Marcel returned home along routes he didn't remember ever taking. In fact, he didn't remember streets like that existing in his neighborhood, but then again... he didn't remember entering a magic bottle that morning either, so the geography issue had already faded into the background.

The McGee Mansion was quiet when he entered. The kitchen lights were still on, and there she was: his stepmother, Miss Alice McGee. Long hair, crooked reading glasses, and a robe with avocado prints. Also a 50-year old lady bein' nice. She looked as tired as a forgotten plant, but when she saw him, she smiled. One of those smiles that needs no explanation. Or coffee.

"Oh, Marcel! Dear kitten, where were you?" -Miss Alice said.

"Ma chère belle-mère…! I'm working! Incroyable, non? Our troubles are over! Goodbye to watery soups, goodbye to sharing bread with pigeons... Now we'll have... maybe even butter or cheese soufflé!" -Marcel said, blurting it out like a confession to a crime. Alice looked at him. Blinked. Looked at him again.

"Do you… work now?" -Miss Alice said.

"Oui! In a bar. Well… je l’avoue, I mistook it for a library, mais enfin… I ended up accepting the position. It wasn't silence and reading... it was cleaning and making sure the order and cleanliness. I help prevent tragedies... with a mop. But I already signed, c’est trop tard!" -Marcel said.

Miss Alice laughed. That nasal, honest, unfiltered laugh. Like someone who doesn't know whether to worry or throw a surprise party. She even nodded as if it was the most logical thing she'd heard in weeks.

"I'm proud of you, stepson," -Miss Alice said, with that simple warmth that doesn't try to be epic. "Not because of the bar itself. Not because of the tragedies. But because... you decided it yourself."

There was a silence. He sat at the table and poured himself some water, staring at the bubbling water with the same expression he'd had on the magic bottle hours before.

"I don't know if I fit in there... vraiment. I don't even know if I should have taken the job. I don't know if they're going to... you know... me comprendre. Maybe I speak too softly. Or maybe they don't understand my passion for fantasy books... my Français words merging into normal sentences... or maybe it's the fact that I get very emotional, or my hyperactivity..." -Marcel said, worried.

Miss Alice looked at him sideways.

"Because of your disorder?" -Miss Alice said.

He nodded, without drama.

"Sometimes I feel like people... expect me to work differently. As if there were a manual, you know what I mean? An invisible little book that everyone's read except me. And when I don't follow the instructions... when I speak strangely, or don't look them in the eye, or stay quiet because I need a peu de silence... As if that makes me... défectueux. Broken. Broken, like a flickering light that no one wants to turn on anymore." -Marcel said, with an depressive voice.

"You're not defective," -Miss Alice replied, as if she's said it a thousand times and never tires of repeating it. "You're tuned differently. And that, sometimes, is just what the world needs. Even if the world doesn't realize it."

He sighed.

"I don't know if they're going to understand it." -Marcel replied.

"Maybe not. But they don't have to understand everything to respect you either. And if that bar accepted a guy who accidentally fell into a bottle… I'm pretty sure it can accept everything else, too." -Miss Alice said.

There was another silence. Warm, this time. Comfortable.

"Besides," -Miss Alice added with a crooked smile, "if that bar ends up closing, I'll know that at least you were working when it happened. And that's already a step forward."

He smiled softly.

"Thank you, belle-mère."

"You're welcome. Now go to sleep. Tomorrow you have to prevent another apocalypse with a mop, and you need to be rested." -Miss Alice said.

Marcel went to sleep...

==========================================================================================================================================================================

(The Next Day...)

The next morning, Marcel arrived at the Marglow Bar with a strange feeling in his chest. As if a piece of sleep had stuck to his neck. He was wearing an oversized jacket and had a messy but honest energy.

As soon as he walked through the stairs and the door, the bar greeted him with a deep murmur, as if murmuring "welcome" in ten different languages. A few bottles rotated by themselves on the shelves. A lamp hovered two feet from the ceiling, as if it didn't yet know where it was supposed to go.

Today's task: sweep the bar floor. Simple, right? At least in theory.

With the broom in hand, he began to hum. A nameless melody, one of those that comes out on its own when you feel calm, even if you don't know how long it will last.

And then... he heard it.

"And what are you doing here, idiot?" -The voice said.

The voice was lazy, drawling, and came from high above the bar. There, reclining on a dusty velvet cushion, was a skinny, handsome cat with a tilted top hat. He was smoking a pipe and his eyes were narrowed with professional disdain. His name... was Squall.

"Huh?" -Marcel asked, stopping the broom.

"I said, 'What's your name and what's your disorder?' Because there's clearly something wrong with your head if you're coming in whistling like a happy fool." -Squall said.

"My… my name is…" -Marcel hesitated. "Well, it doesn't matter. I work here. And I have autism. And who are you, monsieur?"

The cat stretched out a paw as if marking verbal territory.

"I'm Squall. Psycho-environmental supervisor. I mean, I scratch my arm and judge others. And you, weirdo, seem... defective." -Squall said.

Marcel looked at him, not knowing what to say. His hands trembled slightly, but he kept sweeping. Because sweeping was safe. Sweeping made sense.

"'Autism,' you say? Bah. A buzzword for justifying stupid things. I saw you yesterday, falling over like an idiot. Are you going to cry too if I yell 'retard' at you?" -Squall said.

The blow was sharp. Not physical, but enough to stop his song. He looked down. He continued sweeping. The cat smiled. He knew what he was doing. Day after day, it got worse. Squall chased him, criticized him, imitated him, ridiculed him.

He hid his supplies. He threw broken bottles near him. He whispered horrible things to him while he swept, while he scrubbed, while he tried to stay on his feet. And every time Elizabeth appeared, Squall fell silent. Smiling. Restrained. Meowing tenderly. Even purring as if he had a reputation to uphold.

"Is everything okay?" -Elizabeth would sometimes ask, as she handed Marcel a list of tasks.

He nodded. He always nodded.

Not because he was okay. But because he didn't know how to say he wasn't. Because Squall was watching him from the shadows with that crooked, feline smile, and he felt like if he spoke, things would get worse. That the bar would stop accepting him. That maybe... he deserved it. That maybe... Miss Alice was wrong.

So, day after day, the humming disappeared. And the once light broom began to feel heavy, as if it were dragging something more than dust.

The shift ended when the bar clock chimed. That, apparently, meant it was closing time. Marcel left the broom against a slowly flickering wall (he was in a strange mood that day), waved goodbye with a silent gesture, and left through the back door. The alley was darker than usual. Longer, too. As if the night itself wanted to swallow his steps.

He walked slowly. He wasn't running. He wasn't screaming. He was crying.

Slowly. Silently. As if the tears flowed out of habit, not choice. Each step was a knot in his chest he couldn't untie. It wasn't okay. And that hurt more than any words the cat had ever said.

When Marcel finally arrived at the McGee Mansion, the moon was reflected in the windows as if waiting for something. He stopped in front of the door. He took a deep breath. He wiped his face with his sleeve. Once, twice, three times, until his eyes no longer seemed red, until the salty trace on his cheeks was replaced by an expression of forced normality.

One he had practiced too many times. And then, he walked in.

"Oh, there you are!" -Miss Alice said from the kitchen, holding a cup of tea and wearing a look of relief and tenderness.

"Yes, belle-mère" -Marcel replied, forcing a weak smile. "I just got back from work."

Miss Alice put her cup down on the table, sounding exactly like someone who wants to ask more but doesn't.

"How did it go?" -Miss Alice asked.

"Good, indeed," Marcel said automatically. "I worked. It was a good day. Vraiment. Until… I talked to someone. A client, I think. Nothing serious. Just… those conversations that leave you thinking strange things. Like something's off, but you don't quite know what."

Miss Alice looked at him. For a second, her eyes hesitated. But then she nodded.

"I'm glad to hear it. You're making a great effort! It makes me happy to see you like this." -Miss Alice said.

He noddled.

"I'm going to my room for a while. I'm... a little tired, c'est tout. I just need... a moment to myself." -Marcel said.

"Sure, my dear. Relax. I'll leave your dinner in the oven. Just let me know if you need anything." -Miss Alice said.

He climbed the stairs. Each step creaked like a sigh. He entered his room. He closed the door carefully. Not with fear, but with precision. As if closing the door were a spell protecting him from the world.

And then, when he was alone, he sat on the ground. He looked at his hands. The same ones he'd used to sweep. The same ones that hadn't known how to defend themselves. The same ones he was clenching now, so he wouldn't cry again.

But this time he didn't succeed. And he cried. Without a sound. Just him, the night, and a room that didn't ask questions. He went into the window and, in search of answers, he watched the night sky. The moon was lighting it all. Until...

He saw it.

The bright star in the sky. The one that his sister told him to watch if he missed her.

Marcel watched it, he putted his hands into his chest, and... he made a wish. Not the same wish of meeting his sister again one day... this time, it was different. He said...

"I wish for a better future."