The silence settled like dust. Jasper stood for a long moment, eyes locked on the door that had just clicked shut behind Barlik. He crossed the room slowly, boots echoing dully against the dark wooden floor, and gripped the handle.

  He twisted it.

  Nothing. The door didn’t budge.

  He frowned, tried again, using more pressure—still nothing. It wasn’t locked. It didn’t feel like it had a lock at all. It simply didn’t open. As if it had never really been meant for him.

  With a sigh, Jasper let go and turned around, taking in the space again. The bar was quiet now, but it didn’t feel empty. Something still moved in the air—maybe just the memory of footsteps and laughter.

  He passed behind the bar and looked over the counter again. All the taps sat gleaming in their polished bronze, chrome, some of them in bone or citrin, some flickering in and out of reality. Later, he told himself.

  One of the doors in the back caught his eye. The restroom. Barlik had mentioned it casually, like it was no big deal. Jasper made his way over, pushed the door open.

  Inside: a single, simple stall with a modern toilet, a modest sink, and a small shower stall in the corner. Clean. Empty. A little too clean, in fact—sterile, like it hadn’t been used but had been prepared. The lighting was soft, diffused from a source he couldn’t see. He stepped in, turned around once and then backed out slowly.

  The door clicked shut behind him. Curious now, he opened it again.

  This time, the layout was identical, but the light had a slightly cooler tone, and the tiny soaps near the sink were a different brand. The water in the basin was already running, though no one had turned a tap.

  Jasper stepped back, blinked and then opened the door a third time. A fresh room again. Same basic structure. Same stall, sink, and shower. But this time, a clean towel was hanging from a hook. A gentle hum vibrated through the walls, like an old air vent softly breathing.

  He laughed under his breath. “Guess no one's ever waiting in line for the loo.”

  He let the door fall closed. It made no sound this time. There was a strange comfort in that—a bathroom always ready, always private, always yours. Jasper made a mental note to test the shower later. If nothing else, he figured, it should be hot.

  He turned to the other doors. One led to what Barlik had called the cellar. The other—off to the side, more discreet—was the sleeping quarters. He tried that one next.

  The door opened easily. Inside was a cozy room, dimly lit by warm amber sconces and a floating bulb in a jar that drifted slowly near the ceiling. The bed was modest but wide, with thick, mossy-green blankets and crisp white sheets. A small table sat near the foot, a few books stacked on it. The titles shimmered and shifted when he tried to focus on them, like they hadn’t yet decided what they were. Jasper stepped in, ran a hand across the bedding. It was soft. Warmer than it should be.

  His hand dropped to the side where a coat hook had been bolted into the wall. Someone—Barlik, maybe—had left behind a folded note.

  The note read:

  Don’t worry about cleaning. The bar does it.

  But do wipe the taps after each pour. It’s just polite.

  —B.

  Jasper let out a long breath and sat on the edge of the bed. Seventeen months.

  He didn’t know what time meant in a place like this, but for now, at least, he had a bed. A shower. A bar full of taps he thought and exited the bedroom.

  The soft click of the sleeping room door closing behind him left Jasper alone with the hum of the bar again. A breath later, even that hum seemed to fall away. The air was thicker now—like the whole place had shifted slightly, aware of him moving, settling and maybe even accepting.

  Three doors at the back. One to the quarters he’d just come from. One slightly ajar, with a faint breath of cool air seeping through the gap—that must be the cellar. The last, tucked to the far left, had a frosted window inset near the top. A back door, probably. He made a mental note to try it later.

  For now, the cellar. Jasper pushed the door open.

  A narrow staircase stretched down, lined with walls of ancient, dark wood and iron piping. The air carried a cool, dry scent—clean, but with the earthy trace of something deeper beneath. With every step he took, the tap lines grew more numerous. Fat pipes of brushed metal snaked along the ceiling and walls, diving and crossing and curling downwards like roots, vanishing into crevices too deep to see.

  He paused halfway down to inspect one. It shimmered slightly under his touch—like condensation, but not cold. Not warm either. Just there.

  “They don’t need restocking,” he murmured to himself. “Guess that’s one less job.”

  At the base of the stairs, the cellar opened up into a broad, well-lit chamber with smooth stone floors and shelving made of dark iron and carved wood. Along the right wall were five doors, each marked with strange symbols—and behind them, storage rooms.

  He pulled open the first door. Cold air flooded out like a sigh. Inside: racks of smoked meats, strange sealed jars, and glowing bottles. Not just human food, he was sure of that—but also not entirely unfamiliar. A loaf of something that looked like sourdough was wrapped in cloth beside what looked suspiciously like a jar of Marmite.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He closed it and tried the next one.

  Room after room offered different kinds of supplies: linens, soap, toiletries, racks of clothing in various sizes and shapes—some definitely not meant for human forms. One room had everything from batteries to pens to heavy wool coats. It reminded him of the back aisle of a 24-hour superstore, minus the price tags and overhead pop music. All of it quietly, meticulously organized. Everything in its place. But it wasn’t the rooms that drew his attention. Not entirely.

  Set into the far stone wall of the cellar was a shrine. He felt it before he saw it, an almost magnetic pull that tugged at his chest the way guilt sometimes did, or longing. It wasn’t lit, exactly, but it radiated presence.

  Carved directly into the wall, the shrine was framed in old, blackened stone. Above it, a shield had been set into the wall. Not a real shield—more like a plaque. On it, etched in brilliant copper and deep iron, was the image of a set of saloon-style bar doors… and a single tap mounted between them, the handle bent like a question mark mid-pour.

  Beneath the plaque sat a basin, carved from a single block of pale grey stone. Its edges were smooth with age, and inside—resting in a shallow pool of still water—lay a scattering of silver and copper coins. The coins didn’t just sit; they were melting. Not rapidly, but dissolving very slowly, a shimmer of metallic essence bleeding off of them and disappearing into the water.

  Jasper stared for a moment, transfixed. He leaned closer. The water didn’t reflect his face. It showed the bar above—empty, quiet, waiting. And then, just for a breath, it showed something else: a shadow shifting past one of the taps. A movement that couldn’t be there.

  He blinked. Gone. He stepped back, the hair on his arms rising. His fingers hovered over the lip of the basin, tempted for a moment to drop something in—a coin, a key, anything just to see what would happen—but he pulled back. Not yet. He didn’t know the rules, and this felt like something sacred.

  Jasper turned and looked once more at the pipes overhead. They travelled up through the ceiling, alive with quiet pressure, the potential of a thousand unknown drinks waiting to be summoned. He imagined the bar itself drawing from a network of infinite cellars, maybe whole worlds below, brewing and bottling and sending them to this very place. And he had the keys to it. He smiled slightly, despite himself. Then he turned, climbed the stairs again, and let the cellar door whisper closed behind him.

  Back upstairs, the bar was still quiet. Still expectant. The fire in the hearth to the right burned low but steady, casting long shadows across the mismatched furniture. Tables stood where they had stood before, chairs waiting like sentinels, some shaped for forms larger or smaller than Jasper’s own. The chill radiating from the black ice wall curled gently toward the middle of the room but didn't cross the warmth of the fire. The balance between them was perfect—too perfect for something accidental.

  Jasper walked behind the bar. The arc of it embraced the room like an anchor. Even now, it felt like a place of control, of presence. The taps stretched along the bar back like a crown—ten of them, each one unique. Brass, wood, polished bone, matte-black metal. One looked like a tree branch, another like the handle of a wrench. There were no labels.

  He let his fingers trail across them one by one. Most were quiet to the touch—cool, still, unassuming. But one…The sixth tap thrummed faintly under his palm. Warm, but not hot. Familiar.

  He wrapped his hand around it and turned.

  Clear, amber liquid flowed out. The scent hit him immediately—earthy, nutty, with a faint, roasted sweetness. Golden sesame shochu. He blinked. “Well,” he muttered, “guess this place really does know things.” Soft, a little sweet, with that sharp warmth that always caught him just a half-second after he swallowed.

  Jasper reached behind him and found a clean glass—tulip-shaped, delicate. He poured himself a small measure, then leaned against the inside of the bar. "Well," he said aloud, “might as well see if I can get out of here.”

  He took a sip, crisp and cold, and stepped out from behind the counter.

  The third door at the back—besides the one leading to the cellar, had a small, frosted window at the top. Barlik had said nothing about what was beyond it. Maybe it was the alleyway. Maybe it was Tokyo again. Maybe it was… wherever this place really was.

  Glass in hand, Jasper opened the door. It creaked softly on its hinges and swung outward.

  The backyard was smaller than he expected. Just a tight rectangle of cobbled stone, hemmed in by dark brick walls on either side. Moss lined the base of the walls, and to the right, an old wooden bench leaned slightly under the weight of years. A metal ashtray was mounted on the wall beside it. He smirked. Even in the multiverse, smokers got their corner.

  He stepped out and let the door close behind him with a click. The air was still—neither warm nor cold, but just right, and the smell of stone and wood hung in the silence.

  Jasper walked to the bench and sat, setting the glass beside him on the ledge. He pulled out his pack and lit a cigarette. Took a drag. Thought about the cellar, the taps, the shrine, the coins. Barlik’s strange goodbye.

  A breath later, he looked around. “I could probably smoke inside,” he muttered. “Doubt the place would catch fire.” The idea felt weirdly logical. A place like this—it probably put itself out.

  He looked down at his glass, swirling the amber liquid. Then he noticed it. At the far end of the yard, past the bench, past the ashtray, where the cobbles faded into shadow—there was fog. Thick, gray fog. It didn’t billow or swirl. It waited. Dense as stone, hanging in the air like it had weight, like it belonged there.

  He stood, cigarette still in hand, and took a slow step toward it. It didn’t move.

  There was no breeze. No sound. Just the gentle glow from the bar’s back windows and the weight of his own breath in his ears. The fog marked the edge of the yard—an unnatural boundary. Jasper reached his hand out toward it, then hesitated. Something inside him said, not yet. He exhaled, let the smoke drift upward, and looked down at his glass again.

  Whatever this bar was, wherever it stood—it wasn’t just between places. It was a place. Whole and strange and full of stories waiting to be tapped. And beyond that fog… maybe more.

  He sat back down, finished the rest of the shochu in one long drink, and let the silence stretch, thick and quiet like the mist ahead. Jasper stared at the fog for a long moment.

  Then he muttered, "Ah, what the fuck." He stood up, brushing ash from his sleeve, and took a cautious step forward. Then another.

  The mist didn’t move, didn’t recoil or surge—it simply waited. Thick and unmoving, like it was pinned to some invisible border at the edge of the yard. As he drew closer, the haze began to shimmer faintly, like light bending through dirty glass. He took one more step—and the fog changed. Shapes flickered. Images. Like windows or doors suspended in the mist, just past reach. Worlds. Other worlds. A crimson wasteland flickered to life—volcanoes cracking open under a sky blackened with ash, winged things circling like vultures overhead. Then it shifted—a vast desert of blue sand under a double sun, a lone figure walking toward something too far away to see. The fog shifted again. A city of crystal towers that pulsed with internal light. A jungle so thick and vibrant it looked like it breathed. Then—just as quickly—a frozen world of ice and jagged storms, lightning arcing through violet clouds. Jasper’s breath caught.

  It was beautiful. Terrifying. Infinite. But then it started.

  A soundless drop in his gut. Like standing on the edge of a skyscraper and leaning too far forward. The ground beneath his feet didn’t move—but he felt it vanish all the same. The pull of gravity, not downward, but outward. Toward that fog. Toward the endless doors. Toward something that wasn’t meant to be stepped through. Not like this. Not uninvited.

  He stumbled back a step. The images flickered faster—chaotic now. A screaming forest. A sea that boiled with black waves. A city in the clouds with towers toppling in slow motion.

  And then—nothing. Just fog again. Flat and thick and waiting. Jasper’s breath hitched. His heartbeat roared in his ears. Another step, and he knew he’d fall. Not onto ground. Not into water or fire. But into everything. Into nothing. Into the weave between worlds that didn’t care if he ever came back.

  “Nope,” he muttered, voice too tight. “Nope, nope, nope.” He turned and walked. Fast. By the time he reached the door, he was nearly jogging, the glass clinking softly in his hand. He shoved it open and stepped inside. The bar welcomed him with its quiet warmth, the fire still burning, the cold wall still humming gently across the room. Everything was still here.

  He let the door swing shut behind him and leaned against it for a moment, eyes closed. His pulse was still hammering in his neck. The fog hadn't followed. But it hadn't vanished either. He knew it was still out there, just beyond the walls. Waiting for a slip. A mistake. Or maybe an invitation. He set the empty glass on the bar and exhaled.

  “Well,” he said to no one, “I guess we’re not going that way.”

  Back inside, the silence wrapped around him like a thick coat. The fog still clung to the edges of his memory, unsettling and cold. He moved on instinct—past the strange stools, past the ever-burning hearth, until he stood once more behind the curved arc of the bar. His fingers grazed the polished taps as if they might offer reassurance. One of them pulsed with quiet warmth. He twisted it open, and a thin stream of golden liquid flowed into his glass.

  He took a long sip and leaned against the bar, letting it settle into his bones.

  "A bartender turning into an alcoholic," he said quietly to the empty room, raising the glass in a slow mock-toast. “Such a cliche” The shochu burned just enough. He stared at the amber depths.

  “Maybe I was too hard on my colleagues back home,” he said. “Maybe they all had their reasons. Maybe they all saw someone get murdered and had to go into witness protection at an otherworldly bar.” He laughed once—dry, quiet, not quite a joke. Then he took another drink, and let the strange new silence of the place fill the air.

  The glass was half empty when the front door opened with the soft chime of an old brass bell.