‘Lucien?’ The boy’s voice, though cheerful, held a note of questioning, of slight uncertainty, that snagged on Lucien’s frayed nerves. He realized then, with a jolt, that the boy just called him ‘Mr. Lucien’.


    Lucien. It echoed in his mind, a strange resonance, a disquieting familiarity. It was his name too. Lucien Crow, back on Earth. And now, this body, in this alien world, was also named Lucien. Was this a cruel jest of fate? A bizarre cosmic coincidence? Or something more deliberate, more orchestrated? The thought sent another shiver down his spine, a cold tendril of unease weaving its way into the existing dread.


    He set the unfinished bowl of carrots back on the rough-hewn table, the meager meal suddenly unappetizing. His stomach still rumbled, a hollow complaint, but the urgency had receded, replaced by a prickling anxiety. He smoothed down his borrowed shirt, a futile gesture of composure, and moved towards the front door.


    He pulled the door open, steeling himself for the encounter. The boy from the gate stood there, still radiating a youthful energy, but the cheerful grin now seemed a touch… fixed, expectant. Fifteen, perhaps sixteen, Lucien judged, with that open, almost guileless face of youth. Sand-blonde hair, round cheeks dusted with a faint flush of color, and those bright, unwavering blue eyes.


    “Here’s your mail, Mr. Lucien,” the boy repeated, the name rolling easily off his tongue, as if it was perfectly natural, perfectly expected. He extended the cream-colored envelope again, holding it out with a slight tilt of his head, a subtle emphasis on the offering.


    Lucien took the envelope, his fingers brushing against the boy’s in the exchange. A fleeting, ordinary contact, yet in this extraordinary circumstance, it felt charged with an unnatural weight. He took a step back, holding the letter in his unfamiliar hand, his mind racing, desperately trying to catch up to the social currents of this interaction.


    But the boy remained rooted to the spot, his expectant gaze unwavering. The broad smile, still plastered across his face, now held a hint of something else, something… calculating? Or was it just youthful anticipation, eagerness for… something? Lucien felt a bead of cold sweat trickle down his temple. He was out of his depth, adrift in a social situation he didn’t understand, with no script to follow, no cues to guide him.


    What now? What do I do now? His internal panic flared, threatening to overwhelm him. He felt a desperate urge to retreat back into the house, to slam the door shut, to escape the unnerving cheerfulness of the boy and the weight of his unspoken expectation.


    And then, as if summoned by his escalating anxiety, the familiar dimming of his vision began. The world seemed to soften at the edges, the colours muted, the light diffused, as the translucent veil descended. The shimmering script bloomed into existence, overlaying his sight, the familiar list of names and thoughts scrolling into view.


    There, at the top of the list, almost glowing with an urgent clarity, was the entry he desperately sought:


    ? Thomas Brooks, 15: Hope he remembers… hope he remembers about the… you know… Ma said be subtle, be polite. Just a little hint. He’s probably just distracted, thinking about the sky again. Everyone says he’s always thinking about the sky. But he always tips. Always. Unless… unless he’s really forgotten this time. Maybe I should just ask? No, Ma said no asking directly. But what if he forgets completely? Then I miss out on the new licorice whips from the traveling merchant. They’re supposed to be really good… ?


    Lucien exhaled slowly, a silent rush of air that felt like releasing a pressure valve in his chest. The veil. The intrusive, bewildering veil, proving to be an unexpected lifeline. He finally understood. The expectant smile, the lingering presence, the unspoken desire… it was about a tip. The boy, Thomas, expected a tip for delivering the mail. A routine, a custom, as the veiled thoughts had revealed. And ‘Lucien’ – this body’s previous inhabitant – “always tips.”


    Relief washed over him again, mingled with a renewed surge of anxiety. He knew what was expected of him. But knowing and doing were two different things. He was supposed to give the boy a tip. But did he have a tip to give? Where did ‘Lucien’ keep his money? Did he even have money on hand? The scholarly room upstairs, the bare kitchen downstairs, the neglected yard – none of it screamed ‘wealthy’. And the veiled thoughts offered no immediate clues about the location of ‘Lucien’s’ coin.


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    He had to improvise. He had to bluff his way through this, just as he had bluffed his way through the initial greeting. His mind raced, searching for a plausible excuse, a polite deflection, anything to avoid admitting his utter cluelessness.


    He forced a wider, more genuine-seeming smile this time, hoping it masked the frantic calculations churning behind his eyes. “Thomas, my boy,” he began, trying to adopt a tone of casual familiarity, mimicking the easy way the boy had used his name, “Thank you, truly, for bringing this all the way out here. I know it’s a bit of a trek.” He gestured vaguely towards the distance, hoping the vague countryside context would fill in the blanks.


    Thomas’s blue eyes widened slightly, a flicker of hope rekindling within them. The smile wavered, but remained. He seemed to appreciate the acknowledgement, the personal address.


    “It’s no trouble, Mr… Lucien,” Thomas corrected himself quickly, adding the honorific this time, perhaps encouraged by Lucien’s slightly warmer tone. “Just… just part of my rounds, sir.”


    Lucien pressed on, seizing the opening. “Indeed, indeed. Most appreciated. However,” he continued, lowering his voice slightly, as if confiding a minor embarrassment, “I find myself in a rather… peculiar situation at the moment.” He paused, searching for the right words, for a plausible lie that wouldn’t raise suspicion. “Ahem… a slight… misplacement of funds, you see.”


    He watched Thomas’s face carefully, gauging his reaction. The boy’s brow furrowed slightly, confusion momentarily eclipsing the hopeful expectation. ‘Misplacement of funds’? What did that even mean to a fifteen-year-old country boy? Too vague? Too… strange?


    Lucien hurried to clarify, hoping to sound both regretful and vaguely important. “Lost my coin purse, somewhere about the… ah… the observatory last night. Terribly careless of me, I know. Out stargazing, you see, and quite forgot myself. Dreadfully disorganized, I am, when the stars are out.” He embellished, throwing in details from the diary, hoping to weave a thread of plausibility, of ‘Lucien-ness’ into his hastily constructed excuse.


    Thomas’s confusion seemed to lessen, replaced by a dawning understanding, and a flicker of… sympathy? Or perhaps just acceptance. ‘Observatory’? ‘Stargazing’? ‘Dreadfully disorganized’? These were details that seemed to fit with the ‘Lucien’ he knew, or at least, the ‘Lucien’ he was starting to perceive through the veil’s glimpses of local gossip.


    “Oh,” Thomas said again, this time with a different inflection, a softer, more understanding tone. “Oh, I see, Lucien. Lost your… your coin purse. That’s… that’s bad luck, that is.” The smile finally faded completely, replaced by a look of genuine, if slightly disappointed, empathy.


    “Indeed, indeed, bad luck,” Lucien echoed, nodding gravely, relief flooding through him in a warm wave. He had done it. He had navigated the social minefield, sidestepped the immediate crisis. He had bought himself time.


    “So… ah…” Thomas shuffled his feet slightly, glancing down at the overgrown path, the expectant energy now replaced by a subdued awkwardness. “So… no tip today then, Lucien?” He asked it quietly, almost apologetically, the question barely audible.


    Lucien felt a pang of guilt, a sharp sting of conscience amidst the relief. The boy had come all this way, expecting a small reward, and he was being sent away empty-handed. He knew, from the veiled thoughts, that the tip was important to Thomas, more than just a casual extra. It was for candy, for a small treat, a rare indulgence in this seemingly austere world. And he, in his borrowed body, was denying him that small pleasure.


    “I am truly sorry, Thomas,” Lucien said again, this time with genuine regret coloring his voice. “Most truly sorry. Tell you what,” he added quickly, an idea sparking in his mind, “Come back… come back tomorrow, yes? Come back tomorrow with the mail, and I’ll… I’ll make it up to you then. Double tip, yes? If… if I can find my blasted coin purse by then.” He added the last part with a self-deprecating chuckle, hoping to lighten the mood, to reassure the boy that this was just a temporary setback, not a permanent change in ‘Lucien’s’ tipping habits.


    Thomas’s face brightened again, the hopeful smile slowly returning, tentative at first, then broadening into something closer to its original cheerful wattage. “Really, Mr. Lucien? Double tip tomorrow?”


    “Absolutely, Thomas,” Lucien affirmed, meeting the boy’s gaze directly, trying to project an air of trustworthiness, of sincerity. “Double tip. You have my word.”


    “Alright then, Mr. Lucien!” Thomas said, the cheerfulness fully restored. He grinned again, a wide, sunny smile that banished the lingering gloom of the overgrown yard, at least for a moment. “I’ll be back tomorrow then.” He turned and practically skipped back down the path towards the gate, his earlier dejection completely forgotten, replaced by the promise of a double tip and the allure of licorice whips from the traveling merchant.


    Lucien watched him go, a strange mix of emotions swirling within him. Relief, guilt, and a growing sense of… responsibility? He had successfully navigated his first social interaction as ‘Lucien’. He had avoided immediate suspicion. He had even, perhaps, earned a sliver of… trust? Or at least, placated a mail delivery boy with a promise of future payment.


    But the relief was fleeting, a fragile thing overshadowed by the crushing weight of reality. He was still trapped. Still directionless. Still staring at a sky that shouldn’t be broken. And now, he had a name—one that matched his own from Earth. A coincidence? No. It couldn’t be.