Nightborne dragged himself out of the spare room above Fern & Finch Café just as the first rays of sunlight crept over the rooftops. Yesterday he'd learned that back on Earth, success didn't come with a system notification—it came with paychecks and a place to sleep. He pulled on the jeans and T‑shirt Dr. Hale had given him, slung the canvas bag over his shoulder, and set off into the quiet morning streets.
His first stop was the corner grocery store. He arrived early and smoothed his hair in the reflection of the sliding doors. The manager—a no‑nonsense woman in a crisp polo—led him to a folding chair.
"Why do you want this job?" she asked, clipboard balanced on her knee.
Nightborne's mind went blank. He swallowed, then muttered, "I… I eat groceries?"
She glanced up, blinked, and wrote something down. "We'll let you know." He managed a weak nod and hurried out, cheeks burning.
Seven blocks later, he stood outside a fast‑food diner, telling himself to stay calm. He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as the shift manager peered over her glasses.
"What's your greatest weakness?" she asked.
He paused, then blurted, "I… care too much about making people happy?"
She gave him a polite smile. "Thank you," she said, then returned to her paperwork. That was all he got before she politely ushered him out.
By noon he'd visited a hardware store and the public library, flunking both interviews for missing references and unfamiliarity with their systems. Four interviews, four rejections. He slumped on a curb outside the library, staring at his empty bag.
He'd barely eaten and already wondered where he'd sleep tonight. The city felt enormous and indifferent.
As he sat there, Mara's voice floated down the street.
"You look like you've had better days."
He looked up to see her walking toward him, carrying a steaming mug of coffee. He took it gratefully, warmth spreading through his fingers.
"Still need work?" she asked.
He nodded. "I'm struggling."
She glanced back at the café behind her. "We're hiring part‑timers. Interested?"
He hesitated—he'd failed so far—but something about her calm confidence made him say yes.
---
Inside Fern & Finch, Mara and her husband Harold showed him around. They had him dive straight into a trial shift: kneading dough, pulling espresso shots, taking orders. He spilled a tray of plates once and fumbled a latte, but he apologized, cleaned up his mess, and kept going. Harold nodded in approval; Mara gave him a small smile.
"We'll take you in," Mara said when the rush died down.
Nightborne's heart leapt. "Thank you. I won't let you down."
"Shifts start at five tomorrow," Harold added. "Also, our guest room is yours if you help around the house—yard work, meals, odd jobs."
He stared at them, speechless. "Really? Thank you."
---
That afternoon, after sweeping the floors and restocking ingredients, Mara led him up the narrow staircase to his new room. A simple bed, a small dresser, and a window overlooking the café sign. He dropped his bag, the weight of relief settling in his chest. This was home, at least for now.
His first day on the job began at dawn. He unlocked the café, swept the front, and lit the ovens for pastries. By sunrise he'd mastered the rhythm of breakfast service—coffee orders, toast and jam, fresh croissants. Between customers, he scrubbed tables and chatted with regulars, memorizing names and preferences.
After the morning rush, Harold showed him how to prune the herb garden behind the café. When Mara needed extra help with bookkeeping, he learned simple ledger entries. By midday he was draining the dish sink and restocking napkins.
When the lunch crowd arrived, he carried plates with steady hands and genuine smiles.
That evening, Mara set a plate of pasta in front of him in the kitchen. He ate without speaking, muscles sore but mind buzzing with new skills.
He barely noticed the fatigue as he climbed the stairs to his room. Lying on the mattress, he reflected on the day: rejections that stung, confidence that returned, and a family that took him in. Out here, on Earth, there were no crystals to power him, but there was work—and that was enough.
Tomorrow, he'd slip back behind the counter, apron tied tight. And every shift, every smile, every small triumph would remind him: he could build something real, even between warps.