Page 2 of The Orc’s Comfort

I allow the smallest nod. At least she understands that much.

“There’s an orc in my building who might know more, but…” Her voice drops. “He’s… a little intimidating. I don’t know how to approach him without making things awkward.”

My shoulders lower. There’s no shrinking a body like mine, no blending in. Even with her evident respect for orc culture, I still frighten her.

The timer chimes, a welcome interruption. I remove the pot from the heat, setting it on a trivet carved with traditional protection symbols. The stew needs to rest now, allowing the flavors to settle and the spirits of the ingredients to harmonize, or so my grandmother would have said.

Thoughts of my grandmother bring a familiar ache. She was the clan’s master chef, responsible for both celebrations and healing, her hands always smelling of spices even when she wasn’t cooking. She survived the Emergence only to pass two years later, her body unable to fully adapt to Earth’s atmosphere. Before joining the ancestors, she made me promise to preserve our culinary traditions.

“Food is memory, young warrior,” she told me, her once-powerful voice reduced to a whisper. “When we cook as our ancestors did, they live again through our hands.”

I cross to the window and watch the sun drop behind the treeline. There is nothing here even vaguely reminiscent of the jagged spires of home, but in certain light, if I squint just so, I can almost pretend.

Through the wall, I hear Julia ending her phone call, followed by the soft thump of what must be a heavy book being set down on a table. She hums to herself, a habit I’ve noticed at the oddest times. The sound is pleasant, musical in a distinctly human way, with none of the deeper resonance orcs naturally produce.

I cross to my desk and pull out the sketchbook I tell myself I keep for botanical reference. The last page holds an unfinished study: the graceful angle of a woman’s wrist, holding a book against her chest. I add three lines to the shading and stop myself before I can add more. Someday I will either finish this properly or throw the whole book into the recycling. I have told myself this for four months.

I return to the kitchen and remove the lid from the stew. The aroma is right now. Everything in its correct proportion. Everything harmonized.

I ladle stew into the blue ceramic bowl my grandmother somehow brought through the portal. The same portal carried the seeds for the handful of true WarmHearth plants that still grow in my window boxes, tucked into pockets and hems by refugees who had no idea they’d need them again.

“Grath’ak moro vashna, krell’vor thanak shu. Duur’im sokka vezna, morvak thal buru. Shamar vikoth draal’nak, krell’vor ethna tu.”

After speaking the traditional blessing, I eat in contemplative silence, considering Julia’s food exhibition.

Should I volunteer? The thought is appealing and then immediately terrifying. If I already intimidate her, approaching directly only makes it worse. A written offer would give her time to consider without the weight of my attention bearing down on her.

Perhaps an opportunity will present itself. Or perhaps I’ll let it rest, as I have every other impulse toward her for six months.

I turn back to my work. Recipes to review. Notes to prepare. Order and purpose, same as every night.

The condo goes quiet around me, the ordinary sounds of a nearby life carrying faintly through the wall. Not listened for. Simply there.

Two separate lives, divided by a wall that feels as vast as the portal that brought my people to Earth.

Chapter Two

Julia

The problem with living alone is that no one stops you from turning your entire condo into a library. I squeeze another reference book onto an already overstuffed shelf, forcing Cultural Traditions of Pre-Emergence Societies into the narrow space beside Integrating Cuisines: A Cross-Species Study.

My living room resembles the aftermath of a bibliophile’s fever dream. Custom shelving units line almost every available wall, each sagging under the weight of my obsession. My coffee table hosts stacks of library journals, and my dining table doubles as a research station. Even my kitchen counters haven’t escaped the invasion, featuring cookbooks from every culture I can get my hands on.

“It’s not hoarding if they’re organized,” I mutter to myself, the familiar justification I’ve been using since library school.

The books are my armor, my comfort, my constant companions. Unlike people, books are predictable. They don’t find me awkward or judge my occasional social missteps. They wait patiently for me to discover their secrets, never rushing, never demanding. They don’t leave, either, which, after losing my father, matters more than I usually let myself admit.

My father’s copy of Myth and Meaning is still on the shelf exactly where I put it after his funeral, a bookmark still marks the page it’s held for twenty years. I haven’t been able to move it. I’m not sure I want to.

A rich, unfamiliar aroma drifts in through the shared vent above my kitchen sink, and I pause, closing my eyes to better appreciate it. Something with deep, earthy notes and a hint of spice. Something unmistakably… Rhazgar.

My enormous green neighbor has been cooking again. His kitchen seems perpetually active, producing scents that make my frozen dinners seem even more pathetic by comparison. Sometimes I linger in the hallway after work, pretending to check my mail while actually hoping to catch a whiff of whatever culinary magic he’s creating in the condo next to mine.

I glance at my reflection in the decorative mirror across the room and grimace. My wavy brown hair escapes its messy bun in rebellious tendrils, and my glasses are sliding down my nose again. Hardly the picture of professional competence I try to project at the library.

“Hi there, I’m Julia, we share a wall,” I practice, pushing my glasses up and attempting a casual smile. “I couldn’t help noticing you cook a lot, and I’m organizing this multicultural food exhibition, so I was wondering…”

I drop the smile, frowning at my reflection. Too eager. Too transparent.