VOLUME III: 52 – Scrunchie and Tea

[Krei's POV]


I landed in London Heathrow at 5:42 a.m., Wednesday. Which meant I was already late. Not for the meeting—God forbid I miss one of those—but for the mental math my body had to do figuring out whether it was supposed to feel like breakfast or last call.

The sky was still bleary, smudged in that grey-wool fog that always made London look like it was in the middle of rebooting.

I hadn’t been back in almost three years.

This time, it was business. Halberd’s international investment arm had been circling a few acquisitions in the EU, and I was the lucky bastard they sent to “evaluate ground potential.” Which was just rich-people-speak for: shake some hands, look at some numbers, tell us whether to buy the thing.

I ran on autopilot the first two days. Meetings, site visits, a lot of overpriced espresso, and sausage rolls. One firm asked me to join their board. Another tried to lowball a logistics deal because they assumed I was just the intern sent ahead.

I let them.

I don’t enjoy correcting people when they underestimate me. I just wait for the look on their face in the third slide of my presentation when they realize the kid in the hoodie represents the largest stakeholder in the room.

After work, I took the train out to Richmond. Not the part with coffee shops and dog-friendly bakeries. The older end—quieter, greener, a little too proud of its moss.

The Astor estate hadn’t changed much. Same grey stone exterior. Same overgrown gravel drive that could eat your shoes alive if you stepped wrong. The iron gate still creaked like it was auditioning for a haunted house. And the cold that hit you inside wasn’t from the thermostat. It was the kind of chill that got into the walls a few centuries ago and never left.

My Oma met me in the foyer, her cane clicking against the floor with a military rhythm. She was wearing her usual uniform: thick wool cardigan, tartan slippers, and an expression that could gut a politician.

“Your hair’s too long,” she said, not even a hello.

“Hi, Oma. Missed you too.”

She shoved a plate of scones into my hand. “Eat. You look thin. Are they feeding you at that skyscraper you call an office?”

“Mostly caffeine and despair.”

“Figures. Sit down before you pass out.”

That’s love, I guess.

I ended up in the sitting room, a mug of Earl Grey warming my palms while she settled into the armchair across from me. The room smelled faintly of old books and whatever soap she’d been using since the 60s. The fireplace crackled. Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed like we were all still pretending time moved slowly here.

“How long are you staying?” she asked, already knitting something violently blue.

“Just the night. I'll meet some people tomorrow and go back.”

“Of course. You’re that important.”

“I’m not that important."

“You didn’t visit us on Easter.” She sniffed dramatically, as if her lungs had been personally wounded by my absence.

“That was one time, Oma.”

“And Christmas.”

I didn’t answer. A strategic sip of tea. 

The late afternoon sun poured in through the window—pale but kind. A few birds chirped like they hadn’t read the memo that this house was meant to be somber. Even the shadows here settled a little too politely.

“Dad and Mum went out?” I asked, like I didn’t already know the answer.

“They visited Edinburgh for a while,” Oma muttered as she sat down. The yarn in her lap moved like she was trying to strangle the cold out of winter.

“I see.” I let the silence settle, the way tea goes tepid when you forget it. “I should probably call them. Let them know I came.”

It’s that time of the year again. The one the calendar didn’t mark, but the walls did. The kind of date that didn’t need naming. Only Edinburgh could offer them that solemn kind of escape. Quiet. Far. Somewhere they wouldn’t have to say it out loud.

“They’ll appreciate that,” she said. 

I glanced at the mantelpiece. Same photos. Same dust. A frame slightly crooked, but no one had fixed it. Maybe no one wanted to.

“I read your report,” Oma said eventually, breaking the quietness, “About the merger.”

“Oh?”

“Smart work. Quietly brutal.”

I huffed a laugh. “High praise.”

“I’m proud of you, Christopher.”

It landed heavy. Not loud, but definite. Rare, and not for show. The kind of thing Astors didn’t say unless it had been carefully weighed and measured. It didn’t matter that her eyes never left the yarn. The words were enough.

“Thanks, Oma.” I said. Then, I cleared my throat like the syllable had scratched something on the way out.

We didn’t hug. She just passed me another scone and asked if I still took honey in my tea.

I stayed for dinner. Ate leftovers that tasted better than anything in my fridge back home. Left after lunch the next day, when the light had shifted and the living room felt too quiet. My bag was packed, coat over my shoulder, and the street outside smelled faintly of wet leaves and old wind.

Time to meet the boys.

The café was in Shoreditch, of course. Industrial lighting, concrete floors, and the kind of chairs that made you question your posture and your choices. A place that served flat whites like communion and charged six quid for the privilege.

Daniel spotted me first. Still wearing that oversized coat like he was smuggling irony in the lining.

“Krei fucking Astor,” he called, half-rising from his seat with that grin that hadn’t changed since sixth form. “We thought you'd be too important to show.”

“I am,” I said, shrugging off my coat. “That’s why I made time.”

Evan snorted into his coffee. “Still a tosser.”

We did the awkward half-hug thing, just enough contact to say we’re men who like each other, not enough to ruin our reputations. Hugo wasn’t there, but his absence hung in the air like an inside joke we’d all heard too many times. New baby. Couldn’t get away. Life.

“Congrats to him,” I said, sliding into the seat.

“He named the kid Frieza,” Daniel said, making a face like he'd bitten into something philosophical.

“God.” I winced. “Did someone lose a bet?”

“No, that’s the terrifying part. He was sober.”

Laughter came easy then, like old routines always did. We talked about everything and nothing—the way work felt like performance art now, how pubs had gotten more expensive and less fun, the odd memory from secondary school that had aged like wine or like milk, depending on the teller.

“You stayed in Richmond?” Evan asked.

“For a while,” I said, stirring sugar into my coffee I wouldn’t finish. “The house hasn’t changed. My Oma still rules it like a kingdom with central heating.”

Daniel nodded. “We drove past it once. Looked like something out of a murder mystery.”

“It usually is,” I said. “The murder is subtle. Slow. Bureaucratic.”

They laughed again, but I saw the look that passed between them. Brief. Measured. Like they still hadn’t figured out if I’d changed too much.

“You alright though?” Evan asked after a beat. “You look tired.”

I didn’t respond right away. Just sat back, letting the hum of the café fill the gaps. A couple argued softly near the window. A barista cursed under their breath as milk spilled down the side of the machine. Normal things. Civilian things.

“I’m good,” I said eventually. “Just… been a long week.”

“You used to say that in school too,” Daniel said. “Except back then it meant your laptop charger broke and you were spiraling.”

“I still spiral,” I said, cracking a smile. “I just do it in a better suit now.”

They laughed again, but softer this time.

It was easy, for a while. Being the version of myself that fits here. I watched them talk and realized— suddenly, how rare this was. Three people who knew you before you’d been curated into anything. Who’d seen you panic over GCSEs and fail at flirting and cry when you lost that scholarship form in the school printer queue.

People who remembered you when you weren’t trying so hard.

“Oh, by the way,” Daniel added, casual as anything. “Saw Sean the other day. At that gallery opening in Soho.”

I didn’t even blink. “So the bastard’s roaming free.”

Daniel gave a one-shoulder shrug. “With some woman, too. Real handsy. Not his usual type.”

“Fucking prick,” I muttered, swirling my tea.

Evan snorted. “You’re still bitter, huh? Still hate him for taking away your—”

“Say one more word and I’ll knock your teeth in.”

They cackled anyway. Bastards.

The kind of laugh that had years behind it. A joke that never died. A name none of us said directly.

We stayed until the light shifted. When the café started putting up chairs and wiping down counters, Daniel checked his watch and muttered about a late dinner. Evan had to catch a train.

We hugged again, this time with less irony. Daniel slapped my shoulder like he always used to. Evan said, “Don’t be a stranger,” in that way people always say it when they suspect you will be.

I stepped out into the street alone.

London moved around me—wet pavement glinting under traffic lights, the rumble of a double-decker bus passing too close to the curb, a trail of cigarette smoke curling from someone’s hand before vanishing into the wind. Everything felt faintly grey. Like the city was whispering but not to me.

A shop caught my eye across the street. Still open. No bright signs, no fake cheer. Just a soft glow through the windows and shelves half-stocked like they weren’t trying too hard to sell anything. A place that didn’t care if anyone came in.

Inside smelled faintly of cedar and soap. The kind of place that sold things made to look handmade—twine-wrapped candles, chipped ceramic mugs priced like gold, stationary with pressed flowers. I almost turned around.

But near the back, behind a rack of woven scarves, was a wooden tray. Small things. Quiet things. Hair clips and some kind of puffy hair tie? Like a donut made of fabric. Hand-dyed fabric. Simple patterns. Each one slightly uneven, like they were made by someone who cared too much.

There was one in blue.

Deep, plain, and a little worn-looking. The kind of thing she’d tie into her hair without thinking. Half-asleep. Still in a hoodie. Grumbling into the mic while chat spiraled.

I stared at it longer than I should've.

I brought it to the counter. Didn’t ask the price. Didn’t ask for a bag.

It sat in my coat pocket for the rest of the night. Didn’t weigh much. But somehow, it felt like carrying a memory.