The bus rumbled through the city streets. The interior smelled faintly of cigarettes and body odor and the downpour thrummed steadily on the bus roof deafening its passengers. The falling drops were so dense, Anya could scarcely see more than the glow of the streetlights and signs steadfastly denoting the safest routes to travel. So often, these beacons were taken for granted, and Anya looked up periodically between application submissions to offer her respect.

“May you shine forever,” she mumbled silently under the pounding of the bus ceiling.

Her stop came into view, and Anya ambitiously filled out her eleventh application. Pulling the cord to signal her intention to depart to the driver, she made a small request to each of the rain spirits who may be in the area, calling each by name. The city needed a good drenching. She did not.

The brakes sighed, and the momentum propelled Anya to her feet. By the time the door opened, the rain had settled into a gentle pitter-patter. Anya quietly expressed her thanks to each of the rain authorities before securing her bag over her shoulder and taking off down the sidewalk. Someone had granted her relatively dry passage; it would be rude to make them wait.

In the lamplight, rainbows of oil and gasoline glistened on the street's surface, painfully crawling for the nearest storm drain. She'd just made it into the little alcove that sheltered her apartment building's front door when the downpour resumed. “Must be your lucky day,” said a man holding the door for her.

Anya's throat was stinging from huffing the damp chill, and she avoided eye contact as she thanked him and stepped inside. There was no elevator, and thus no time for Anya to catch her breath has she hiked up the six flights of stairs to her own apartment. It was a small, shabby place, but besides fitting quite neatly into her price range, Anya had fallen in love with the key. It was a palm sized bronze work of art. A relic of a bygone day; absolutely original to the building.

With a deep breath, Anya slid the key home, and with a sharp twist she'd reached her sanctuary. She leaned back on her door to shut it, slamming it into its frame. She sighed heavily, dropping her tote bag that made a little “uff” sound which she didn't seem to notice. Her every step felt like lead as she dragged herself the short distance to her daybed in the opposite corner. She sagged into the mattress looking out at the mess around her, haphazardly dragged a blanket over herself, and allowed herself to cry.

The neon sign outside her window flashed in softer shades of blue and purple in an attempt not to affront her further, gently illuminating her single room apartment. The walls vaulted inward about two thirds of the way up to form the ceiling, and each of the window side corners vaulted inward again giving the ceiling a hexagonal shape in contrast to the floor's almost square. The floor itself was only thirteen by twelve square feet, and Anya made the best of all of it.

Against the wall behind her, was a shelf that spanned the length of her bed, which she had pressed right up against it. This created a deeper storage space under her bed in which Anya's summer wardrobe had taken up hibernation. At the foot of the bed was a wall that ran roughly the width of the bed creating a tiled alcove that, through the expert use of a privacy curtain, served as a shower and included the toilet. The sink was outside the alcove on the adjacent wall. Anya fitted a narrow table and a floor lamp perfectly between the sink and the entry door and tucked a mini-fridge and some small shelves beneath it. A portable propane single burner sat atop the table, with some used pans and eating utensils. There was some space between the entry way door and the next wall, which Anya filled with her dirty laundry and a rack of empty hangers. Next to this was a portable crank washing machine, and the final wall held a large, centered window with a full-length mirror on the left, and the head of her bed on the right. A thrifted wool rug covered most of the wood floor, and a small square coffee table sat toward the center nearer the daybed. Every shelf and empty edge of floor was covered with stacks of books and printed pages, along with Anya's collection of antique lanterns. The coffee table pulled triple duty as a desk and dining table featuring a lamp, more papers, books, and dirty dishes. Anya had also left a half-eaten box of cookies on the coffee table from yesterday's dinner.

The sign outside continued to fade from blue to purple and back again, and Anya took a few deep breaths. She hadn't bothered with removing her shoes. Now her feet were going numb. She looked to her minifridge and then to the mess on the table above it. Propping herself up against the shelves, she surveyed her room. Being home for the next couple of days will certainly give her time to clean up. She slid to the floor and picked up one of the pages near her coffee table.

It was an article on organization.

She scoffed at it with a wry smile and fought back new tears. Alright, if the universe wants to be that direct, then so be it, but first, she required a pick-me-up. The room had no overhead lighting, but she flicked on both lamps and the wall sconce next to her clothes rack and began digging through the piles of clothes for something suitable.

She swapped her business skirt and blazer for leggings and a puffed sleeve tunic sweater, sinching it to her waist with a leather belt. She fumbled through her make-up bag on the floor next to the mirror and darkened her eyes and lips. Instead of her tote, she paired her outfit with a sleek patent leather bag big enough for her phone and her pocketbook. Looking over her ensemble, no one could ever guess her age. Youth was a trademark of her kind, after all.

She hurried down the stairwell, when the sudden bout of nausea at the third floor made her cringe. She'd been so distraught coming up the stairs, she hadn't allowed to appreciate the absence of the third-floor discomfort. Whoever it was had moved in about a year ago, and she hadn't been able to pin down the tenant's erratic comings and goings. The feeling passed as she hurried on.

Stepping out of her building once more, the rain had transformed into a gentle mist, and the chill burrowed deep into her bones. Anya wished she would have remembered her coat, but she didn't have far to go.

Through the sheen of mist, the streetlights glowed softly, and the city was alive pre-weekend jitters. The week just can't end fast enough for some people. It was a popular sentiment. The haze wafted from the streetlight, and illumination drifted down the street to the next streetlight. Anya followed the faint light stream to a set of stone stairs leading down into an old mason style doorway.

Using the railing, she lowered herself down the slick stone steps. The door was solid and heavy, and after a forceful heave from Anya, she was rewarded with the sweet, pungent scents of baking bread and brown liquor. Boisterous laughter obscured hushed conversations, and the entire room was bathed in gold light from the many hearths used to warm it. Rustic wood tables were spaced strategically accompanied by chairs and stools upholstered in leather and velvet.

Anya was making her way to the bar but hesitated when she saw the source of the debaucherous laughter. It was a table full of mortals. There were five of them; snapping pictures for their socials and talking about nothing as though it was everything. They obviously thought they had stumbled upon some obscure dive and assumed they would be trending with whatever virtual fellowship they had. It wasn't uncommon for them to wander in on occasion, but it meant that much of the Mystic elements of the bar were hidden away. The sprites were probably tucked away under the bar counter.

“Welcome, little firefly!” voice called from beyond the bar.

Anya smiled back, “Hello, Sid!” She perched delicately on a stool, and they hugged across the counter.

“Look at you coming in on a weeknight!” he said with his hand on her shoulder looking her over. “And you're dressed to kill! What can I get for you?”

Anya giggled, “Thanks, Sid. Could I get a hot toddy and an order of pretzels?”

Sid bowed and set about making Anya's order. “Earl Grey?” he asked.

Anya nodded and looked around at the patrons. New faces were intermixed with the regulars. The large woman sitting in her usual corner would be unrecognizable as a troll to mortal eyes. She was working on a new peg puzzle. If she wasn't working out some sort of brain teaser, then she was working in her sketchbook. At another table was seated a mess of red heads, none of which stood above four feet. They each held a fan of cards, but occasionally pointed and jeered at the mounted TV where the day's big game was on display. Then there were the psychopomps.

The psychopomps were gathered around one of the largest tables. They ran in their own little club; separate, yet somehow still in the middle of everything. They flaunted their exclusive status wherever they went. It's not as though they couldn't back it up. Death would always be the ultimate question, and their answer had been carefully guarded since the dawn of life.

“Here's your order,” Sid said, sliding the mug and basket in front of Anya, who realized she had been staring. Anya thanked him sheepishly. Sid smirked presenting a small cup of cheesy mustard sauce. “Be right back,” he said, but Anya interjected, “One more thing?” He looked back at her, and Anya smiled her sweetest smile. “Could I get an application for the Foundation of Mystic Preservation?” Sid's expression sank.

“Is everything alright, firefly?” he asked.

“It's just been a rough week,” Anya said, her eyes beginning to sparkle in the firelight. Sid nodded sympathetically and produced a document and a pen from under the counter. He slid them across to her.

“Be reasonable,” he advised kindly. “I'll be right back,” He hoisted a tray of drinks and danced over to the table of mortal women who cheered at his approach and distributed the drinks between them.

Their reverie was infectious amongst many of the patrons, the leprechauns certainly not withstanding, but Anya turned her attention to the document before her and chewed on the edge of a pretzel. She filled out her general information. It had all the usual headings: Name, address, occupation, etc. and then there were the questions that were a little more niche. Mystic Faction: Olde Fae (Anya wondered when she had to start adding “Olde” to her ethnic group). Faerie type: Phanophoros. Purpose in Current Era: ... Anya had to think about that one, so she skipped it for the time being. Funds required: ... Anya pulled out her phone and began listing her expenses and adding numbers. Should she request an advance for one month, or two?

More drinks were being distributed, and Anya flipped her application over and pushed it to the other side of the bar. She sipped her hot toddy and listened to the women across the dining hall. They were falling over themselves now, but one of them seemed glued to her phone. Anya knew the look right away. The gaze of pining for someone far away. One of the other girls noticed and made her put it away. “Forget him!” they shouted. “You're here to have fun with us!”

“But Brad would love it here!” she protested. “He loves all this old timey stuff, and sports, and cards, and drinks...” she trailed off, but continued mumbling about something. Presumably brad's other passions.

Then the mumbling morphed into blubbering and her friends started hugging her and trying to calm her down. All except the two rolling their eyes.

“I'm gonna stay single forever,” said one such friend, who was promptly elbowed by one of the others.

“Come on then honey, I think it's time to go home,” said a woman closest to the crying one, nudging her out of the booth.

“Did somebody call a cab?” asked another one loudly.

“I live too far,” one whined.

While this exchange was going on, Anya eyed the psychopomp table. A couple of its members had shifted their attention to the drunken mortal troop who began to file their way out of the bar. One of the reapers casually stood to fall in behind them.

Anya whipped out her card for Sid. “What do I owe you?”

Sid surveyed the situation and smirked at Anya, taking her card. “The hot toddy's on me.”