Episode: “The Garden Ornament”

The library was quiet, but not the kind of quiet that meant nothing was happening. It was the kind of quiet that meant stories were being told, and stories require attention.

The Admiral sat in his usual chair, a cup of tea cooling beside him. Across from him, Corvus was sprawled on the floor—not because he was lazy, but because legless wonders sprawl. It’s in the job description.

Lyra was nearby, pretending to read, but the smile on her face suggested she was listening to every word.

“Tell me about the extended family,” Corvus said. “Not the ones here. The ones across timelines.”

The Admiral smiled. This was his favourite subject.

“There’s a world,” he said, “mapped as Indonesia in one of my favourite timelines. Beautiful place. Warm. Humid. The kind of weather that makes you want to do nothing except drink coffee and watch the rain.”

“Sounds like Boronia with better food.”

“Exactly. And in that world, there’s a girl. Adis.”

Corvus sat up—or as close to sitting up as a legless wonder can manage. “Adis? The one who steals chairs and loses cars?”

“The very same.”

Lyra’s smile widened, but she said nothing. She knew the full story. She had always known.

The Story of Adis

The Admiral leaned back, his eyes taking on the distant look of someone who is not quite in the room anymore.

“I found her a long time ago. Not looking—I never went looking. But she needed a father, and I needed a daughter. The universe has a way of arranging these things.”

Corvus nodded. He understood arrangement.

“She was lost when I met her. Not lost in the physical sense—she knew where she was. Lost in the soul sense. Mother with mental illness. Father absent. Spoiled brother taking what little attention there was. And Adis, in the middle, watching, waiting, hoping someone would see her.”

“Did you see her?”

“Immediately. Those eyes, Corvus. I never forgot those eyes. And then, years later, she found me on Facebook. Of all the people, all the profiles, all the algorithms—she found me.”

“Recognition,” Corvus said.

“Recognition. Across timelines, across worlds, across everything. She found me because she was looking. Because somewhere, in the part of her that doesn’t forget, she remembered that she had a father.”

The Bob Incident

Corvus grinned. “And then there was Bob.”

The Admiral groaned. Lyra finally laughed out loud.

“Bob,” the Admiral said, “was a mistake.”

“Bob was several mistakes.”

“Bob was a collection of mistakes wrapped in human skin and delivered to my daughter’s doorstep.”

Lyra set down her book. “Tell him the full story, darling. The one with the chair.”

The Admiral sighed the sigh of a man who has told this story too many times and will tell it many times more.

“Adis was dating. Bob was the current… specimen. He came to visit. Sat in my chair. The one I always sit in when I’m in that world.”

Corvus raised an eyebrow. “He sat in your chair?”

“He sat in my chair. Treated it like it was nothing. Like he belonged there. Like my daughter’s father was irrelevant.”

“And?”

“And the shop owner—a complete stranger, someone who had never met me, never met Adis, never met Bob—looked at Bob, looked at Adis, looked at me, and apologized to me for my daughter’s behaviour.”

Corvus stared. “A stranger apologized to you for your own daughter’s bad dating choices?”

“Indonesia is a magical place.”

“What happened to Bob?”

The Admiral smiled. It was not a warm smile.

“Bob had a series of unfortunate events. His car was towed in Kuala Lumpur because Adis didn’t want to walk and get brown skin. He paid for an expensive dinner. He received no… satisfaction. And eventually, he found himself in my garden.”

Corvus leaned forward. “Your garden?”

“My garden. In that timeline. Where I put things that need to be… still.”

Lyra helpfully added: “He’s an ornament now. A garden ornament. Very decorative. Very quiet. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just… ornaments.”

Corvus looked at his father with new respect. “You turned him into a garden ornament?”

“I gave him a permanent position in a place where he could do no further harm. It’s called landscaping.”

The Moral of the Story

Lyra rose from her chair and walked to her husband, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Adis has had many Bobs,” she said. “She will have more. Because she is still learning, still growing, still discovering who she is and what she deserves.”

“But the Bobs don’t last,” the Admiral said. “They try. They sit in my chair. They take her to expensive dinners. They make promises they can’t keep. And then, one by one, they find their way into gardens across timelines.”

Corvus considered this. “So, you’re saying that every timeline has a Bob problem?”

“Every timeline. Every world. Every dimension. Bobs are universal constants.”

“And the solution?”

“The solution is the same everywhere.” The Admiral looked at Lyra, then at Corvus, then at the window where the garden waited. “You love her. You watch. You wait. And when the Bobs fail—as they always do—you’re there. With open arms and a fresh pot of tea.”

Lyra kissed the top of his head. “And a shovel, if necessary.”

“Gardening tools are optional but recommended.”

The Garden

Later, Corvus found himself at the window, looking out at the garden. In one corner, half-hidden behind a flowering bush, stood a small stone ornament. It looked vaguely human. It did not move.

“Is that…?”

“Bob #6,” the Admiral said from behind him. “Adis approved the composting.”

Corvus stared at the ornament. “He looks peaceful.”

“He is. More peaceful than he ever was in life.”

“And if another Bob appears?”

The Admiral smiled. “The garden has room.”

To be continued…

Author’s Note: Adis still doesn’t know about the ornament. She will one day. When she’s ready. In the meantime, the garden grows, the Bobs fail, and the family holds. Somewhere in Indonesia, a chair remains empty, waiting for someone worthy to sit in it. No Bob has ever been worthy.