Let Me Tell You About Smith

Prudence knew the meeting had failed the moment Stacy with Three E’s asked where the snacks were.

Not if there would be snacks.

Where.

“This is not a party,” Prudence said.

“That’s what people always say right before it becomes one,” Stacy replied, already sitting. “Also, why is there a circle?”

“Circles encourage honesty,” Prudence said.

“Circles encourage crying,” Stacy shot back.

Pond Evergreen stood near the window, hands folded behind her back, smiling faintly at nothing in particular. She looked like a woman who noticed everything and commented on almost none of it. Bob sat carefully in a chair that had never been designed with someone like him in mind, his posture polite, his expression hopeful.

Mr. Whiskers sat in the only empty chair, judged it, and left.

“This isn’t an intervention,” Prudence said.

Everyone nodded.

It absolutely was.

They hadn’t planned it well. Someone had suggested a conversation. Someone else had said supportive environment. Pond had asked questions that made Prudence uncomfortable. Bob had brought sincerity. Stacy had brought judgment.

And Smith—

Smith was not there.

Which was the point.

Prudence cleared her throat. “We’re here because Smith is… difficult.”

“Smith is a structural hazard,” Stacy said.

“Smith is loud,” Pond added pleasantly.

Bob raised a hand. “Smith hugs too hard.”

Prudence pinched the bridge of her nose. “These are observations.”

“You mean complaints,” Stacy said.

“Yes.”

“Then say complaints.”

Pond tilted her head. “I thought we were sharing them so they wouldn’t follow us home.”

That earned her a look.

“Short,” Prudence warned. “We are not telling stories.”

“I’ll start,” Prudence said quickly. “Smith never knocks. He just appears. And then apologizes for the doorway.”

Bob nodded. “That happened to my porch.”

“Smith believes subtlety is a suggestion,” Pond said.

“Smith once tried to whisper,” Stacy added. “The neighbors filed a noise complaint.”

Bob shifted in his chair. “Smith keeps trying to play fetch with me.”

The room paused.

“I’m not a dog,” Bob clarified. “I’m a werewolf.”

He thought about it.

“I mean, sometimes I am a dog. But still.”

“Bob—” Prudence began.

“He throws the stick really far,” Bob finished, quietly impressed. “Like… really far.”

Prudence closed her eyes.

Mr. Whiskers returned, sat in Smith’s empty chair, glared at it, then left again.

“That feels symbolic,” Pond said.

“The cat hates him,” Stacy replied. “That should tell you everything.”

They laughed. Of course they did. Smith made it easy.

Smith broke furniture. Smith missed cues. Smith took up space like the world had been reinforced specifically to survive him. He was strength without grace, volume without awareness, enthusiasm without brakes.

And beneath the laughter, something tighter formed.

Because none of them were wrong.

The air shifted.

Not cold. Not warm. Just… elsewhere.

Pond straightened.

Bob’s ears twitched.

Mr. Whiskers returned and sat.

The door opened.

John Merlin stepped in as if the room were not a destination but a pause between much longer journeys.

No one spoke.

Mr. Whiskers flicked his tail.

“For a man who wanted to leave,” the cat said dryly,

“you do come back an awful lot.”

No one reacted to the fact that the cat had spoken.

John Merlin looked down at him. “I keep forgetting things.”

“You always do,” Mr. Whiskers replied.

Prudence exhaled. “You just crossed over, didn’t you.”

John Merlin shrugged. “Depends how you define just.”

Pond smiled thinly. “Other realm restless tonight?”

“Everything is,” John Merlin said.

Then he looked around the circle.

“I hear you’re talking about Smith.”

Stacy recovered first. “We’re venting.”

“You’ve told the funny versions,” John Merlin said. “Now let me tell you the true one.”

No one interrupted him.

“Everyone thinks Smith’s strength is the problem,” John Merlin said. “It isn’t.”

He didn’t sit.

“There was a winter,” he continued. “Long one. The kind that makes everything hungry and angry at the same time. Something old settled near the edge of town. Not demon. Not wolf. Something that remembered when men were easier to break.”

Bob went still.

“Smith found it first,” John Merlin said. “Not because he was brave. Because he heard something crying and went to help.”

Pond’s smile faded.

“It wanted him. Wanted his anger. Wanted his power. Tried to turn his fear into a door.”

He paused.

“And it almost succeeded.”

Prudence swallowed. “What stopped it?”

John Merlin looked at the empty chair.

“Smith.”

They waited.

“He could’ve ended it,” John Merlin said. “Could’ve torn the ground apart and buried the problem under a solution no one questioned. That’s what everyone expected.”

His voice lowered.

“Instead, he dropped to his knees in the snow. Hands shaking. Not from fear.”

Bob’s jaw tightened.

“From restraint,” John Merlin said. “He looked at me and said, ‘Tell me what to do. Before I do something I can’t forgive.’”

Silence.

“He stayed that way until it passed,” John Merlin finished. “Until the thing realized it couldn’t use him and left.”

Stacy didn’t joke.

“You think Smith is dangerous,” John Merlin said. “He is. To himself. Because he knows exactly what he could become.”

He exhaled.

“Once, people built temples for men like him,” John Merlin added quietly.

“They don’t anymore. And he’s grateful for that.”

“That’s Smith.”

The door opened.

“Hey.”

Smith stood there holding a bucket of chicken, grease already on his fingers.

He stopped when he saw John Merlin.

“Oh,” Smith said. “You’re back.”

John Merlin glanced at him. “You’re late.”

“Traffic,” Smith replied. Then, after a beat, “Also, I took the long way. Old habits.”

He looked around the circle. “Why does it feel like I just walked into a funeral for myself?”

No one answered.

Smith frowned. “Did I break something again?”

Prudence sighed. “Sit down, Smith.”

Smith sat carefully. The chair groaned but survived.

He held up the bucket. “I brought food.”

Mr. Whiskers immediately returned.

Smith blinked. “Huh. Guess I’m forgiven.”

He tore off a piece of chicken and held it up.

“Anyone want a leg?”

John Merlin watched him for a long moment.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “That’s him.”