Al first met his father’s father during his mother’s funeral. The memories were hazy, disjointed snippets, rather than perfect records. His mind hadn’t been fortified yet. Still, despite occurring a decade ago, he remembered enough. The closed casket. The crying relatives. He recalled an unfamiliar face approach and hug his father, who refused to return the gesture. The two talked, and unspoken grudges were eventually cast aside. There and then, Al was introduced to his grandfather.

That wasn’t the moment his hero worship had begun.

The final rites concluded. Everyone retreated to his grandfather’s home, a mansion within semi-rural Massachusetts, located west of Vell City. Nearly isolated, the place seemed perfect to his mourning family, whose grief echoed throughout empty halls. Al hadn’t cried. The day’s full impact somehow eluded his younger self, and besides, why should he have cried when his father had not?

Devoid of sadness, he instead was possessed by curiosity. His grandfather’s home and land seemed something from fantasy, from the fairy tales he’d memorized by heart. Sneaking away, he escaped into the garden and woods, exploring the parting paths and stone statues and strange symbols and so on. He passed trees and hopped from stone to stone, completely entranced until he slipped and fell and cut his forehead against a jagged chunk of marble.

Then, Al had cried.

Tears and blood mixed, trickling down as he staggered back towards the mansion. Wonder vanished. Shadows laughed from below as shaking branches threatened from above; everything acquired a monstrous quality. Al cried and stumbled, and soon found himself lost. The woods had ensnared him, trapping him within tangled paths. Circles within circles confounded him, feeding his fear until finally—

“Alastor?”

Al turned. At once, the world became quiet. Strolling alongside the path, staff in hand, was his grandfather. The elder approached, frowning while stroking his beard. A grim gleam was within his eyes. To Al, stuck within those wandering woods, that arrival seemed nothing less than miraculous. Hindsight, however, revealed the obvious: his grandfather had located him using clairvoyance, that second sight he’d been blessed with—which, to some, still qualified as a miracle of sorts.

Ashamed, Al mumbled an apology for sneaking off. The response received was nothing but sympathy. Hand in hand, his grandfather then guided him beyond the forest’s boundary. Before that, however…

“Quite the cut, eh?” his grandfather noted. “Allow me.”

That moment’s exactness eluded him, frustratingly enough. His memories, frizzled and torn, held brief details that couldn’t quite stitch together the full scene. He recalled the flash of light. The warmth of fire. The shock, when, upon feeling his forehead…

That wasn’t the moment his hero worship had begun. Not yet, though the seeds had been planted.

“Oh? Why so surprised, Alastor? You’ve seen magic before, haven’t you?”

Al shook his head, explaining his father’s stance on magic: that even if it existed, it wasn’t worth the trouble. The benefits aren’t worth the costs, he’d been told.

“Ah, I understand. He would think that way, especially given recent events. Still, neglect won’t prevent magic from existing. Throwing it away, ignoring it, simply grants our many enemies an extra advantage. Surely you agree, Alastor?”

Had he agreed? Either way…

“Alright, I’ll teach you a bit about magic. Just don’t tell your father…you see, Alastor, the basics start with the distinction between observation and perception…it starts in your head, your mind, and my mind, and plenty of others. It’s all in your mind, until…”

He remembered well what his grandfather once preached. Al had carved those words into his mind, his heart; and now, with the barrier that guarded him, nothing could take those words away. Awestruck, he had listened.

No doubts plagued him then. No further evidence was required. His own forehead, stitched over and completely healed, was proof of magic’s power.

***

His forehead burned beneath the bandage, creating an ever-present itch. The cut, alongside several bruises, were mementos from the previous night. They fueled his impatience. Tapping his foot, he endured the elevator’s ding…ding…ding… as his destination approached. By now, Bram had surely deciphered those notes hidden within the box, meaning they were ever-slightly closer to true understanding. With any luck, he might avoid requiring a Magician altogether. Personal feelings aside, that was ideal: grandfather had always preferred keeping his research away from prying eyes.

The seventh floor arrived. Exiting the elevator, Al rushed forward and navigated twisting halls, stopping before Bram’s office. Finding the door unlocked, thus saving him the trouble of using his amulet, Al, with slight optimism, twisted the handle and entered.

Smoke poured forth, stinging his eyes while blasting him with an indistinct scent. Coughing, practically choking, Al waved away the steam. Fire? No, surprisingly enough. Owing to Bram’s previous mishaps, Al understood that the telltale signs of flame were absent. Looking across the room, he spotted the office’s keeper.

“Morning,” yawned Bram, sitting at his desk. Behind him was the window. Light filtered through, catching clouds of steam within its rays.

Stepping closer, Al frowned as questions grew. His immediate concern, the box from yesterday, was nonchalantly placed aside, resting on the desk’s corner. Bram was currently using his laptop, seemingly oblivious of their long-awaited lead. Most confusingly however—

“Don’t you usually drink coffee? What’s with all the tea?” said Al, finally recognizing the scent. Placed upon the desk were seven teacups. Most were empty.

“Oh, nothing,” replied Bram, who promptly drained dry another cup. “Just an experiment.”

“Another one? Already? Should I have the extinguisher on standby?”

Bram laughed. “Relax, this one won’t explode like the last few. No sigils or spells required, just ordinary tea and ordinary brainpower, though earlier I did almost—actually, never mind. So! Sleep well?”

“No. How could I, after yesterday’s investigation?”

“Fair enough,” replied Bram, pausing to stretch and yawn. “I didn’t sleep at all, been busy sorting through the aftermath.”

“Right…” Al trailed off, aware of unspoken guilt. “Sorry about that. If I—”

“Don’t sweat it, the mirror didn’t really matter. The client won’t even notice it’s gone, probably. I’ll pick up a replacement for cheap if need be.”

“But the window—”

“Was already broken when we arrived, if anyone asks. That house is ancient. They would have replaced it anyway,” Bram concluded. He reached for another cup, sipping it slowly.

Though unconvinced, Al stopped. If Bram believed everything was resolved, then, given his responsibilities, he would defer to Bram’s judgement. With his obligations addressed, Al returned to his primary concern.

“Those notes. Did they explain, I mean, did you begin decoding them? Reach any insights, anything at all?”

Bram paused between sips. “Insights? No, I only confirmed what I already knew.”

“Meaning?”

“Magicians are selfish by default. They spend a lifetime hoarding knowledge, then throw it all away.”

Frowning, Al considered asking for clarification before realization hit. The box. The notes. He’d seen the stack last night, yellow and wrinkled and whole. They couldn’t have—

Reaching towards the desk’s edge, he grabbed and opened the box. Nothing had changed. The notes remained, resting within their iron coffin.

“Not funny.” Al slumped his shoulders, relief washing over him. “I honestly thought they burst into flames.”

“Read them,” said Bram, before gulping down his remaining tea. Closing an eye, he inspected the empty ceramic.

Shifting slightly, Al removed the first page. It was blank. He flipped it over. Its other side was blank. The next page was blank. The next dozen pages were blank. The entire stack from front to back was—no, no it wasn’t! Beneath mocking pages, the final sheet held two sentences written in precise script…

Observation sustains the Cosmos. In observing everything, Vell sustains its world.

In observing those words, Al’s frustration grew. His grip tightened. His forehead burned. Looking over previous pages, he searched. Absolutely nothing was found. Their first lead was within his grasp, yet its meaning eluded him. In short, it was utterly useless.

“Is this a joke?” asked Al, reading the words over and over. “Maybe—could it be a puzzle? These pages, why include a bunch of blanks? Maybe the ink is invisible or—”

“I tried everything,” said Bram, still looking inside his cup. “If there’s some hidden truth within those pages, it’s beyond me. Same goes for those words. Realistically, if the Mage encrypted anything, then they used, you guessed it, magic. Meaning we need another Mage to decode them. Meaning—”

“I know, I know. We’re stuck with the initial problem. We’re stuck where we started,” Al concluded, accepting defeat.

The initial problem. Every problem originated from the initial problem, that paradoxical loop whose rules negated their efforts. It wasn’t complicated. Magicians only discussed magic among other Magicians. To become a Magician, one required tutelage under a Magician. So, excluding sheer luck, learning magic was impossible without the right connections. A parent might teach their child; an aunt or uncle, their niece or nephew; and so on, but for people like Bram and Al…

“Hey, Al? Hello?”

…magic’s inner workings were kept an enigma. Additionally, those willing to openly discuss occult topics were, with rare exception, frauds, if not outright insane. Countless tomes claimed to contain authentic magic, yet, despite Bram and Al’s research, nearly nothing of value was found. Al often suspected such books were intentional disinformation, spread by Mages to confuse outsiders. It was a clever tactic. They, the Magicians, used multiple approaches to safeguard their secrets, and it worked.

Magicians were selfish by default. Truthfully, Al suspected secrecy, not selfishness, guided their actions, but the distinction proved useless in practice. Al’s vague sense of understanding, or even respect, wouldn’t accomplish his goals. Completing a Magician’s work was a Magician’s task. His grandfather’s legacy would reach completion, even if that forced Al to seek a Magician’s help.

Still, Al was spiteful. This problem could have been avoided, if only he hadn’t been denied his birthright. His grandfather had known magic. Al could have, should have learned from him, had his father not—

“Tasseography,” said Bram, shoving an empty teacup into Al’s face, “is the art of using tea leaves for fortune telling. Look inside and read the leaves. See any shapes, anything familiar at all?”

Al flinched, then recovered. “Fortune telling? That’s your current experiment? Really?”

“Really! Now foresee or foretell or whatever,” said Bram, gazing within multiple cups. “You never know, it might work.”

Grumbling, Al took the cup by its handle. Lingering warmth hugged his fingers. Bringing the cup closer, Al inhaled the tea’s aroma and noticed its scent was better than he initially realized. He almost regretted not asking for a cup. Closing an eye, he looked: inside were stains splattered with no particular pattern or design. He was reminded of inkblot tests, and soon felt the associated feelings of ridiculousness.

“See anything, Al?”

“Yeah. I see tea leaves.”

“Good, I’d hope so. See anything else?”

Al squinted. “A goose? Or maybe a bat?”

“Fascinating,” said Bram, nodding. “See any numbers?”

Why would—Al lowered the cup, then sighed. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not? It might work,” said Bram, leaning back. “Hey, it’s at least worth a shot!”

“You’re using tea leaves to look for lottery numbers!”

“Yes, and? I don’t—wait, Al!”

Walking away, Al stopped upon hearing a teacup shatter. Glancing back, he realized Bram, in his haste, had bumped into his desk and knocked one over. Al considered leaving anyway. Sighing, he instead turned towards the wall of junk, looking for the broom and dustpan.

He found them and turned around.

“Hey, Bram? You okay?” Al asked. Bram, now standing, was staring at the broken fragments.

Bram shook his head. “Right, I’m fine. Just remembered something. Have you ever heard of Humpty Dumpty?”

“That nursery rhyme is ancient, of course I have.”

“No, not the egg.” Bram returned to the desk, reaching for his laptop. “The urban legend. Vell’s suicide ghost.”

Al paused. “Alright, I’m listening. Go on.”

“As far as legends go, it’s fairly recent,” Bram began. “The oldest reference I found was under a decade ago. Actually, I first heard of it during high school several years back. Rumors were spreading about another student who had called the police, claiming someone had jumped off a skyscraper. No corpse was found. No one else seemed to have seen it. People assumed they were lying, or crazy, but similar incidents have been reported since then. Can’t figure out how the name Humpty Dumpty surfaced, but it stuck.”

“Why mention this now?”

“Stories have been resurfacing online, you know the places. Meant to tell you earlier but, well, I’m so tired I almost forgot.”

“So, you think it’s worth investigating?”

“Might be. At the very least, it’s something to look out for,” Bram concluded.

Handing over the broom and dustpan, Al pondered while Bram swept the floor. Ghosts were, to the best of Bram and Al’s knowledge, a subgroup within the category of autonomous forces. Their exact nature was uncertain; despite often imagined as echoes of the dead, others suggested that they were spirits—demons, even—donning human disguises. Occasionally, people claimed to see or hear them. Al suspected that, as his grandfather had explained, those individual’s perception was somehow influencing their ability of observation. Al decided to investigate this supposed ghost himself.

The clocks suddenly chimed. Speaking briefly, they reviewed everything discussed. Nothing new was mentioned. With everything either sidelined or resolved, Al soon said goodbye and exited the office.

Returning to the elevator, Al ignored the ding…ding…ding… as he descended down, and, almost unwillingly, imagined himself as Humpty Dumpty plummeting into the ground.

***

Night arrived. Al strolled along, unbothered by summer’s humid breeze. Flashes of lights outlined distant buildings. Lights cast everything in color. Navigating Vell’s depths, Al headed towards his regular destination: an abandoned skyscraper, strangely unwanted despite its prime location. Al, using his amulet, would trespass occasionally and, from the top, overlook the city’s gleaming skyline. Nearly there, he froze.

What—

***

“Alright, I’ll teach you a bit about magic. Just don’t tell your father…you see, Alastor, the basics start with the distinction between observation and perception. Observation is sight, everything your eyes can capture. Perception, however, is understanding, the ability to discern patterns and symbols hidden within the world. Perception is how symbolism works. It encodes knowledge and messages within pictures that can only be fully perceived by those who recognize the patterns. Observation preludes perception, while perception refines observation; understanding what you see will, in turn, allow you to see more. The two feed into one another, forming a circular ladder that spirals into the spheres above. Magic begins here. It starts in your head, your mind, and my mind, and plenty of others. It’s all in your mind, until…”

He remembered well what his grandfather once preached. Times of bewilderment brought him back to those words, words he repeated endlessly like a prayer.

Staring at the specter above, those words returned with full force.

***

—the hell is that?

Pale as an eggshell, the figure hung off the skyscraper’s edge. Despite the height, they radiated with subtle light that separated them from Vell’s signature rust. The cosmos revolved around them. In that moment, they were the center of the world.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall—

They fell. Time slowed. Descending from above, their light grew ever brighter. Their body became a falling star.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall—

They impacted dirty pavement. Their shell shattered. A heap of fractured limbs twitched against the earth. The head rolled off, finally stopping before him.

All the Crown’s horses and all the Crown’s men—

Al stared at the face. The face stared back.

“Sorry to bother, but could you piece me back together?”