A/N Hello! I am back after nearly ten years of sabbatical. For those of you who don't know, I publish chapters weekly but will post immediately after five reviews. Thank you!

Hiraeth: is a Welsh word which means 'nostalgia', or, more commonly, 'homesickness'. Many Welsh people claim 'hiraeth' is a word which cannot be translated, meaning more than solely "missing something" or "missing home." To some, it deploys the meaning of missing a time, an era, or a person. It is associated with the bittersweet memory of missing something or someone, while being grateful of that/ their existence

Music is the Key. It has the Power to transport you across time –Neil Diamond

"He's here again." Turning from her task, Lyra's light eyes followed the direction indicated to her. "That's every night since you started. You sure he's not stalking you?" Emil, the broad shouldered and narrow minded stage manager of Engel's Pub and Brew asked as he stood over her glaring.

"I'm sure," Lyra replied, but was beginning to doubt her own words. To avoid an argument, she stood from her crouched position and slung the strap to her guitar over her head, nestling the familiar shape of the instrument against her abdomen.

"Well if you do, at least he pays. Find a few more stalkers. It's good for business. You're on in five." With that, he pushed off the wall and made his way to the sound board in the back corner. Lyra perched herself on the stool that sat center stage of the triangular shaped platform in the corner opposite the bar. Plugging her guitar in, she tested a few notes to make sure the feedback was minimal. She took a moment before starting and pulled her nearly hip length brown hair into a high ponytail to avoid catching it in the strings. Her eyes were focused on the man Emil had referred to moments before.

From across the smoke filled room, she could make out his form perched contentedly on the corner stool of the U-shaped counter. He was short, around five feet if she could guess, and looked to be in his late fifties if not older. It was hard to gauge because he nearly always kept his head down. He wasn't remarkable looking in any way, but he had a sort of familiarity to her that was both comforting and unnerving. Since starting at Engel's six weeks prior, she'd seen him every night. Despite his lack of remarkable traits, he stood out from the leather clad patrons that frequented the dive-bar. His clothing bore no motorcycle paraphernalia, or label of any kind. He wore blue tapered jeans tucked into striped rain boots, a blue thermal shirt with a denim jacket, some sort of navy colored cap that looked like those hats a fly fisherman would wear with a few shiny lures dangling around the brim.

His mix matched outfit was odd, but for this part of southwestern California, there was a fair share of the eccentric in people. The coastal shore attracted the most vibrant of road-tripper, vagabond, hippie, and tent city drifter imaginable. After all, it had attracted her, hadn't it?

However this man, who'd apparently never been spotted before her arrival, always sat at the same seat at the bar, ordered something called a midnight kiss, and sat writing in a book or sometimes flipping mindlessly through it as though making corrections. She doubted he was an educator, although there was an air of maturity about him. Over the last few days, she'd done her best to turn a blind eye to the attention she'd attracted, hoping her time at the pub was drawing to an end, but seeing the small, blue-clad man so comfortable amongst a crowd of beer bellies, plunging necklines, ratty beards, and sleeveless 'cuts', she couldn't help but admire his gumption.

Emil began flashing the stage lights snapping Lyra from her thoughts. She adjusted the microphone stand to position it near her mouth and cleared her throat. "Good evening, I'm Lyric Ireton and welcome to Engel's." The sparse crowd paid her little attention but instead had gathered around one of the only two pool tables in the hall. She sighed, a heaviness weighing so deeply inside her that it felt like it filled her from soul to skin. Pushing her forlorn thoughts away, she sat back and began playing…

…

"Don't forget my cut, sweetheart" Emil said walking past Lyra. She was bent over collecting the sparse coins and bills from her open guitar case when his unwelcome hand left a hard smack on her rear-end. Her eye roll was nearly audible. "I'll be back tomorrow!" he called over his shoulder as walked out the front, never mind the half full pint glass still in his hand.

"I'll be damned if he ever helps close one night," Louis the bartender grumbled. "I spend so much time sweeping peanuts off the ground I should have joined the circus." His shoulder length bleached hair looked neon compared to his fake-baked skin. Clearly the excessive tanning had taken its toll because the man, who was barely in his thirties, had wrinkles from forehead to neck.

"If you don't want to close down I can," Lyra offered tucking her guitar away and pocketing her tips, conveniently forgetting the sixty percent she owed the house.

"Serious?" Louis asked looking at her from over the counter with a look of suspicion. "What's the catch?"

"No catch, I uh…could just really use the money." Louis eyed her for a moment as though over dramatically sizing her up before he shrugged and tossed her the rag he'd been using.

"Done, just don't clean out the register or your ass is in a sling. And don't let me catch you passed out with a gin bottle in your hand tomorrow morning. You won't believe how many times that has happened!" He slung his jacket over his shoulder, plopped the keys on the bar and headed out back without another word.

When she was sure he was gone, Lyra sank into a chair and held her head in her hands. At least she'd have a place to sleep tonight.

This time two months ago was the lowest point in her life. Having fled her home in Eastern Illinois, she'd managed to pack a bag, her guitar, empty her savings and make it out to California. In hindsight, maybe she should have picked somewhere less expensive to start over. But she needed people. She needed population…somewhere she could get lost in the crowd. Somewhere she wouldn't be found or asked questions. Working in a dive bar for five dollars an hour plus forty percent of tips wasn't where she pictured her life at thirty-four, but sometimes life throws a curve ball that hits you in the face and you just have to walk it off.

Before she got too lost in her thoughts, she rolled up the sleeves of her loose knit sweater, took the rag and wiped down the ten table tops in the bar and stacked the chairs. It took her another twenty minutes to sweep the peanut shells, wrappers, napkins and other garbage off the floor and mop the sticky surface. Taking the empty glasses behind the counter she began washing them.

"Do I have time for one more?" Lyra jumped so suddenly at the voice she dropped the glass she was drying and it shattered on the ground. Looking toward the voice, she saw the blue clad man sitting in his usual seat slurping from a straw to drink the last remnants of his drink.

"How the hell…have you been here the whole time?" Had she not noticed him? The door was definitely locked…

"Forgive me, I was using the facilities." There was something very off about this guy and Lyra looked around for the closest weapon, settling on grabbing the broom handle.

"We're closed," she said hoping her voice sounded less shaky than it felt. If it came down to fight, Lyra was confident she could hold her own against the shorter man, but preferably, he'd just leave without incident.

"Ah, I see. My own fault. It's a rather cold night; I had hoped to prolong my departure." The short man stood from his stool, his head barely peaking over the bar counter and he began walking away. Feeling suddenly very sorry for the man, and also understanding what it was like to want a warm place for a bit longer, she called out to him.

"Hey, I suppose one more won't hurt." The man turned and smiled before retaking his seat. "I uh…haven't done this in a while, so I hope it's not terrible," she said as she began mixing the liquors.

"I promise not to complain." Lyra smiled. Maybe she'd been wrong about him; there was something very pleasing about his voice and mannerisms. Having spent her fair share of nights on the streets these last few weeks, she knew that the vast majority of homeless people were genuinely good, if albeit a bit kooky. "You have a lovely voice. I've enjoyed hearing you sing."

"Eh…it's good enough to pay the bills," she teased trying to deflect the compliment with a lie. "You come in a lot."

"I have a purpose and this place helps me think," he said as Lyra put the drink in front of him. He took a straw and took a long sip. "This is quite nice, thank you Lyric."

"You can call me Lyra."

"Miss Lyra, thank you." She smiled at him and he returned it. He had the most unusually ice blue eyes, almost like they were a tinted white… "You seem sad."

"Do I?" Lyra said with a laugh, "I suppose every midnight bartender has a sob story."

"What is yours?"

"Oh, I don't think that's how this works. Usually it's the bartender who listens to the stories. Feel free to tell me yours."

"I don't have a 'sob' story. I'm quite happy, you see," he said taking another long drink. "You're hiding from something?"

"Just my parole officer."

"Not a husband?" he asked ignoring her quip. Lyra took a few steps backward and away from him.

"Are you a PI?"

"What's a 'PI'?" she eyed him for a moment, he was too naïve to have been sent.

"Never mind," she said and began cleaning up the glass pieces from the dropped glass.

"So you have a husband?"

"Not anymore, but sadly I'm not looking for a relationship if that's what you're getting at." She was only half joking about that.

"Oh no my dear, I'm far too old for you. I'll be in my fourteenth century soon…or is it my fifteenth?" Lyra laughed. He sounded so genuine.

"Oh please, you don't look a day over two hundred!"

"You're very kind," he said and set something on the counter. It was that book he always had with him.

"What are you always writing?"

"Oh, I'm not writing, I'm reviewing. You see, sometimes there such wonderfully tragic stories, you have to wonder…was it meant to be or was it meant to be better? I believe it's referred to as 'a perfect storm'."

"Yes I can understand that," Lyra said and finished stacking the clean glasses. "I don't think I caught your name."

"My name? You know…I've quite forgotten what it is," he laughed. Lyra looked at him with amusement and bewilderment. "You wouldn't happen to know it, would you?"

"No, I'm sorry I don't." She perched herself on the cooler in front of him. "But you look like a Hank."

"Hank….yes that's a very good name. Hello Lyra, I'm Hank," he said extending a hand to her. She laughed again and took his hand. A strange feeling overtook her, the way he stared into her eyes, the unnerving whiteness of them. For a moment she could entirely believe this man had lived for centuries and seen many wonderful things.

"Hello Hank, it's nice to meet you."

"There's something quite remarkable about you Lyra, have you ever been told that?"

"No, I don't think so, but I appreciate the compliment."

"I didn't entirely mean it as a compliment, but also an observation. Have you travelled much? Seen many lands?"

"Yes a few, I deployed twice during my military service. Can't say I went anywhere overly pleasant," she answered. It was the first time in years she'd admitted she was former infantry.

"Ah, you've seen battle. Perhaps that's what is so different about you. War can change a man, a woman in combat that is another story."

"How so? Are we less capable of fighting a war because we have breasts?" Wouldn't be the first time she's heard that. In her six years of service, she'd met only a handful of men who's treated her as an equal.

"Oh no," he said with a small blush, "but it is a sad and frightening day when women are called to fight. The ferocity of a mother fighting for child and country…it's a perfect storm of its own."

"I think I can agree with that. Where are you from Hank? You have a funny way of saying things and you sound like you've seen a war or two, yourself."

"I've seen far more battles than I cared to in many lands, which is why I've traveled very far from there. Places I don't think I'll ever return to now..." His eyes grew distant for a moment and Lyra felt a strong sense of compassion for him. It was frightening how much they had in common. "But I fear I should return. I've lost my purpose, quite selfishly and now there are things set in motion…things that should be stopped. Lyra, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"If you had the ability to change something, something that has been for many years, something written in history, but something you feel in your soul is very, very wrong…would you change it even though by doing so, things could change perhaps, for the worse?"

Lyra thought for a moment, "Well…The best thing I can think of is slavery. It's written in history, we know how very wrong it is and was, so I guess if I had the chance to go back and stop it from happening, even though it would change the course of history, I would. I would know I was doing the right thing in the end. Evil is evil. If there's a chance to do something for good, I would do it."

"Fascinating…" Hank trailed off. "That's a new idea. One I should have considered before…"

"Ending slavery?" Lyra asked incredulously.

"No…you!"

"Me?"

"Perhaps that's why I've been so drawn to you…I am not the one to go, but you!"

"Hank you're not making sense," Lyra said chuckling nervously, his nearly translucent eyes were large with excitement.

"Can you hand me a pen please?" Hesitating for a moment, she jumped off the cooler, retrieved a pen from beside the phone and handed it to him. He took it, that same sensation returning as their fingers brushed, opened the book and began furiously writing inside the cover. "Please could I also have a glass of water?" Suddenly very worried Hank had lost his last marble, she turned and poured him one and scooped in a few ice cubes. But when she turned Hank was nowhere to be seen.

"Hank?" she called and looked around the empty room. "Hank!" The front door was still locked…he wasn't in the bathroom. He had vanished. Shaking her head and hoping it wasn't her own marble she'd lost, she had no other choice to return to cleaning. Next to his empty glass sat a fifty dollar bill and the book he'd been writing in. Had he left this on purpose?

Opening the cover she saw what he'd written, Lyra, learn to retell the story. Tell the Gray One Lumequentale na vamme….

So Hank had lost his mind, she deduced. Maybe both of them had. Leaving the book on the counter temporarily she finished cleaning and restocking the bar. Turning the lights out, she took the garbage out the back and from the side of the dumpster, she retrieved her large hiking backpack and returned inside and dropped it on the stage. After a quick raid of the kitchen, she sat with her spoils and unfurled the sleeping bag that was rolled on the bottom. Using her pack as a pillow she nestled in and ate her late night dinner.

Although she tried to keep it from her mind, her eyes kept returning to the book on the counter and replaying the strange encounter. Pushing herself up, she crossed the room and took it from its place. Flipping past the first page with Hank's inscription she turned to the title page.

The Hobbit

Furrowing her brow, Lyra flipped through several more pages. This had been her favorite book growing up. Her father had read it to her for the first time when she was only five. It was the first chapter book she'd ever read on her own…why would Hank have this?

It wasn't an uncommon book, Tolkien was famous, certainly. And with the release of his movies there was a genuine hype about the fantasy stories. Clearly Hank was having some sort of dissociative complex where he mistook fiction for history.

As she continued to flip through pages, out of the bottom a card fell. Picking it up it had an address for a seaside estate, "if lost please return to…" not knowing whether it was Hank's address or a bookstore, she climbed back inside her sleeping bag, not bothering to undress in case she needed to be up quickly, and with nothing else to do she began rereading the nostalgic text until sleep finally claimed her.

The walk was long and between her backpack and the guitar, she was rather weighed down, but she enjoyed the quiet and getting away from Engel's was a relief. She'd set off early, right after dressing and packing up the evidence of her stay, knowing it would be at least a two hour walk through neighborhoods, a shopping district and down toward the boardwalk. According to the GPS on her phone, she was getting close. The decision to find the address indicated from the card that had fallen from the book wasn't an easy one. She'd tossed and turned for over an hour that morning wondering if her conversation with Hank had been a stress induced hallucination. The book had been real enough though, so that meant Hank had to be…right? Even though she knew it was likely he'd return to the bar that night, like every night previously, she felt an urge to seek him out. To see where he lived, or at the very least where the book had come from.

On her left, the California coast stretched, the salt water was fragrant and there was still a hint of the previous day's sunscreen in the air. Despite only being early spring, this part of the state was always warm and was a common location for tourists. Even now, as shops and restaurants were opening for breakfast, there were people littering the pier and the sidewalks were scattered with joggers. Far down the beach someone was hosting a yoga class. A little salty stretching, she mused and looked down as her phone buzzed. She'd arrived.

Looking to her right, she was standing directly in front of a renovated house that had been turned into a souvenir antique shop. The Two Blues was painted above the doorway and the small lawn out front was covered in garden gnomes, ceramic animal figures, blown glass ornaments, and statuettes. Lyra passed a frog, a nude woman holding an overturned pot that trickled water, and a creepy taxidermy stuffed squirrel before reaching the door. She had to duck under a large wind chime to get inside but her backpack caught the edge of it and the hollow metal tubes rang loudly.

"Come in, come in!" a creaking voice called from somewhere in the back. Lyra could hear the shuffling of feet and tried her best to follow the sound. Every inch of the wallpapered walls were covered in pictures, mirrors, and paintings. Boxes and shelves lined the narrow walkway and were filled with every imaginable trinket.

"Hello?" she called feeling like she was navigating the front of the house in some elaborate game of Marco Polo.

"Yes, yes, back here follow the tracks!" Confused, Lyra looked down as a noisy choo choo chirped at her feet. Around the baseboards, and wrapping around bookcases, vases, and pots, a model train rolled along an electric powered track. Following the toy, she found herself standing in a room with books piled from floor to ceiling, the far end of the room holding large windows that streaks of light trickled through and illuminated the dust particles in the air. "Who are you?" cooed a vibrato voice. Standing on the fifth rung of a ladder that was propped against the wall, stood a man in an oversized blue sweatshirt that reached his knees, his legs covered in white leggings and his feet were bare.

"I'm Lyra," she said unsure if her eyes were playing tricks on her. "I'm looking for Hank."

"Hank?" he asked and began climbing down. He wore a pair of round, brown framed glasses and had a white beard. She couldn't describe him as tall, although he was easily over six feet. But rather he was long…everything about him was long. Arms reached mid-thigh, his neck stretched tall, and his forehead was nearly double the average. "Am I Hank?" The disturbing part of his question was that it wasn't directed at her, but to himself. "Yes, yes I must be," he muttered and moved toward Lyra. She jumped back and knocked into a stack of books that toppled over. Hank-two ignored her and the clatter as he walked behind a counter with an old fashioned cash register and, folding his hands on the top, finally met her eyes and smiled. "Welcome to The Two Blues, I'm Hank, how can I help you?"

"Is this some kind of joke?" Lyra asked as she cautiously picked up the books she's knocked over.

"If it is, I don't think it's a very good one," the man answered. "Unless you find it funny, then I suppose it's a good one."

"Listen, I uh…just came to return this," she said pulling the book Hank-one had left at the bar. "I met someone last night who forgot this." She handed it to the man, careful to avoid any contact.

"Lyra?" the familiar voice was a welcome escape from the even stranger Hank from the previous Hank. "Well, well, I was right about you!"

"Hank," she said seeing the short man come from behind an armchair that was covered in books as well.

"Yes?" the tall man asked.

"No, not you," she said annoyed. "You left your book at Engel's last night, and way too much money for a poorly made drink. I thought I'd return them." Before she could reach the book she'd placed on the counter, Tall Hank snatched it from her.

"How could you part with this?" he snapped at the shorter man. "Have we not been planning this for years?"

"I didn't lose it, I baited the hook, you see and I've made a catch!" They both paused and looked at Lyra who was gaping like a deer in headlights.

"Her? You've gone senile!" Tall Hank roared.

"No more than you, ya lanky codger! It's my risk to take unless you've changed your mind and you're going." Short Hank had climbed up a stairwell of books to stare into the towering man's face.

"You know I can't make that trip, I'm far too tall. Only half of me would make it!"

"A likely excuse, more likely too scared ya stretched out prawn!"

"Don't take that tone, you-you bald backed imp!"

"Hanks!" Lyra yelled over them. Without changing their posture, both men turned their heads to look at her. "What the hell are you arguing about?"

"You!" they both said in unison. Without another word, they both returned to yelling impractical insults at each other. Lyra didn't know whether to interject, call the police, or make popcorn. The sight was comical, but it didn't do anything to provide answers.

Tall Hank had dropped the book while flailing his arms so she knelt to pick it up. It was then her eye caught something. It looked strangely like a bird bath, but the stone carving around the basin was incredibly elaborate. Her feet were moving forward before she realized it. It was waist high and when she looked into the bowl, it took her a moment to realize it was full. The liquid was so still and reflective, it gave a perfect reflection of her face and the ceiling above, she had at first mistaken it for a mirror. Even as she placed her hands on the side, the water didn't move.

It vaguely registered to her that the Hanks had stopped arguing, but only because a low humming was emitting from the basin. So focused on listening to the clearly female voice, she didn't notice when the Hanks stood on either side of her.

"What do you see?" Short Hank asked.

"I don't see anything," she replied and it startled her how slowly she was speaking. "I can hear…."

"What, what do you hear?" Tall Hank pressed.

"Singing," she answered. "Someone is singing…" the melody was getting louder and the repetitive tone was beginning to sound familiar.

"I think you were right, my short friend. You have indeed made the proper catch. Give this here," Tall Hank said and took the book from her hand. She didn't tear her eyes away from those of her own reflection when he did so because from deep under the surface of the water, small bubbles of light began to surface and cause ripples and pulses simultaneously.

Unable to tear her eyes away from the beating light, she could only hear the fluttering of pages. Hank was flipping through the book. It grew louder and louder, the ruffle mixing with the music until it sounded more like the roar of wings and the voice seemed as though it were coming from her own mouth. It was then she noticed her hair was blowing wildly and the light was growing so bright she had to close her eyes.

"Hank!" she called trying to grab hold of the table, "Hank what's happening?" there was no answer but instead a rush of cold air so frozen it took the breath right out of her. She gasped, trying to inhale, but there was no air to breath. Unable to scream, the world came rushing out from underneath her and she felt herself being blown across the room. She vaguely remembered felling her chest smash hard into something before it all came to an abrupt halt.

Lyra wasn't sure if she'd lost consciousness or she'd simply been spinning from the collision. Her backpack had absorbed most of the blow, but her guitar had landed on her chest. With eyes still shut, she pushed the case off of her and put a hand to her head. Nothing felt broken, but the light was still burning her eyes.

She risked opening them only to find she wasn't staring at the unusual water, but instead was staring at a bright sun in a clear sky. Careful to not jolt her head, she slipped her arms out of the straps of her pack and sat up.

All around her were rolling hills covered in thick grass that was nearly knee high. A few sparse trees of a variety she didn't recognize sprung from the ground and towered as though they'd grown for hundreds of years. The air was so fresh she was certain no amount of pollution had ever stained it.

A gentle breeze was blowing, but other than that, there wasn't a sound to be heard. No cars. No voices. No rush of the distant ocean or low roar of a passing airplane. Lyra stood to her feet once her head stopped spinning and realized, there was not a house in sight.

"Oh shit…" she muttered, holding a hand to her forehead. "I'm in Narnia."