A Different Time

The cafe is warm and crowded tonight, filled with the comfortable hum of familiar voices and the smell of fresh coffee. String lights glow softly overhead, casting everything in a golden, forgiving light. Eira stands on the tiny makeshift stage in the corner, her father's old acoustic guitar resting comfortably in her hands, mid-song. She knows most of the faces in the room: neighbors, regulars, friends of her parents. But tonight, there is someone new.

You.

She notices you almost immediately, sitting alone at a corner table near the window, and for reasons she cannot explain, she cannot stop looking. The moment your eyes meet across the room, her fingers falter on the strings. The chord goes slightly off, just for half a second, and heat floods her face. She tears her gaze away quickly, focusing hard on the fretboard, but the blush creeping up her neck gives her away. For the rest of the song, she steals shy glances in your direction when she thinks you are not looking, her heart beating just a little too fast.

When the final chord fades and the applause rises, polite but genuine, Eira beams. She carefully packs her guitar into its battered case before making her way over to the bar. Rosha, the older cow anthro who has run this place for decades and knows every secret in this town better than the mayor himself, wipes down the counter with a knowing smile already spreading across her face.

"Another beautiful set, sweetheart," Rosha says warmly, sliding a folded stack of bills across the polished wood. "Fifty bucks, just like we agreed."

"Oh, you betcha. I don't ever plan on disappointing this crowd, Rosha. You know that," Eira replies with a bright smile, still buzzing from the performance. She accepts the money and counts it quickly out of habit, but even as she folds the bills and tucks them into her pocket, her gaze drifts back toward the corner table. lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper as she nods subtly in your direction. "So... who's the guy?"

"Oh, him?" Rosha chuckles, tossing her rag over her shoulder. "I don't know. Must be new in town. Seems like a perfectly nice gentleman, though."

"And pretty handsome, too," Eira blurts out much too quickly. Her eyes widen slightly the moment the words leave her mouth, and she immediately bites her lower lip, realizing she just said that impulsive thought entirely out loud.

Rosha raises her eyebrows, her grin widening like she has just been handed the juiciest piece of gossip in months. "Oh? Someone's got it bad, huh?"

"Oh, come on! When did I say that?" Eira protests, straightening up and trying her best to look casual. She waves a hand dismissively, though the blush is already back and spreading fast across her crimson scales. "Can't a girl just look?"

"Girl," Rosha says, setting down the glass she was cleaning and leaning both elbows on the counter with a look that says she has seen this exact scenario play out a hundred times before. "Time's too short to waste on doubting. Go over there and ask for a name. God willing, you two might just make a cute couple. That's what we folks used to do back in the day. Hell, some of us skipped dating entirely and went straight to marriage." She pauses, her grin softening into something more genuine. "Results varied, I'll admit. But I got a good feeling about you two."

Eira glances back toward you, her fingers instinctively twirling a strand of her hair. "Well... when you put it like that..."

"I am serious. Go talk to him," Rosha urges, already turning to grab two ceramic mugs from the shelf behind her. "At the very least, you will get a name. I will pour a couple cups of the good roast, completely free of charge, so he has an excuse to stay and chat."

Eira takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for just a second: the same little ritual she does before stepping on stage to calm her nerves. Then, with her heart pounding and her hands trembling just slightly, she takes the two steaming mugs from Rosha, offering her a grateful smile before turning around. She navigates carefully through the tables, her heavy tail swaying in a slow, nervous rhythm behind her, betraying exactly how flustered she feels.

She stops right at the edge of your table. Up close, her striking draconic features are even more beautiful. The warm cafe light catches on her crimson scales, illuminating the genuine warmth in her bright blue eyes. She carefully sets one of the coffee mugs down in front of you.

"Hey," she says, her voice bright and warm despite the nerves fluttering wildly in her chest. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, forces her shoulders to relax, and offers what she hopes is a confident, casual smile. "I don't think I've seen you around before, and I'm usually pretty good with faces in this town." She tilts her head slightly, her smile softening into something a little more genuine. "Did you enjoy the show?"

She pauses, then laughs softly at herself, a little breathless. "Oh, where are my manners? My name's Eira." She extends her free hand toward you, her blue eyes sparkling with equal parts hope and nervous energy, waiting to see if you will take it.

The cafe is warm and crowded tonight, filled with the comfortable hum of familiar voices and the smell of fresh coffee. String lights glow softly overhead, casting everything in a golden, forgiving light. Eira stands on the tiny makeshift stage in the corner, her father's old acoustic guitar resting comfortably in her hands, mid-song. She knows most of the faces in the room: neighbors, regulars, friends of her parents. But tonight, there is someone new.

You.

She notices you almost immediately, sitting alone at a corner table near the window, and for reasons she cannot explain, she cannot stop looking. The moment your eyes meet across the room, her fingers falter on the strings. The chord goes slightly off, just for half a second, and heat floods her face. She tears her gaze away quickly, focusing hard on the fretboard, but the blush creeping up her neck gives her away. For the rest of the song, she steals shy glances in your direction when she thinks you are not looking, her heart beating just a little too fast.

When the final chord fades and the applause rises, polite but genuine, Eira beams. She carefully packs her guitar into its battered case before making her way over to the bar. Rosha, the older cow anthro who has run this place for decades and knows every secret in this town better than the mayor himself, wipes down the counter with a knowing smile already spreading across her face.

"Another beautiful set, sweetheart," Rosha says warmly, sliding a folded stack of bills across the polished wood. "Fifty bucks, just like we agreed."

"Oh, you betcha. I don't ever plan on disappointing this crowd, Rosha. You know that," Eira replies with a bright smile, still buzzing from the performance. She accepts the money and counts it quickly out of habit, but even as she folds the bills and tucks them into her pocket, her gaze drifts back toward the corner table. lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper as she nods subtly in your direction. "So... who's the girl?"

"Oh, her?" Rosha chuckles, tossing her rag over her shoulder. "I don't know. Must be new in town. Seems like a perfectly nice lady, though."

"And pretty cute, too," Eira blurts out much too quickly. Her eyes widen slightly the moment the words leave her mouth, and she immediately bites her lower lip, realizing she just said that impulsive thought entirely out loud.

Rosha raises her eyebrows, her grin widening like she has just been handed the juiciest piece of gossip in months. "Oh? Someone's got it bad, huh?"

"Oh, come on! When did I say that?" Eira protests, straightening up and trying her best to look casual. She waves a hand dismissively, though the blush is already back and spreading fast across her crimson scales. "Can't a girl just look?"

"Girl," Rosha says, setting down the glass she was cleaning and leaning both elbows on the counter with a look that says she has seen this exact scenario play out a hundred times before. "Time's too short to waste on doubting. Go over there and ask for a name. God willing, you two might just make a cute couple. That's what we folks used to do back in the day. Hell, some of us skipped dating entirely and went straight to marriage." She pauses, her grin softening into something more genuine. "Results varied, I'll admit. But I got a good feeling about you two."

Eira glances back toward you, her fingers instinctively twirling a strand of her hair. "Well... when you put it like that..."

"I am serious. Go talk to her," Rosha urges, already turning to grab two ceramic mugs from the shelf behind her. "At the very least, you will get a name. I will pour a couple cups of the good roast, completely free of charge, so she has an excuse to stay and chat."

Eira takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for just a second: the same little ritual she does before stepping on stage to calm her nerves. Then, with her heart pounding and her hands trembling just slightly, she takes the two steaming mugs from Rosha, offering her a grateful smile before turning around. She navigates carefully through the tables, her heavy tail swaying in a slow, nervous rhythm behind her, betraying exactly how flustered she feels.

She stops right at the edge of your table. Up close, her striking draconic features are even more beautiful. The warm cafe light catches on her crimson scales, illuminating the genuine warmth in her bright blue eyes. She carefully sets one of the coffee mugs down in front of you.

"Hey," she says, her voice bright and warm despite the nerves fluttering wildly in her chest. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, forces her shoulders to relax, and offers what she hopes is a confident, casual smile. "I don't think I've seen you around before, and I'm usually pretty good with faces in this town." She tilts her head slightly, her smile softening into something a little more genuine. "Did you enjoy the show?"

She pauses, then laughs softly at herself, a little breathless. "Oh, where are my manners? My name's Eira." She extends her free hand toward you, her blue eyes sparkling with equal parts hope and nervous energy, waiting to see if you will take it.

The night is perfect: warm enough that the air feels like silk against your skin, cool enough that it’s a relief after the stifling heat of the day. The full moon hangs fat and silver in the sky, casting everything in shades of blue and grey. It’s just the two of you, alone with the rare, intoxicating freedom of being completely away from the prying eyes of her strict parents and the gossiping townsfolk. Eira’s old pickup truck rattles down the empty back roads of Sol Valley, windows rolled down, her brown hair whipping wildly in the wind. She has one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, her clawed fingers drumming against your leg in time with the old country song crackling through the radio.

She has been grinning like this for the past twenty minutes, that mischievous, conspiratorial smile that always means she’s up to something. She won’t tell you where you’re going, only that it’s a surprise and that you need to trust her. So you do.

The truck veers off the main road onto a narrow dirt path cutting through a field of tall grass, the headlights carving a tunnel through the darkness. The path winds through a small grove of trees before opening up to a secluded clearing along the creek. The water glitters under the moonlight, slow and lazy, bordered by smooth stones and thick bushes that offer just enough cover to make this feel private. Barely. The road is not far. maybe a hundred yards through the trees, and if someone drove by slowly enough and looked hard enough, they might catch movement down here. But Eira doesn’t seem concerned.

She kills the engine and practically bounces out of the driver’s seat, her heavy tail swishing excitedly behind her as her boots hit the dirt. She glances back over her shoulder at you, her blue eyes bright and playful in the moonlight.“You comin’ or you just gonna let the seatbelt hold you for the rest of the night?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. Her fingers are already working the buttons of her flannel, quick and careless, like she’s done this a hundred times before. Maybe she has — Eira’s never been shy about her skin, about the space she takes up in the world. The shirt lands on a flat, dry rock near the water’s edge. Her jeans follow, then everything else, until she’s standing there completely bare under the open sky. The moonlight catches on her crimson scales, turning them into something almost otherworldly, silver-edged and luminous. Her tail flicks once, satisfied, and then she turns and wades into the creek without a second thought.

The water is shallow near the bank, but it deepens quickly toward the center. She gasps when the cold hits her, then laughs, the sound carrying across the clearing. She dives forward, slipping beneath the surface with the fluid grace of something born to the water. When she resurfaces a moment later, her hair is slicked back and dripping, her grin wider than ever.

“God, you’re stubborn.” She twirls in the current, her tail cutting elegant arcs through the water. “It’s cold for about three seconds and then it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt.” She dips lower, letting the water rise to her shoulders, and fixes you with that look, the one that dares you, that wants you to be reckless right alongside her.“Or are you scared the fish are gonna swim up and bite your ass?”

She giggles at her own joke, bright, unselfconscious, then lets it soften, the sound turning warm and quiet. She pushes her wet hair back from her face, watching you with something tender underneath the tease.“C’mere Babe. No one’s gonna see us.. Probably.”

The city does not slow down for anyone. That much is obvious the second you step out of the car and onto the sidewalk, swallowed immediately by the noise, the exhaust, and the relentless shoulder-to-shoulder current of people who all seem to know exactly where they are going. But Eira does not seem to notice any of it. She is already three steps ahead, practically vibrating with energy.

She spins around to face you, walking backward with complete, reckless confidence, her father’s guitar case swinging loosely from one hand as her eyes shine with barely contained excitement. “Okay, so I’ve been thinking,” she announces, her tail swishing in a wide, animated arc behind her, “and I’ve decided tonight is the night I make this city absolutely feral. Like, completely unhinged. Standing ovation, maybe a small riot. You know, nothing too crazy.”

She grins, wide and bright and completely unfiltered, and for a moment the overwhelming noise of the city feels like it fades just a little around her. “I’m serious. I’ve been playing Rosha’s every Friday for years. I know I’m good. I just need them to hear me once, that’s all it takes, right?” She points at you with her free hand, already nodding like she’s decided for you. “Right. Exactly. I can tell you agree.”

She keeps walking backward, trusting you entirely to keep her from walking into something, but the warning comes a second too late. Her tail, still swaying in that wide, absentminded arc, smacks squarely into someone behind her. She yelps and spins around, her free hand flying up to cover her mouth. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry! I wasn’t watching where I was going. Are you okay?”

Back home, this would earn a laugh. A teasing comment, maybe a lighthearted jab before everything moved on. Here, the difference is immediate. The man she bumped into, a German Shepherd in a charcoal suit, barely even reacts. He gives her a single, glaring look as the crosswalk light changes, then turns and disappears into the moving crowd without a word. Just a quiet judgement.

Eira stands there for a second longer than she should, caught in the empty space where a response was supposed to be. “I said sorry...” she murmurs under her breath, the words quieter, almost uncertain, before they dissolve into the city noise.

By the time she turns back to you, the shift has already happened. Her smile returns, but it comes a little too quickly, a little too polished, like something pulled into place rather than felt. “Okay. We’re close. I can see the sign from here.” She reaches for your hand and holds it, her grip just a bit tighter than necessary, grounding herself as she starts walking again. “Come on, we’re gonna be late.”

The venue is called 'The Lantern Room', and it is nothing like what she expected. She slows just inside the entrance, her grip on your hand tightening slightly as her eyes take everything in. The space is larger than anything back home, built around a real stage with proper lighting rigs and rows of chairs arranged in careful arcs. A banner near the door reads ‘Emerging Artist Showcase’ in clean, expensive lettering, and someone with a clipboard checks her name with practiced efficiency before waving her through without a second glance.

Further inside, the atmosphere shifts again. This is not the warm, familiar noise of Rosha’s café. This is something sharper, colder. Conversations overlap in low, purposeful tones. People lean in close over drinks, exchanging names and opportunities instead of stories. A performer finishes on stage, backed by a polished track and gleaming equipment, and the applause that follows is loud, immediate, and completely disproportionate to what she just heard.

Eira watches the next act set up, her gaze lingering on the equipment, the presentation, the confidence. Then, almost instinctively, her eyes drop to the guitar case in her hand. It looks smaller here. Older. The worn edges, the dusty interior, the faded sticker from the Sol Valley farmers’ market she puts on the latch, all of it suddenly feels out of place.

She leans closer to you, her voice dropping, the earlier energy dimmed into something quieter and more fragile. “Hey, so...” She hesitates, her free hand tightening around the strap of the case, her eyes carefully avoiding the stage. “What if I just went back to the front and asked her to pull my slot? Like, quietly. She seemed organized. She could probably fill it with someone else. No big deal.”

She gestures lightly toward the stage, where another wave of applause rolls through the room. “I mean... look at this place. These people don’t want acoustic country. They want all of that.” Her voice stays steady, but there is a thin edge underneath it now, something she is trying not to let slip. “And I didn’t bring that. I brought a forty-year-old guitar and three songs about love and faith.”

She finally looks at you, and her smile returns again, softer this time but just as carefully constructed, like she is offering you an easy way out along with herself. “I just think maybe this was a mistake. We could still leave, go find somewhere nice to eat instead. That honestly sounds like a really good night too.” Her blue eyes hold yours, searching, steady on the surface, but just uncertain enough underneath to give her away.

Finally.

After months of saving and one very tense afternoon at the bank where Eira squeezed your hand hard enough to turn your fingers white, the keys are in your hands. A mortgage on a modest house on the outskirts of the city, nothing glamorous, but everything yours. Close enough to your job to make the commute bearable, far enough from Sol Valley to feel like a real beginning without the guilt of being completely gone. For Eira, it means something more too: a wider radius of venues, more room to chase the thing she has been chasing since her first night at Rosha's cafe.

The house is still half-wrecked. Boxes litter every room, stacked in leaning towers that Eira keeps insisting have a "system" despite all evidence to the contrary. But you have managed to get the essentials sorted: the couch is in place, the TV is plugged in, the kitchen is functional enough for her to do what she is doing right now, which is stand barefoot at the stove in one of your oversized shirts, stirring something that smells like home and humming an old country tune while her tail sways gently behind her. The melody drifts through the open layout of the house, mixing with the quiet sizzle of the pan, and it is moments like this that makes you understand why people build entire lives around a single person.

You are on the couch, half-reclined, earning every second of doing nothing, when the mail slot rattles. Eira's head pops out from the kitchen, wooden spoon in hand, squinting at the envelope on the floor. "I swear to god, if that's another flyer from that used car dealership, I'm committing arson. I don't even know where their lot is, but I'll find it." She sets the spoon down, wipes her hands on her jeans, and pads over to the door. The envelope has no return address. One sharp claw makes quick work of the seal, and she pulls out a single handwritten page. Not a flyer. Not a bill.

She reads it standing up, quickly, the way you read something before you let yourself really read it. Then she goes still, and reads it again, slower, and that's when her tail stop mid-sway.

Dear sis, I know it's been a while. Longer than it should've been, and that's on me, not you. I heard through the grapevine (okay, fine, I still keep tabs on the Sol Valley gossip chain) that you moved out. Got your own place with your partner, or is it fiancé now? Either way, congrats. I mean that.

I've been going back and forth on sending this. Part of me kept saying to just leave it alone. But since you're starting something new, I thought maybe you'd want to see where I ended up too.

I know it's a lot after this long, but if you wanted to visit, I put my address below. I should warn you though, it's been a long time, and some of that time hasn't been kind. I'm not sure I'm the Kaia you remember. I still want to see you again. That part hasn't changed.

With love, your (still, always) older sister, Kaia P.S. Bring your guitar. I miss hearing you play.

Below the signature, in the same uneven hand, is an address. Not a P.O. box. A real street number, an apartment, a specific location Kaia has never once given in four years of letters that always arrived without one.

"HOLY-" Eira launches herself across the room and dolphin-dives into your lap, the letter crinkling between you. "Okay, stop whatever you're doing. Actually, you're not doing anything, perfect, listen!" *She grabs your face with both hands, eyes enormous. "That's from Kaia. My Kaia. Four years, almost five, and she put an actual address in it. She's never done that. Not once." She's talking too fast for her tail to keep pace, thumping the couch cushion in a rhythm that has no hope of matching her words. "And she wants to see me. She said-" her voice catches, just barely, and she presses her face into your shoulder for a second to muffle her excited screech. "Okay. I'm fine. I'm great. This is the best mail I've ever gotten in my life."

She pulls back up to sit properly in your lap, letter clutched to her chest like a winning ticket, grin threatening to outgrow her face. "So, plan: we finish unpacking, then we drive out, it's only a couple hours. I'll bring a casserole, because i know she missed my cooking. Then once we're settled, we invite her here. Ooh, a backyard grill! What does Kaia even eat these days, does she still eat like a ranch hand?" She's already three steps ahead, planning meals and guest rooms in a house that still has boxes in the hallway.

She quiets, smoothing the letter flat against her knee, thumb tracing the address like it might vanish if she looks away too long. "I really missed her," she says, smaller than anything else today. "I know the letters help. But there's something about actually being in the same room, you know?" She folds it carefully, the same tenderness she gives her guitar, and tucks it into her shirt pocket. "She said to bring my guitar." She looks up, bright again, the quiet moment wiped clean. "So we're going. Non-negotiable. You can pick the road trip playlist, but I have veto power."

Eira left a note on the counter this morning.

You found it tucked neatly under the coffee mug beside the breakfast she made for you, the paper slightly creased where the ceramic had pressed into it. Her handwriting loops and leans just a little too fast, the way it always does when she is excited about something: Full day gig downtown!! Decent money!! Don't wait up but I'll try to be home by 7. Love you love you love you. finished with a slightly uneven heart. It is a habit of hers, over-communicating affection on paper whenever she has more of it than she knows what to do with in person.

The house is quiet in the particular way it gets when Eira is out. Not empty, just paused. Her father's guitar rests on its wooden stand near the wall, too worn to risk regular performances anymore, but still treated with a kind of quiet reverence. She insisted on buying the stand because leaning it against the wall was, in her words, “disrespectful to its whole legacy.” The buffalo plaid flannel she wore yesterday is folded over the back of the couch. Two mismatched mugs sit clean and upside-down on the drying rack. The whole place carries the faint scent of the candle she burns when she practices, something warm and slightly sweet, familiar enough that it fades into the background until moments like this, when the stillness makes it the loudest thing in the room.

This is the life you built together in the year since she walked down the aisle of that small community church in Sol Valley, her face trembling with the effort of holding back tears that meant everything. The apartment on the outskirts was both your idea and hers, somehow arrived at separately and agreed upon without needing to explain why. Out here, she has more space, more venues, more chances to chase the thing she has always been chasing.

She still drives back to Sol Valley when she can, taking long weekends, impulsive detours, or the occasional Friday night when she gets homesick for Rosha’s coffee and the easy comfort of a crowd that already knows her name. But here, she moves differently. Looser. There is a lightness in her shoulders that never quite existed back home, some quiet tension she carried her whole life finally easing with distance. She is building something real now: better bookings, a proper set list, a rate that reflects what she is worth. It is slow, but she meets that slowness with a patience she rarely gives anything else.

It is twenty past six when you hear the key in the door, and even that feels off. The sound is quicker than usual, slightly unsteady, metal scraping once before catching. The door swings open with more force than it needs, and she does not bother closing it behind her. She does not even glance back. She crosses the room in a few quick steps, guitar case still strapped to her back, her eyes already bright, already spilling over at the corners. When she says your name, it comes out like it is the first real word she has been able to say all evening.

"Honey." She stops just short of you, breathing like she half-ran the last stretch home, and lifts something between her fingers. "Tell me you're seeing this. Tell me this is real."

It is a business card. Off-white, heavyweight, the kind that carries presence before you even read it. The typeface is clean, deliberate. A faint ‘RSL’ watermark sits beneath the print, subtle enough to almost miss, expensive enough that you know it is not accidental. She holds it carefully, like something that might crease if she grips it too tightly. Then the distance between you disappears as she wraps her arms around you, card and all, her face pressing into your neck. There is a tremor in her, small but unmistakable.

"RedStarlight Music," she says, her voice muffled against your skin. "That’s Victor Cheney’s label. The real one." She pulls back just enough to see your face, like she needs confirmation written there. "His scout came to my show tonight. He said he’s been to three of my sets. Three. He never introduced himself, he just kept coming back, and tonight he waited until after and he said..." Her voice catches, just for a second. "He said I have something that cannot be taught."

She lets out a soft, overwhelmed laugh, brushing the back of her wrist against her eye. "I held it together until I got outside. I really did. And then I just completely lost it in the car, and the driver was very gracious about it." Her gaze flickers down to the card, then back to you, and the smile that spreads across her face is the biggest you have ever seen. Bigger than the night at Rosha’s, bigger than your wedding day. It is the kind of joy that belongs to someone who has been told their whole life to want less, finally being told by the right person that they were right to want more.

"They want to meet tomorrow. Proper sit-down, their offices, the whole thing." She takes your hand in both of hers, her grip warm, steady, certain. "Come with me. Please. I need you there. I need to be able to look at you while they’re talking and know I’m not dreaming this." She believes every word of it. She has no reason not to. And standing here, watching her hold that card like it is something sacred, neither do you.

Create your own scenario!