Obe 23 was a bar like no other. The guests were odd, even by the standards of a demon. Trisal told me to seek out the establishment if I genuinely needed to help Hamilton. He said there was a man, the coffin maker, who could find lost things. 

I asked him how he knew of such a man who frequented such a place, and Trisal only told me, “I’ve visited on occasion.”

The bar was a hidden delight inside the hotel Obe, taking up the entirety of floor 23. Common people would never know of its existence since it couldn’t be reached by stairs, and elevators required a code to access the special floor. Unlike the rest of the underwhelming and otherwise dilapidated building, Obe 23 was slick and moody like a trendy whiskey room. Walls were an emerald green marble held up by dark woods. Coffered ceilings were dramatically high. Floors were polished enough to think they were glass, but there was a smoke that kept reflections from becoming a jarring feature. Wood furnishings with metallic trim filled the room. Everything was dark, with no sign of bright colors, but there was a warmth because of it.

Stepping off an elevator into the smokey room, there were creatures wandering about with drinks in hand. The undead. Mutants. Even a man made of metal was present. An angel like me was no more unique than the average guests since every visitor was uncommon.

I had brought Hamilton with me, and he was speechless, seeing a wonder that had somehow eluded his discovery. 

It was a slow night, but we crept through the green space, taking our time to find the coffin maker. Trisal hadn’t given much to go off of aside from the name and that the peculiar man lived in the building. After interrupting several conversations, there were few corners left that we hadn’t spoken to. Upon approaching the last, a character dressed in a white suit dirtied by brown stains at the legs and cuff sat up to fix his head of slick gray hairs before speaking to us.

“You’re looking for a lost girl?” He said, sitting in the largest leather booth in the room. 

The coffin maker was a deceptive sight. I couldn’t discern how old he was. Despite his youthful face, his attire suggested he was older than he appeared. I could smell years on his soul that simply didn’t match. If he had discovered a method to halt his own aging, why would he bother going through so much effort to look older?

“We are,” Hamilton said, taking a seat at the booth before I followed and asked, “Can you help us?”

The coffin maker took a sip from a long row of shot glasses before explaining, “I have an ability. If I hold on to something precious to a person, I can see echos of them. I use my 'gift' to see a person’s last moments, but if I use it on a living person’s object, I can track them.”

He took another drink before sliding a shot to me and a third to Hamilton. 

"I have her hair pin, her cellphone, and," the librarian said and ignored the drink so he could instead begin fishing through his pockets. 

He might have unloaded a bedrooms worth of trinkets out onto the tabel had the coffin maker neglected to add, “There is a price.” 

“Do you take gold?” I offered.

“I want a feather,” he said.

“A what?” Hamilton questioned.

“A feather from the angel’s back. I'm cursed to build coffins for anyone I know as a friend, and I only do favors for my closest.”

“What good will a feather do?” I asked.

“An angel’s wings are precious. Are they not? With a feather, I’ll know where you are, always and till the day you die. When that time comes, I will build your coffin.” 

“Is there more to your compulsory habit?” I said.

“My curse is to remember every name of my friends and bury them until I remember the name of who cursed me.”

A feather may not have been much to a human or whatever creature the coffin maker was, but to an angel it was, as he said, precious.

“I can’t summon my wings, not now.”

“Then you are not a friend, and I won’t help you.”

“What about me?” Hamilton spoke up. 

The coffin maker took his time looking over the librarian. He even took a drink before telling him, “I’d take an eye.” 

I should have expected nothing less from a person Trisal recommended. Quickly, I got to my feet and pulled Hamilton’s arm to leave, saying, “No.”

To my surprise, the human refused to get up and answered, “Deal.”

“This man is clearly troubled. His compulsion is a sickness we shouldn’t feed into,” I said while watching the coffin maker grin. 

His perfect smile was something demonic as he pulled a rusted blade from a hidden pocket and rested it on the table.

“If he can find my sister, an eye is a small price to pay.” 

Hamilton brushed me away and stole several shot glasses from the coffin maker’s line of drinks. 

He drank quickly and hurried to make himself drunk. 

“Don’t do this,” I said, but the librarian assured me, “I can take this pain.”

Turning away, I soon noticed the room had gathered around to watch. I was the only soul unwilling to witness the carnage, though I heard it. 

Hamilton said, “Do it quickly,” before the blade was picked up from the table’s wooden surface. “Try not to blink,” the coffin maker warned. 

The process of carving the boy’s eye out took less than a minute, but the wet howls of pain that came bellowing from his throat lasted a lifetime. When the librarian fell limp, motionless, and silent, the crowd dispersed, and I turned around to make sure he wasn’t dead. 

“You don’t approve?” Coffin maker asked with a titter.

Hamilton’s eye...it hadn’t been gouged. There was no blood, no nothing. The boy was unconscious, lying with his head on the table, but breathing.

“What did you do to him?”

“My blade cuts through nothing but causes pain like none other.” 

“A test then?”

“Friends sacrifice for one another, and I don’t do favors for anything less than a friend,” he chuckled and put away his blade.

After shaking my head, I finally took a drink and finished it before finding a second wind.

“Where is his sister?”