Spring came and with it the tradition of cleaning. The log cabin that sat at the end of the pier had been built by his own hands, and so it was imperfect. It suffered during humid summers and freezing winters; the layers of dust and mold that formed made formidable enemies. Leaving it a mere single month more and the job would require more hands. Sighing heavily with the weight of this burden bowing his shoulders, Fakir rolled up his sleeves.
It was late afternoon before he finally stopped. The disturbed dust motes hanging in the air, almost appearing to sparkle in the low sun. A high shelf had proven a deterrent in his purge and without bothering to bring a stool he reached high over his head to wipe it clean. In an instant a tempest of forgotten paperwork had fallen over him. The fluttering sound of the mess had mixed with his disgruntled groan. He couldn't remember building such a ridiculous shelf in the first place much less remember deciding to keep anything on it. The guilty rag was thrown gracelessly to the floor.
The papers had mostly been stories, unfinished and unplanned. He often found himself writing when he was unaware- a letter to his father recalling some imaginary event, a note to the town council becoming an elaborate tale, a simple grocery list gone rogue... It was an effect of his power. Since it had been switched on it was impossible to turn off. As soon as he'd caught himself doing so however he'd quietly still his hand and send the parchment to the fire. The paper at his feet now was a monument to the past, hidden in a place he considered out of reach.
He bent to collect the loose leaf, taking care not to read any of the words lest he be sucked in. When it was once again stacked neatly he realized that it was not only the stories that he'd left on that shelf to remain, a neatly tied bundle of letters had fallen too. The string had already come loose, and with a short tug the contents were released.
The smile that crossed his features was somewhere between delight and sorrow. The records of time from his school days to his adult life were all there. Messages from Autor, Charon, and most importantly Mytho.
He read through the letters the prince had sent following his return to the fairy tale kingdom, of his latest exploits and of Rue. The generous words in every envelope had made the other boy seem a stranger to the one he knew, but Fakir had been glad. These were the words of the true prince Siegfried. A postcard of some foreign site, lovingly adorned with x's and o's in his wife's perfect penmanship gave him pause. Although the idea of inter-dimensional post had always been one to confound him, it was the last thing he'd received. The postmark was barely legible, worn away by years of display. The words on the back had been meaningless, and yet they'd meant everything:
"Wish you were here."
The Fakir of the past who had received this postcard had been given an idea. Under the postcard lie a note, far older. It was in loping scrawl and barely legible; the literal scratching of a bird. Whatever tiny thread of magic that connected them now, in Siegfried's fairytale universe it would be increased tenfold. Perhaps there he could finally write the one story that had always been singing in his veins.
The story of the duck princess and her happy ending.
His hands shook as the collected papers came into view. He had done such a terrific job of forgetting exactly what he had written. Her name was there, etched again and again.
A tear pushed past the pained line of his closed eyelids, as he tried desperately to banish the memory anew. The story remained unfinished, just as the others were. He had remembered his decision then. Any change that was done by his hand would be a rejection of her true self and he would never allow himself to succumb to the temptation.
Outside a harried quack tore through his reverie. He wiped the illicit tear away and crushed the paper underhand. No matter how he longed to see her smile, to take her hand in dance- no matter how much his reflection seemed to dim in her eyes, this was reality; the only story worth living.
Fakir pushed everything back onto that high shelf, collecting his dust cloth and swearing a solemn promise to avoid the same episode next year. Outside on the lake was his duck. He would tend to her then finish cleaning their home for the fresh start of spring. Nothing more, and nothing less.
There they would remain, without ending.