoke with you about something very important.”

  Her tone made Olivia sit up straighter.

  “We would normally have this conversation later,” Miss LaDonna went on. “Perhaps much later. After you’d had more time to settle, to feel secure, to learn which questions are safe to ask and which ones… wait patiently.”

  Charles gave a dry little laugh. “But as ever, the Signal has opinions.”

  Miss LaDonna inclined her head. “It always does.”

  Olivia swallowed. “Okay,” she said carefully. “I’m listening.”

  Miss LaDonna folded her hands in her lap. “What Doctor Torpor said wasn’t a joke—not really. Nor was it meant as an insult. It was… an observation. One made without tact, context, or permission.”

  Charles grimaced. “He has the bedside manner of a dropped anvil.”

  “But,” Miss LaDonna said gently, “it frightened the others because it touched on something that is possible here.”

  Olivia’s ears twitched despite herself.

  “Not inevitable,” Miss LaDonna added quickly. “Not expected. And certainly not required.”

  Charles nodded firmly. “No one here is interested in changing you. Least of all without your consent. You are welcome exactly as you are.”

  “Then what was he talking about?” Olivia asked. “He made it sound like… like something might happen to me.”

  Miss LaDonna met her gaze steadily. “What may happen, Olivia, is that you will learn who you are. Fully. Honestly. Without apology.”

  Charles leaned forward slightly. “Some people come to the station already knowing that. Others… discover it along the way.”

  Olivia’s heart thudded a little faster. “Discover what?”

  Miss LaDonna smiled—soft, knowing, not unkind. “Whether what you wear is merely an expression… or a reflection.”

  The lobby hummed around them—the faint buzz of lights, the distant murmur of voices from deeper in the building, the slow ticking of the clock above the desk.

  “You are safe here,” Miss LaDonna said. “You have agency here. Nothing will be forced upon you.”

  Charles lifted his cane and tapped it lightly against the floor once. “But you are in a place where the universe is… flexible. Where truths have room to stretch.”

  Olivia let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “So… my ears. My tail. Being a Furry.”

  “Are real,” Miss LaDonna said simply. “In the way that matters.”

  Charles smiled, gentle and proud. “And whatever they mean for you—whether that remains symbolic, or becomes something more—that will be your choice. In your time.”

  A pause.

  “…That’s a lot,” Olivia admitted.

  Miss LaDonna reached out and placed a warm hand over Olivia’s. “It is. Which is why we weren’t planning to say any of this yet.”

  Charles sighed. “But then Torpor opened his mouth.”

  Olivia laughed softly, tension easing. “Figures.”

  Miss LaDonna stood. “For now, all you need to do is your job, ask questions when you’re ready, and listen—to yourself as much as to the Signal.”

  Charles straightened. “And if anyone makes you uncomfortable again, you tell us. Immediately.”

  Olivia nodded, feeling oddly steadied. “I will.”

  The phone rang.

  Miss LaDonna smiled. “Duty calls.”

  As Olivia reached for the receiver, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something had shifted—not ominously, not urgently… but inevitably.

  The Signal, it seemed, had begun tuning her frequency.

  The phone clicked softly back into its cradle.

  “That was Lord Blood-Rah?” Olivia asked, still half-smiling.

  “A devotee,” Charles said dryly. “Or at least someone hoping to be.”

  Olivia let out a small breath, then glanced between them. The question that had been circling finally landed.

  “So,” she said, carefully casual, “I know what I am. I’m a Furry. German Shepherd fursona. That part’s not a mystery.” She paused. “Does that mean the Signal is going to… turn me into a German Shepherd? Like, actually?”

  There was no fear in her voice. Only curiosity. Honest, open curiosity.

  Charles and Miss LaDonna exchanged a look—one layered with history, caution, relief, and something like affection.

  Miss LaDonna moved first. She scooted her chair closer and slipped an arm gently around Olivia’s shoulders.

  “No, child,” she said softly. “It doesn’t work like that. Not at all.”

  Olivia relaxed into the contact, nodding. “Okay. Then… how does it work?”

  Charles leaned back against the desk, folding his arms. “The Signal doesn’t do anything to anyone.”

  Olivia blinked. “But it called me.”

  “Yes,” Miss LaDonna said. “It called you. It didn’t push. It didn’t pull. It didn’t change you.”

  “The Signal,” Charles continued, “is more like… a suggestion. A nudge. A quiet voice that says, you would be better off here, now, instead of there, then.”

  Olivia frowned slightly. “That’s it?”

  “That’s plenty,” Miss LaDonna said gently. “When someone listens to it—really listens—and follows it to the time and place it’s pointing toward, they usually find something remarkable.”

  “What?” Olivia asked.

  “They find themselves,” Charles said. “In a better state than they were before. Safer. Clearer. More whole.”

  Miss LaDonna nodded. “And once someone is no longer exhausted from surviving, they begin to notice something else.”

  Olivia swallowed. “Which is?”

  “That they could be more,” Miss LaDonna said. “Not different. Not replaced. More fully themselves.”

  Charles tilted his head. “The Signal doesn’t cause change. It simply leads people to a place where change becomes possible.”

  Olivia was quiet for a moment, absorbing that. “And that change… that’s the thing you called the Unfolding?”

  “Yes,” Miss LaDonna said. “That is the name we use.”

  “What is it, exactly?” Olivia asked. “Is it magic? Biology? Something… else?”

  Charles smiled faintly. “Yes.”

  Olivia snorted despite herself. “Figures.”

  Miss LaDonna squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. “The Unfolding is a process. One that belongs entirely to the person experiencing it. It doesn’t always happen quickly.”

  “Sometimes it takes years,” Charles added. “Sometimes it never happens at all.”

  “And when it does?” Olivia pressed.

  Miss LaDonna’s voice softened further. “It is beautiful. Profound. Clarifying.”

  “And,” Charles said carefully, “not entirely painless.”

  Olivia raised an eyebrow. “Define painless.”

  “The discomfort is brief,” Miss LaDonna said. “Like growing pains. Or the ache of finally stretching a muscle that’s been clenched for too long.”

  “And it passes,” Charles said. “Very quickly. What follows is… better.”

  Olivia looked down at her hands. “So. Am I going to unfold?”

  Charles didn’t answer immediately.

  “We don’t know,” Miss LaDonna said honestly. “No one ever does ahead of time.”

  “And what would I unfold into?” Olivia asked. “Because if you’re saying I won’t just turn into a dog—”

  “No,” Charles said firmly. “You won’t suddenly become a German Shepherd because you like German Shepherds.”

  “But,” Miss LaDonna said gently, “what you choose to express about yourself now may be… closer to the truth than you realize.”

  Olivia’s ears twitched.

  “But listen to me,” Miss LaDonna said, turning Olivia’s face toward hers. “This is the most important part.”

  Charles nodded. “Nothing happens without your consent.”

  “The Unfolding,” Miss LaDonna continued, “is always a choice. If the opportunity ever presents itself, you may accept it—or you may decline it. Both are valid.”

  “There is no punishment for refusing,” Charles said. “No disappointment. No loss.”

  Olivia exhaled slowly. “So the Signal won’t… make me do anything.”

  “No,” Miss LaDonna said. “The Signal only opens doors.”

  “And you,” Charles added, “decide whether to walk through them.”

  Silence settled—not heavy, but thoughtful.

  “…Okay,” Olivia said at last. “That actually makes a lot of sense.”

  Miss LaDonna smiled. “Good.”

  Olivia glanced between them, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I’m not scared.”

  Charles’s expression softened. “We know.”

  She leaned back in her chair, thoughtful but calm. “Then I guess… if something happens someday, I’ll deal with it when it does.”

  “Exactly,” Miss LaDonna said, giving her a gentle squeeze before standing. “One step at a time.”

  The phone rang again.

  Olivia reached for it, steadier than before.

  “OtherWorlds Media,” she said brightly. “How may I help you?”

  The Signal, patient as ever, waited.

  By one a.m., the last of the Hosts had arrived.

  Studio lights glowed down the halls. Theme music echoed faintly through walls thick with history. One by one, passes had been issued, schedules confirmed, questions answered. The station was fully awake now—alive in that peculiar, nocturnal way it always was on weekends.

  Olivia leaned back in her chair behind the front desk, rubbing at her neck and shoulders. She was tired—properly tired—but it was the good kind. The earned kind.

  Charles and Miss LaDonna lingered with her for a while after the final check-in, keeping her company as the lobby settled into its overnight quiet. They spoke again, briefly, about what might happen someday.

  Or might not.

  There were no promises. No expectations. Just reassurance.

  Whatever came next—if anything ever did—would be her choice. Always.

  Eventually, Miss LaDonna squeezed her hand and wished her good night. Charles tipped his hat, reminded her breakfast would still be waiting come Monday morning, and gently ushered her toward the stairs.

  Off duty until nine a.m. Monday.

  She’d more than earned it.

  Upstairs, the apartment welcomed her back with soft light and quiet warmth. Olivia set her things aside, kicked off her shoes, and decided that tonight deserved something special.

  Not a quick shower.

  A soak.

  By the time she stepped into the bathroom, the tub was already waiting—filled to just the right depth, steam curling lazily in the air. The water was exactly the temperature she liked. Bubbles frothed gently at the surface, carrying a familiar, comforting scent she couldn’t quite name but instantly loved.

  She didn’t question it.

  Too tired. Too content.

  Olivia undressed and slid into the bath, sinking back against the padded cushion with a sigh that bordered on a laugh. The heat seeped into her muscles, easing aches she hadn’t even noticed she was carrying. Her thoughts—still buzzing with goblins and Signals and Hosts and choices—slowly softened, drifting instead of racing.

  Her ears twitched once, then relaxed.

  For the first time in a very long while, she felt truly, deeply at ease.

  The station hummed quietly around her.

  And Olivia, wrapped in warmth and steam and possibility, let herself rest.