Early June came quietly.

  June 4th, if Olivia had bothered to check.

  She woke slowly that morning, the way one does when sleep has been deep but not entirely restful. For a few seconds she lay still, taking inventory—warm bed, steady hum in the walls, familiar ceiling above her.

  Then she frowned.

  Something felt… off.

  Not sharply. Not alarmingly. Just a mild pressure around her face and the top of her head, as though a headache were thinking about happening but hadn’t fully committed yet. It took her a moment to recognize the sensation at all—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d woken with one.

  The bed shifted beneath her, reluctant to release her, but sensing her intent. She swung her legs over the side and stood, only to feel a faint twinge in her lower back.

  “That’s new,” she murmured.

  She hadn’t had back pain since moving in. The bed was always exactly right. She dismissed it with a shrug—she must have slept in some odd position the bed couldn’t quite compensate for.

  The walk to the bathroom was slower than usual. She took care of business, then paused, mind suddenly racing.

  Oh gods. Am I on my period?

  The thought hit her all at once. She opened the cabinet and stared inside.

  Nothing.

  No tampons. No pads.

  Her stomach dropped. If that was what this was, she’d need to deal with it immediately.

  After a quick shower, she did feel a little better—cleaner, clearer—but the vague aches hadn’t entirely faded. She dressed in comfortable slacks, a light blouse, and her station jacket. No shoes. She hadn’t felt the need for them in weeks, and the station floors were warm and kind beneath her feet.

  As she headed downstairs, she made a mental note: Ask Miss LaDonna about supplies.

  She winced slightly at the thought of bringing it up with Charles instead. She wasn’t ready for that conversation yet. Surely Miss LaDonna would be easier.

  The breakroom greeted her with warmth and the unmistakable smell of comfort.

  Charles stood at the counter, ladling thick white gravy over the biggest, fluffiest biscuits she had ever seen. A large bowl of scrambled eggs sat nearby, impossibly soft and yellow.

  Her stomach growled loudly, betraying her.

  Charles looked up at once, smiling. “Good morning!”

  “Morning,” Olivia said, returning the smile as she took a seat. She immediately noticed Miss LaDonna’s absence—her chair empty, her teacup untouched.

  Charles set a plate in front of her. “Eat. Breakfast fixes more things than it has any business fixing.”

  She took a bite. It helped. A little.

  The pressure around her head lingered, and the odd ache in her back hadn’t gone anywhere. She shifted in her chair and glanced again at the empty seat.

  “Is Miss LaDonna already busy this morning?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

  “She had an errand,” Charles replied easily. “She’ll be along later.”

  “Oh.” Olivia hesitated, fork hovering, then set it down.

  “Charles?” she began.

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “So. Hypothetically,” she said carefully.

  He waited.

  “If someone were to need… something. A very ordinary thing. A completely mundane thing.”

  “Yes,” Charles said, nodding encouragingly.

  “And that thing was… personal.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “And not something one necessarily wants to announce over breakfast.”

  “I see.”

  She frowned. “Do you?”

  “Not yet,” Charles said pleasantly.

  She closed her eyes briefly, then pressed on. “There isn’t, like, a cabinet somewhere I can quietly check? Or a shelf?”

  Charles tilted his head. “Oh! No. You just tell me what you need.”

  Her eyes snapped open. “I—what?”

  “I fetch it for you,” he said, as if this explained everything. “That’s how supplies work.”

  Silence stretched.

  She cleared her throat. “Right. Well. The thing is. I might need something that is generally used during a… monthly biological occurrence.”

  Charles blinked once. “Could you be more specific?”

  Her cheeks burned.

  “You know. That.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” he said calmly. “You’ll have to tell me.”

  “You’re doing this on purpose,” she accused weakly.

  “I assure you, I am not embarrassed,” Charles replied serenely. “Therefore, I require clarity.”

  Olivia leaned forward, lowering her voice. “PADS. OR TAMPONS. OR BOTH. BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW WHICH ONE I NEED YET.”

  “Oh!” Charles said brightly. “Of course.”

  He reached into his coat without hesitation.

  Olivia buried her face in her hands.

  “Why are you like this?,” she muttered.

  “A lifetime of practice,” he replied mildly, setting a neat paper-wrapped bundle beside her plate. “If you find you prefer one over the other, just let me know. Brands, absorbency, preferences—I keep notes.”

  She peeked out between her fingers. “…You do?”

  “Everyone deserves comfort,” Charles said simply.

  Something inside her loosened.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  “You’re welcome,” Charles replied. “And for what it’s worth—waking up ‘off’ happens sometimes around here. Especially for people who are settling.”

  She nodded, accepting that for now.

  Olivia picked her fork back up, cheeks still warm but heart steadier, and returned to her breakfast.

  Whatever this was, it wasn’t a crisis.

  And apparently, all she had to do was say the words.

  The morning settled into its usual rhythm.

  Phones rang. Emails chimed. The station breathed.

  Olivia slid back into her chair at the front desk and let habit take over. Calls about schedules, polite corrections about time zones, a spirited debate over whether last weekend’s double feature constituted accidental commentary or intentional curation. She logged, replied, redirected, reassured.

  She was good at this now. Confident. Grounded.

  And underneath it all, the mild headache stayed.

  Not sharp. Not throbbing. Just there—like someone resting their palm gently against the top of her head and refusing to move. The faint ache in her lower back lingered too, unchanged, neither worsening nor fading.

  She checked. Quietly. Once. Then again an hour later.

  Nothing.

  No cramps. No spotting. No familiar signals that usually arrived quickly once things started. For her, there was rarely much of a preamble—her body tended to get straight to the point.

  This wasn’t that.

  She shifted in her chair, rolled her shoulders, stretched carefully. The station chair adjusted obligingly, but it didn’t make the sensation go away.

  An email came in from a professor thanking her for the thoughtful response. Another from a viewer who wanted to know if the new forum would allow long-form essays. She answered both, fingers moving automatically.

  She glanced once at the neat paper-wrapped bundle Charles had given her, tucked discreetly into her bag. Inside were the supplies she’d asked for—and a small addition she hadn’t requested but appreciated: a blister pack of mild analgesics, labeled in Charles’s careful hand just in case.

  She hadn’t taken any yet.

  By late morning, she realized that was becoming a conscious decision.

  Let’s not mask anything until I know what this is, she thought.

  The thought surprised her. Old Olivia might have reached for painkillers immediately, pushed through, pretended nothing was happening. New Olivia—station Olivia—was paying attention.

  Still, unease crept in.

  She checked the clock.

  Lunch approached.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Miss LaDonna still hadn’t returned.

  Olivia found herself glancing toward the lobby doors more often than usual, hoping to see her familiar figure appear, cardigan in place, expression calm and knowing. This felt like something Miss LaDonna would understand instinctively, something she could explain without making it bigger than it needed to be.

  Charles stopped by briefly to collect a package, asked if everything was all right. Olivia smiled and said yes—and it wasn’t even a lie, not exactly. She just… wasn’t sure yet.

  When the lunch hour finally arrived, the headache was still there.

  The back ache too.

  No new symptoms. No escalation. No resolution.

  Just different.

  Olivia closed her email client, set her phone to standby, and leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling tiles.

  “This is odd,” she murmured to herself.

  Not scary.

  Not painful.

  Just unsettling in its quiet persistence.

  And for the first time since morning, a small, careful worry began to take shape—not panic, not dread, but the recognition that this might not be something she could solve by waiting it out.

  She straightened, gathered her things, and headed for lunch, determined to check in again afterward.

  Miss LaDonna would be back soon.

  Surely.

  And if not—

  Well.

  She trusted that the station wouldn’t let her drift too far without an answer.

  Lunch was quiet.

  Just the two of them in the breakroom, plates of cold cuts neatly arranged, fresh fruit sliced and waiting. Nothing fancy. Comfort food without ceremony. Olivia appreciated that more than she expected.

  The food helped—steadied her, took the edge off the hollow unease—but it didn’t make the lingering discomfort go away. The pressure at her temples remained, patient and unchanging. The ache in her back still sat there like a question that hadn’t decided what it was asking yet.

  Charles watched her eat without staring, the way he always did. Present, but not hovering.

  When she finished half her plate, he asked gently, “How are you feeling now?”

  “I’m fine,” Olivia said automatically, then amended it with a small shrug. “Just… that time of the month, I think.”

  Charles hummed, thoughtful.

  A beat passed.

  Then he said, lightly, “You don’t have to be afraid, you know.”

  She looked up, startled. “I’m not afraid.”

  “I didn’t say you were,” he replied mildly. “Just that you don’t have to be.”

  That made her frown. “Charles…”

  He smiled faintly, eyes kind. “If you’d like a professional opinion, I’m available.”

  She stared at him. “…A professional what opinion?”

  “Oh,” he said, as if it had slipped his mind. “I’m a doctor.”

  Silence.

  “You’re what.”

  “Fully licensed,” he added helpfully.

  Olivia blinked. Once. Twice. “Since when?”

  Charles leaned back slightly, folding his hands. “I received my doctorate from Cambridge in 1683.”

  Her mouth opened.

  Closed.

  “…I’m sorry,” she said carefully. “Did you just say sixteen—”

  “Eighty-three,” he confirmed cheerfully. “It was a brisk winter.”

  She stared at him.

  “I then served as a medic in several conflicts,” he continued conversationally. “Revolutionary War through Korea, give or take. A few others in realms you wouldn’t recognize. Picked up trauma medicine, battlefield surgery, infectious disease control—things like that.”

  He tilted his head. “I’ve kept up with continuing education, of course.”

  Olivia pushed her plate away slowly.

  “You’re telling me,” she said, voice very flat, “that you’re an ancient goblin, station owner, time-adjacent being, and a licensed medical professional.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you waited until now to mention this.”

  “You hadn’t needed to know before,” Charles said gently.

  She rubbed her face with both hands. “Of course you are.”

  “I promise,” he added calmly, “I wouldn’t offer if it weren’t relevant. And I won’t insist. Your body, your choice.”

  She lowered her hands and looked at him again. He wasn’t amused. Wasn’t smug. Just… sincere.

  “I don’t feel sick,” she said. “Just… different.”

  Charles nodded. “Different is worth paying attention to.”

  She exhaled slowly.

  “I’m not ready for examinations or diagnoses or anything like that,” she said. “I just wanted—”

  “Time,” he finished for her.

  “Yes.”

  He smiled. “Then take it.”

  They sat in companionable quiet for a moment, the station humming softly around them.

  “But,” Charles added, gently, “if the difference changes—or if it frightens you—you don’t have to carry it alone.”

  Olivia nodded.

  That helped.

  Not because he had answers—but because he hadn’t tried to force them on her.

  And for now, that was enough.

  By closing time, Miss LaDonna still hadn’t returned.

  Olivia noticed more than she wanted to admit. The station had its rhythms, its comings and goings, and Miss LaDonna was usually as dependable as the hum in the walls. Her absence tugged at Olivia’s nerves, already frayed by the low, persistent discomfort she couldn’t quite shake.

  It didn’t help that the unmistakable scent of Lemon Popcorn from Theatre C had drifted through the lobby sometime after four. Bright. Sharp. Cheerful. Normally comforting.

  Right now, it made her irritable in a way that surprised her.

  At five o’clock on the dot, the lobby doors locked themselves with a soft, final click. Charles came over to the front desk, his cane tapping lightly, his expression gentle but assessing.

  “You look like you’re holding yourself together with willpower alone,” he said kindly. “Why don’t you go take a proper soak until dinner? I’ll let you know the moment Miss LaDonna returns. And if you’d rather not come back down later, I can have dinner sent up.”

  Olivia shook her head immediately. “I’m fine. Really. Just… slow-starting period, I think. Sorry if I’ve been cranky.”

  “You haven’t,” Charles said, without hesitation.

  She sighed. “Still. A soak does sound nice.”

  “That’s settled, then,” he said warmly.

  Upstairs, her apartment greeted her with quiet competence.

  She undressed and eased herself into the garden tub, already filled—water temperature perfect. No added scents, no oils, no clever flourishes. Just warmth.

  She smiled faintly.

  “Okay,” she murmured to the room, “you win. You know me.”

  The tub’s headrest adjusted gently as she settled back. The ache in her head softened just enough for her eyelids to grow heavy. She drifted off for a few minutes, supported, safe, the apartment making sure she didn’t become what Charles once jokingly referred to as a household statistic.

  When she woke, the water was still warm.

  She checked the clock.

  “Almost seven,” she muttered.

  Climbing out, she dried off slowly, the lingering headache and back ache still present but muted—annoying rather than painful. She pulled on loose, soft pajamas and glanced at herself in the mirror.

  “Screw decorum,” she told her reflection. “I need comfort. And this absolutely counts as dressed.”

  Down in the breakroom, the table was set.

  Three place settings.

  Only Charles was there.

  That… bothered her.

  Dinner was soup tonight—several varieties set out, each labeled in Charles’s precise hand. Only two bore the familiar cautionary markings. Olivia chose one she’d never heard of before, but which was clearly marked safe, filled her bowl, and sat in her usual chair.

  Charles already had his soup: something glittery that shifted colors with each spoonful, accompanied by thick slabs of crusty bread.

  “I’m a bit concerned,” he said quietly, after a moment. “Miss LaDonna should have been back by now.”

  Before Olivia could respond, a familiar scent reached her.

  Tea.

  Bergamot.

  Woodsmoke.

  She barely had time to register the relief before Miss LaDonna stepped into the breakroom, removing her coat and setting it aside with practiced ease.

  “My apologies,” she said calmly. “Things ran a bit longer than I expected. All squared away now, thank goodness. Frizzle has promised to be more careful where she takes her students next time.”

  She moved to the soup, selected a bowl, and joined them at the table.

  “How is everyone?” she asked.

  Her gaze shifted to Olivia immediately, sharp and gentle all at once.

  “Olivia, my dear,” Miss LaDonna said softly, “you look a bit under the weather. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Olivia felt the knot in her chest loosen.

  Finally.

  Someone she could talk to.

  Olivia blinked, a little surprised.

  “I didn’t realize I looked under the weather,” she said, glancing down at herself, then back up with a small, apologetic smile. “But I know you can spot these things better than most people.”

  Miss LaDonna’s expression stayed gentle and unreadable, the way it always did when she was taking in more than she was saying.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing dramatic,” Olivia continued, quick to reassure. “Probably just my period being… irregular. New place, better food, different routines. Bodies get weird about that sort of thing.”

  She lifted her spoon again and took another bite of soup—and visibly relaxed.

  “Oh wow,” she added, eyes widening a little. “By the way, what is this? ‘Nightingale Warble’?”

  Charles smiled faintly over his own bowl.

  “That’s an old recipe,” he said. “Comfort food, mostly.”

  “It’s heavenly,” Olivia said honestly. “Like… if warm reassurance had a flavor.”

  Miss LaDonna watched her closely as she ate—how she held herself, the slight stiffness she hadn’t quite masked, the way she paused between bites as if checking in with her own body.

  “It does tend to have that effect,” Miss LaDonna said softly.

  She did not contradict Olivia.

  She did not press.

  She did not say this is not a period.

  But she also did not agree.

  Instead, she settled into her seat, folded her hands around her bowl, and said, “If it is just adjustment, your body will tell you soon enough.”

  Olivia nodded, content for the moment, spoon scraping the bottom of the bowl.

  Miss LaDonna took a sip of her soup, eyes thoughtful.

  Soon enough, she agreed silently.

  And until then, there was no need to rush the truth.

  After dinner, Olivia yawned, the sound slipping out before she could stop it.

  “If nobody objects,” she said, rubbing at one temple, “I think I’d like to turn in early. I’m just wiped from this headache, and if it is my period starting, I probably need the rest.”

  Charles nodded at once. “Entirely sensible.”

  Miss LaDonna reached across the table and gave Olivia’s hand a brief, reassuring squeeze. “If you need anything,” she said quietly, emphasis gentle but unmistakable, “anything at all, we’re just a shout away.”

  Charles murmured his agreement.

  “I will,” Olivia promised, smiling despite herself. “But I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll take one of the analgesics you tucked into that care package, crawl into bed, and be right as rain by morning.”

  On that note, she stood, gathered her bowl, and headed for the stairs. A few moments later, her footsteps faded, replaced by the familiar quiet hum of the station settling into evening.

  The moment she was well and truly out of earshot, Charles and Miss LaDonna looked at one another.

  The warmth in the room cooled—not into fear, but into focus.

  “Bernard,” Miss LaDonna said softly.

  The response came almost at once, drifting down through the vents in that steady Welsh lilt. “Yes, Miss LaDonna. I’m listening.”

  “Keep an eye on her, if you please,” she said. “It may be time. And we may be needed at a moment’s notice.”

  “Yes,” Bernard replied calmly. “As always.”

  There was a brief pause, then, curious but professional, “Any thoughts yet? Whether she’s unfolding—or what she might unfold into?”

  Charles exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face.

  “Everything is just so… uncertain this time around,” he said. “If it happens, we can’t even guarantee her final form. True, the last three times she went the canine route—but the most recent wasn’t a Shepherd at all. And twice before, she was avian.”

  Miss LaDonna nodded, unsurprised.

  “All we can do,” Charles continued quietly, “is trust that the Signal is true this time.”

  The station hummed around them, listening.

  Upstairs, Olivia took one of the tablets from her care package, barely thinking about it, and slipped into bed. Sleep claimed her almost instantly, the mattress only just beginning to adjust its warmth and firmness before she was gone.

  She slept deeply.

  The bed remained attentive.

  The station remained watchful.

  And somewhere across more realities than most could count, the question lingered—not if, but how.