Chapter Text
He woke up every day at 6:40 a.m. Not a minute earlier, and certainly not a minute later. It was a skill acquired through years of methodical paranoia and cups of badly brewed coffee. He didn't use an alarm clock; he said digital sounds disrupt the electromagnetic field of dreams. Whether he was joking or not, no one knew.
He would wake up with his hair tangled like a magpie's nest during a hurricane and walk blindly to the kitchen, where his filter coffee maker—adorned with eye decals—was already waiting for him. He would drink strong, cheap-tasting black coffee and eat toast with honey. Always with honey. A superstition inherited from his paternal grandmother, who claimed that "sweet honey repels envious spirits, but be careful: it also attracts ants."
Then he checked his homemade sensors.
First, the toaster. An antique Philips with the soul of a sentinel. If it beeped for no apparent reason, it meant the room temperature had changed for no logical reason. Or the bread was stuck again. Both were signs of something, he wouldn't stop to question.
Then there was the pendulum over the fish tank: a crystal attached to the ceiling with dental floss. Supposedly, it reacted to spiritual movement. If it spun on its own when he wasn't looking at it, it was a bad sign. Of course, it could also be the fan's draft, but he made a note of it anyway. Just in case.
And the jewel of paranoia rooted in years of prophetic dreams: the tape recorder. An old portable cassette player taped to the headboard of his bed. He would record his dreams in a low voice, hoping to capture murmurs that would reveal some vision of the future or instructions from beyond. Sometimes he would record snores. Or things that weren't snores.
He wrote it all down. Everything. In his black notebook, in tiny, desperate handwriting. From how many times the intercom flashed to how many times the bathroom fan turned on by itself (eleven in one week. Too suspicious).
He was studying Applied Parapsychology at a university so disreputable that they offered free scholarships as long as someone paid attention to their ridiculous syllabus. It was a real degree, at least on the letterhead they'd given him. Of course, he wouldn't recommend it to anyone; the biggest waste of time in existence if you were just a mortal with too much money from your parents (kids like that love those degrees). Although being a real financial leech wasn't entirely his case (actually, his parents didn't have that much money; they just kicked him out of the house), he chose that degree for a valid reason. He never said it out loud. He saw things. Shadows where there shouldn't be shadows. Fleeting faces in the dessert spoon. Reflections that greeted him before he noticed them. Ownerless noises.
He never believed anyone. And he never expected anyone to believe him.
He didn't talk much. Not even to ghosts (he never met any, but he knew they were there). He lived alone in a tiny apartment that smelled of thyme, old books, burnt wires, and, although it was probably just his imagination, also anxiety. His most frequent contact with other humans occurred when he attended classes or took part-time jobs just to avoid starving to death, or also when, reluctantly, his teachers forced him to interact with his classmates, who loved to share their crazy theories. Tiresias, on the other hand, was as closed off as an armored sarcophagus. And he was very happy that way.
Until one Tuesday night—because Tuesdays are cursed days, this is documented in at least three ancient cultures and one modern one he himself invented—someone spoke to him from inside the microwave.
.
.
.
He was heating up a packet of soup. One of those that promises "oriental flavors" but only tastes of salt, processed starch, and the appropriation of an entire culture. The packet was decorated with fake kanji bubble letters and a digitized monk meditating next to a steaming bowl, but Tiresias knew the truth: it was basically liquid salt with artificial flour.
He emptied the suspicious powder into a ceramic mug that said "DID NOT SPEAK BEFORE COFFEE" (in handwriting faded from washing) and added boiling water, quietly cursing culinary capitalism. Then he put the mug in the microwave. He pressed "2:00" with a firm, ceremonious finger—because food is sacred, of course. The start button creaked as if it too was suffering. The interior light blinked. Once. Then twice. Then a third time, then a longer pause.
Tiresias frowned.
First he thought: a blown fuse. Then: the toaster again. (That damn toaster had already had a history of mild paranormal activity, including mechanical whines and a wailing beep.) But then he looked up.
And he saw it.
A face. Inside the microwave.
Not stuck to the glass. Not reflected at a random angle. Not a grease stain misinterpreted by his suggestible mind.
No. A real face. Formed by the interior light and the shiny surface. As if the microwave were a fish tank for ghosts and someone had peeped out from the other side of the frame with a confident air and casually said, "What's for dinner?"
A perfectly clear face. Those clear eyes studied him. At first confused, with raised eyebrows, then recognition and a crooked smile, the kind that had ruined civilizations.
He didn't look like any of the vague presences that used to visit him in dreams (those were more of the "dead grandma asking me to clean the closet" variety). This one was different. This one was... handsome, for starters. Very handsome. Like a Greek statue had hacked into an appliance. Because he thought of Greeks?
"Hello, prophet!" the face greeted him, momentarily reminiscent of a Zoom video call.
Tiresias froze, spoon in hand, suspended mid-air almost as if he had just discovered that gravity was optional.
—...Sorry?
"You're not hallucinating. Or well, maybe a little," the figure said in a nonchalant tone. "But it's not your fault. I snuck in."
—Did you sneak into the microwave?
—No, no. To the plane. —The guy smiled, pleased with himself. —Existential plane. Interdimensional. A strange thing. A crossroads of cosmic vibrations. Let's say... we vibrate together. What kind of soup is that? Chicken?
Tiresias took a step back, still staring at the steaming cup as if it were suddenly radioactive.
-Who are you?
—Hermes.
—Like the god?
—Yes. But not the one from the cheap clothing marketing or the delivery brands. The original. The handsome one. The misunderstood one. Part-time psychopomp, stylish messenger.
Tiresias stared at him in silence. That kind of thick, uncomfortable silence that made him wish he had the power to summon a storm or a blackout, whatever would get him out of it.
—Are you saying you're the god Hermes... and that you appeared in my kitchen?
—Ah! I didn't present myself properly. Let's see... I'm not dead, for starters. I'm immortal, I'm just... displaced. It was a minor dimensional accident. I got knocked off my axis by plane-crossing without a license. And now, for reasons even the oracles wouldn't understand, only you can see me.
"Great," Tiresias muttered, pulling the mug away with tense fingers, not wanting to offend the microwave any more than necessary. "I'm crazy."
—You would be if this turned you on. And it doesn't seem to be the case.
—THAT!?
“Relax. I’m joking. Well… Sort of.” Hermes reached out a hand toward the outside of the glass, in a pathetic attempt to reach through and touch something. But his fingers dissolved into a translucent fizz. “Ugh, damn. I still can’t interact with physical objects. And I was craving it.”
—Craving soup?
—Of interaction. But yes, soup too. Although yours smells better than the average on this plane. I mean, it still smells of salt and poverty, but there's a hint of sweetness. Did you add honey?
Tiresias looked at him suspiciously. But he didn't deny the honey. It was good.
And as he sat, still dazed, the spoon finally in his mouth, he knew—as one knows small disasters that grow before they explode—that this wasn't just any apparition. This was the beginning. The start of a series of unfortunate events that would undoubtedly end badly for his mental health. Or for his electronic devices.
—What do you want from me?
Tiresias asked in a hoarse voice, a mixture of existential exhaustion and the latent fear of speaking to a hallucination with a good personality. He had leaned back slightly in his chair, still clutching the spoon between his fingers, like his only defensive amulet, the only thing that seemed to keep him grounded without making him believe he'd finally lost his mind with so much superstition.
"Nothing special." Hermes raised his eyebrows innocently, too dramatic to be believable. "Just let me live here for a while."
Tiresias blinked slowly. A couple of times, not wanting to believe what he'd just heard—it was too convenient, almost like something out of a bad internet story. Then he gestured toward the apartment space with both hands.
—Live?
“Coexist. Coexist. Partially materialize in your space-time while I sort myself out. The usual.” Hermes spun around, as if showing off, the fabric of his robes snapping into place, replacing the antiquated attire with something more akin to the clothes worn by wealthy men who claim to live a lifestyle focused on comfort but are still handsome and rich. “And since you seem so prepared…” He looked analytically at the toaster, the pendulum hanging from the shelf above the fish tank, and the stack of etymology books resting on one of the shelves, “…you seem like the right guy to help me.”
Tiresias frowned and narrowed his eyes.
—Help you with what?
"Reset my frequency." Hermes pulled some kind of tuning fork out of nowhere and vibrated it in the air, releasing an annoying buzz that sent a chill down Tiresias's toes, like a cat's. "I'm vibrating like underwear in an old washing machine, prophet. To stabilize myself, I need to close certain portals where loose entities sneak in. Ghosts, specters, neighborhood demons. Things that shriek at three in the morning and don't pay rent. Nothing serious."
Tiresias looked at him in confusion, pretending he had heard wrong and that he hadn't just been asked to open an exorcism franchise in his living room.
—And what do I have to do with it?
"Oh, you're my channel." Hermes pointed at his chest with both hands as if explaining it to a child. "The anchor. The weird human who's been seeing things since he was a kid. My antenna has legs."
—I'm not your antenna.
—And yet... —Hermes snapped his fingers with style, in the same way one presents a magic act—...here we are.
And he said it from the couch, in the flesh. Or something very similar, ignoring the translucent part. He was lying on his side, his head resting on one hand, his white cotton shirt half-open, as if being handsome wasn't enough; he also had to be an exhibitionist. One leg bent, the other stretched out on the cushions with the dramatic grace that only a bored god could possess.
Tiresias was speechless. Literally. The only thing moving was his left eyelid, a nervous tic he didn't know he had, but it wouldn't go away anytime soon.
Hermes smiled, delighted, with the freshness of someone who has just sneaked into a private party with someone he doesn't know, without a gift and also asking for cake.
—So, roommates?
—No.
—Paranormal partners?
-Neither.
—Interdimensional lovers?
Tiresias didn't bother to answer with words. He went straight to his black notebook, the one with his diary of strange dreams, crazy ideas, and unpaid bills. He took out a pen without looking and threw it at the ghostly deity, hoping to stab it into its throat.
The pen passed through Hermes's body like warm mist. It fell to the floor with a solitary clack, bouncing between the table legs.
Hermes, without putting any effort into his performance, looked offended.
"Well, I'll let you sleep for now," she said, as if she were doing him a huge favor and deserving of some thanks, and concluded with a chuckle similar to the cooing of a dove. "Tomorrow we can talk about how this will work."
Tiresias covered his face with both hands. He took a deep breath. He wouldn't scream. He still had self-control.
Hermes watched him for a second longer, tilting his head. Something else flashed in his eyes, all too similar to the recognition of something valuable, and then disappeared in a soft flash, as if someone had blown out a candle behind a curtain. A faint scent of ozone... and expensive perfume lingered in the air.
Tiresias seriously considered moving. Then he realized he didn't even have money for a pizza, and he resigned himself and silently finished his soup.
Gods... tasted good.
.
.
.
That night, Tiresias couldn't sleep. It wasn't because he was afraid of the divine entity present in his home. But because he knew, with that bitter certainty that lodges behind the breastbone, that the next day, and long after, his routine would never be the same.
No more monotonous awakenings, no more dollar-a-dollar instant coffees that taste like recycled cardboard, no more classes where the biggest scare was a falling projector. No.
I had crossed a threshold. I had seen a god. In my kitchen. Speaking of ghosts and existential frequencies as if it were something you jot down between a grocery list and a doctor's appointment reminder.
And, by all the gods, the microwave still hadn't finished heating up its second soup of the night. It remained there, abandoned in its circular dance, spinning with the tragic slowness of an old appliance that has already surrendered to its fate. The panel flickered like a tired lighthouse. 0:18... 0:17... 0:16...
The light flickered once more. Tiresias stared at it motionlessly from the corner of the sofa, covered with a blanket up to his nose, waiting with wide eyes.
Somewhere in the building, a pipe squealed. A dog barked three times.
And the faint, almost imperceptible scent of perfume crept back into the room as if someone had just entered without making a sound.
Tiresias said nothing; he'd already exhausted his energy reserves for the day. He just sighed.
"I refuse to check this a third time," he muttered to himself, unmoving, unsure if he was talking about the soup or his fate. Or Hermes.
Probably all three.