The Sky Sage: I know, I know. This is not the chapter you guys have been waiting for and a lot of you are probably yelling in anger at the fact that it's not and, even worse, it's in a completely different fandom that probably not a lot of you are fans of.

But I need this. I need the break and the change of pace. I need some time away from "The Butterfly Effect" so that it feels fresh and doesn't rot out of staleness, 'cause, I'll be honest, it's getting to that point. So, out of worry for my sanity, I am setting it aside and experimenting with something new that I've fallen in love with.

Animal Crossing.

This is, honestly, an experiment. It's a thought process that is being written down as it happens, so expect, maybe, plotholes and grammar issues. I will try to solve the latter through revision but there's no guarantee I'll catch them all, so I apologize in advance for the syntax and other problems that might pop up since I'm trying something new, and trying something new isn't always clean. I will be doing my best, though, and will welcome criticism on the style and possible strangeness if it needs to be explained further.

Also, a word of warning. This story will deal with heavy subjects like depression, general situations that lead to said state and the struggle that it is to get out of said depression. There will be no deaths, nothing of the sort, but some things might triggering for some people, so please, exercise caution and if you feel triggered, simply walk away. I don't want to cause more pain to those who don't deserve it.

Now, with no further ado, I introduce you to...

Warm Milk

Chapter I

The door rings.

His eyes go to his clock. Black, beady eyes covered in glasses go to his clock, said clock showing him ten thirty before going up, to the door that is definitely opening, that is definitely hiding someone from him until it is completely open.

It is unusual.

He's been working there for less than a day, but he already knows it is, certainly when he's counted, counted he says, all the coffees he's made and arrived at the right number of residents and shopkeepers. It's very unusual.

Yet, the door inevitably opens, and he finds himself staring at a new face.

A new female human face.

He doesn't mind. Contrary to the other human who showed up, she looks a lot more subdued, small. She looks extremely tiny in her oversized jacket and pants that seem too big for her, but the colors, the muddy colors he sees are better than the other human's bubblegum hair.

So the fact that she sits down, sits down slowly and awkwardly in front of him before near leaning against the counter does not bother him.

"... Coffee... is two hundred bells a cup."

"No coffee. Please."

And while the fact that she refuses his coffee is a bit unsettling, he can understand it.

"... Can you... serve me some warm milk? Please?"

What he doesn't understand, what throws him for a loop, is her request.

Warm milk.

He's never served it. It's not something he's ever, ever intended to serve to a client. It's an unusual request coming from a very unusual and new person.

"... I don't-"

"I'll pay extra."

But when she meets his eye, when he's finally had a chance to get a good look at her, he understands. He understands why she would ask someone, someone she barely knew but dabbled into drinks – not that he's ever touched alcohol, foul stuff – to make her a cup of something that would only push her towards sleep.

She looks tired. She looks overly tired and troubled. He does not doubt for a moment that she has a growing headache forming as she seems physically ready to pass out right at his counter if not for the mental, the way her mind seems to whir behind those eyes of hers.

"... To go?"

"Yes. Please."

So he makes it. He gets out the milk, finds a bit of honey and vanilla and, with an old microwave that seems ready to give up the ghost already but whirs steadily, he readies the brew, pours it into a styrofoam cup and puts it on the counter as he hears clattering.

Five. Five hundred bells have just been put on his counter.

She grabs the cup with a thank you, smells it, gives a little smile, and leaves. Leaves him to collect the five hundred bells on his counter which only make him blink. She didn't lie. She paid extra.

... At least he'll be able to pay for extra milk tomorrow.

"Gosh, Brewster, am I glad to see you. I thought we'd hit rough times before but this... Well, I'd go on about it but I doubt it would make a difference. I hope your day went alright yesterday?"

He gives the owl, his friend, a strange look. He's used to longer talks. He's used to Blathers blabbering on about the fact that there's so much to do at the museum that he curates and the fact that no one is interested in said museum with the new generations no longer caring for his work as Brewster happily listens while cleaning his cup. He's used to his friend having to cut himself off when he realizes the time and he has to go.

Not conversation. Not the owl clearly interrupting himself with a wave Brewster doesn't know what to make of but refuses to ask any questions on.

"Are there two human residents?"

Absolutely refuses to comment on and prefers his not easier question, but one that would, hopefully, help clarify a few things.

From the fact that Blathers owlishly blinks at him, he's not sure he'll get his answers, though.

"She came here?"

... Or not. This is a very awkward situation.

"... You did not answer my question."

"Ah! Forgive me, friend, I'm so easily distracted! Yes, they are two humans. Two female humans, at that. The mayor arrived about... I'd say a month ago. Her friend, the second female, arrived a week later. Weird girl, she is, certainly for a homo sapiens. Well, they both are in their own way, of course. In fact, I'm sure you've seen the mayor's eccentric style. But the other, she... well, she stands out in her own way. Always late, always seemingly cold. But hooo! She's been so helpful. Bringing me fish, fossils, and critters, foul things, for the museum. She's very kind."

A rather awkward situation that leaves him to frown, if only for a second as he listens to Blathers finally sound like himself, finally babble on about the happenings of the town – His friend is more useful than the morning paper, he'll rightfully admit – but with something, something he can't stick a talon on.

Is it bitterness? He's never seen Blathers bitter. He's seen his friend worry for his museum and go from happy to scared in three point five seconds at the sight of an insect – Blathers's entomophobia is no joke to deal with – but never bitter. Never upset over a situation that didn't concern the museum.

What can have caught his friend's attention so much that it's making set the museum aside, if only a bit?

Eleven o'clock. He's ready to close. The café is clean, spotless. There's not a grime of dirt on the floor, his money for the day is in his pockets, and the door is locked.

The door that someone knocks onto is locked.

He blinks. Blinks and leaves through the door behind said counter to the front as the knocks, the measured, careful knocks resound again, and he catches a sight that he's not sure what to make of.

... She's back.

The girl with the oversized jacket and the pale face is back. She's back and knocking at the café's door.

"... Can I help you?"

Before she blinks to him for a moment and puts her hand into her coat, head pointing to the café.

"You're closing?"

"... Yes. I close at eleven."

"... That explains it."

And the mumble, the mumble he hears catches him off guard. It makes him blink as he stares at the café for a moment before asking, "... Are you here for a cup?"

Only to watch her dismissively wave with an answer he isn't sure how to take, "It's fine. I'm late and you're leaving. I won't bother you."

It's both polite and rude. It's both not guilting him and making him feel like there's something wrong. It's off-putting in the worst ways and he hates it.

"... Alright."

He hates it just as much as the small smile she gives him before she turns away. He despises it as he goes to turn himself, going to lock the door before he's stopped by her voice.

"Hey."

"... What?"

"For future reference. What are your hours?"

Along with a... reasonable question. A question that he feels will definitely help in the future. It will reset a few clocks and avoids this... travesty of an apology.

"...Six to eleven."

"Thanks. And sorry for tonight."

... Well, maybe not travesty. Maybe not a complete travesty as he watches her disappear into the night – this town needs more lights – after a distinct apology, a distinct and seemingly heartfelt apology that leaves him to wonder, just wonder what she meant. What she meant by her little mumble that he, maybe, wasn't supposed to hear but heard anyway.

He gets his answer the next morning.

He gets said answer as he gets to the café, Blathers standing close to the door and smiling at him as he goes for the door and finds himself staring at a white, printed piece of paper that carries a scrawl that should be associated with the café.

The Roost

Hours: 6am - 11pm

... He'll have to keep the door locked until then, then.

"Ha ha ha ha! What a jerk!

"I know, right?! To think that I thought he was a good guy!"

Being a barista is not all that it's cracked up to be.

"Good thing you dumped him!"

"Right? Oh, and girls, next time, if we club, it'll be better in the city."

"Why?"

"The café closes at eleven."

It really isn't.

"I told you, girl, this place is a backwater."

"Hey, it's a town."

"And you're the mayor! Why don't you do something that'll keep this place open late?"

You deal with clients that are chatty. You deal with visitors who expect perfection – not that he wouldn't deliver. And you also deal with chatty clients who wouldn't know the meaning of silence even if it hit them straight in the face with a bat.

"I don't think that would be a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Iris-"

But, as the rest of the table groans, he realizes how useful, how nice it is to run the local café.

"Not her again. Seriously Chouko, she already destroyed your plans for having Club LOL going past twelve, you're going to let her ruin this too?"

"Yeah, girl. Not to mention that she follows you everywhere you go. Let her go, already. She's slowing you down."

Because while he's never paid attention to before, he knows. He knows that his café, that the Roost is the place where people talk openly. That the place is better than a psychologist office. Everyone talks, everyone converses thinking that the barista, that the person behind the counter won't say anything. Won't listen in and, if they do, will keep their trap shut.

Shopkeeper - client confidentiality. A secret everyone is in on, and that many shopkeeps hold onto to keep clients. Even he has no intent on breaking that vow.

"Iris is a great person."

"Yeah, if you're into boredom."

But, for once, he listens. He listens because they're loud enough, because they're talking about the hours of the Roost, and they're talking about the girl. The girl who asked him for warm milk, his hours, and put the sign up on his door that was quickly adjusted to a blackboard that he could write on, courtesy of the mayor's secretary who'd already written the hours in a wonderful scrawl.

He listens because he's interested. Interested and surprised.

"Come on girls, stop fighting. She's not worth it. How about we go check the Able Sisters?"

"Great idea!"

Surprised to see that the mayor defends her. Defends the girl in the oversized jacket and the fragile smile in front of her three friends who obviously don't approve of her.

Is this why she hides? Is this why she's never present during the day?

... Iris. He'll remember that. He'll definitely remember that.

But if the mayor's schedule is on point, if miss Chouko is present every day with her friends, the friend, miss Iris, is not as consistent. She shows up at different times, always between ten and eleven, thankfully, but not always. Not always and the days that she doesn't show, the days that she seems to be too busy for the likes of the café, Isabelle always shows up late. Late and definitely looking bushed.

He doesn't dare ask. He doesn't dare ask the overworked secretary who grabs her coffee to go every morning with a smile, although some look more tired than others. She's obviously busy and it's best if he doesn't disturb her.

"Miss Isabelle, busy night?"

"Very busy."

He can't say the same for his friend, though. His friend Blathers who only proves that worry has truly gripped him. Him and half the town.

"Hooo. Well, I hope you catch a break soon."

"Well, with the fact that we're having lights installed, I'd say we're doing good."

"Hooo! Reassure me in the fact that there won't be too many."

"Thank goodness, no. We limited the number of streetlights to ten and they will be put in the busiest corners of the town. So there might be one near the cafe, but thankfully, it won't be blinding."

"Hooo! That is very good! Thank you, Isabelle. I can only imagine what the actual demand was."

"Too many. It would have blinded me, to tell you the truth. I'm glad we reduced it to a decent number."

"Reduced what to a decent number, miss Isabelle?"

And for the person that walks in, whiskers shuffling, overall as clean as they are going to get. Then again, he won't blame the mole for the dirt that's coming off said overalls.

"Mister Don! Oh my goodness, I'm starting to run late, aren't I?"

"Sonny isn't completely up yet, miss. No worries."

"Still, I need to get to sending those papers. Pray Pelly is in."

"She is. Sent a letter home this morning."

"Good, good. Now, if you'll all excuse me."

Just like he will try not to blame himself for the small smile on his face as he puts down the cup he was cleaning to get to Don Resetti's order and he hears Isabelle leave in a rush before Blathers soon follows, saying the museum would need him – Museum. More like he's worried about his sister – and Don questions him about the talk.

Yes, they are definitely advantages to being the barista of a town where everyone knows everyone.

What's been going on at town hall to shake it so much?

Whatever it is, Brewster is no longer in doubt over the fact that his warm milk client, the one who looks always exhausted, has something to do with it. She has something to do with the fact that Isabelle looks tired but happy in the morning. She has something to do with the fact that the entire town is starting to look like a town and the villagers enjoy their stay in said town. And she has something to do with the fact that the entire town, that everyone wakes up with a satisfied smile on their faces as they talk about the lights, the benches and the possibility of a lighthouse.

And, for once in his life, he is glad that he is wrong.

He is glad he didn't sink into first impressions when he first saw her. He is glad that he didn't give into the anger of their second meeting. And he is exceptionally glad that this girl, this girl who looks ready to break at a simple wind current is strong. Is very strong and very, very caring.

In fact...

In fact, the only thing he's not glad about is the one thing and one thing only.

She's still dropping those five hundred bells on his counter every time she does show up.

She has yet to ask for a coffee. She has yet to order anything else than that warm milk to go that she takes with her every odd day before probably retiring to her home. It's her drink, it's her order, and he's charging her three hundred bells extra for it.

It's a thing he needs to fix and he will fix it soon. He will fix it tonight.

"... You can keep it."

And maybe, just maybe, for one night, he can let her have her cup for free.

After all, what can it hurt?