The house stood strong through the pouring rain and the howling outside. The roof vibrated with the onslaught, but the walls were sturdy and allowed neither freezing water nor bellowing creatures to venture within. A crackling fire cast a warm orange glow over the living room, with its wooden bookcases and plush rug. Lark sat in their rocking chair, flipping through an old book with a leather cover. The smell of vanilla stayed with them as they put a small bookmark in the pages and headed to the kitchen.

Lark passed the vacant rooms with their fresh linens and vases filled with flowers. Despite the emptiness, the house remained as cheerful as it could, resolutely ignoring the din outside. Lark poured a cup of tea, sweetening it with honey. Dark shapes moved among the trees outside the kitchen window. They screamed and tore at the wood, breaking branches and ripping trunks asunder, but they did not approach the house even to seek shelter from the rain. Lark shook their head at the window and gathered their tea, bringing it back to the comfort of the living room.

There was a knock at the front door.

Lark jumped, sending their tea spilling over the edge of the mug. They set the tea down carefully and opened the front door. Eyes glowed beyond the tree line, but there were no claw marks in the mud or footprints, and besides, the creatures never knocked. Instead, there was a person in a long, dark coat standing near the front door.

“Good evening,” he said, radiating a charming smile. “I was wondering if you had a place to stay.”

“I do,” Lark said and held the door open.

His shoulders relaxed by a fraction once the door was shut and locked. He peeled off a pair of dark gloves and warmed his hands by the fire. “This is wonderful. I spotted the lights from far away, and I’m happy to see it wasn’t a trick of the spirits in the woods.”

“They’ve been rowdy tonight, haven’t they? Rest assured that it is safe inside the house.”

The man removed his coat and hung it on the rack beside the door. He smoothed his black hair back up off his forehead and wiped the rain from his face. “These woods are deep and dark. Do you find it frightening here beside this forest and its inhabitants?”

“No,” Lark said simply. “They would be welcome in my guesthouse if they behaved themselves, but I’m afraid they are unable to do so.”

A spirit shrieked in the woods outside, and the man let out a bark of laughter. “I suppose not.”

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Certainly.”

He followed them to the kitchen, where the kettle was still hot, and the table was filled with fruit and muffins.

“My name is Lark,” they said as they poured a cup of steaming water and then opened the cabinet where the tea was stashed.

He retrieved a cannister of loose oolong tea. “I am Nimhorei,” he said. He wore a contemplative expression, as though he debated whether to use his real name. His skin was a rich tan color, and he had dark brown eyes that were shadowed by a prominent brow. He was handsome, and his eyes glittered with light that came from within. Nimhorei was no spirit of the dead—perhaps a god, though none that Lark knew. He sipped his tea and sighed with contentment. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Certainly. I will be here if you need anything,” Lark said.

Lark returned to the living room and eyed the cooling mug of tea until it steamed again. They rested there, hoping the man would sit by the fire and speak with them. Instead, he excused himself to his guestroom and did not return.

Lark awoke the next morning with a mix of contentment and melancholy settled deep in their chest. They had dearly missed having guests, and to count the years it had been since someone last stopped here—they did not want to think about that. The spirits in the forest were mediocre neighbors and worse conversation partners, with their growling and fits of destruction. As Lark picked flowers in the garden behind the house, the kitchen door creaked open and Nimhorei emerged, dressed in a dark purple suit embroidered with gold.

“You have a lovely garden,” he said. His gaze shifted to the forest. It was quiet, now that the night had passed, and the spirits had exhausted themselves. At the edge of the garden were footprints and claw marks in the dirt where something had paced at the edge of the yard. “Is there a nearby path to the higher levels of the spirit world?”

“There are many paths, but the train is the most convenient,” Lark said.

“A train still comes through this place?”

“Certainly. I can show you the way.”

Lark set the freshly picked flowers in a vase on the table and retrieved a lantern and cloak. Nimhorei appeared at the door, and they left the guesthouse. Once they passed the fence, the cobblestone path gave way to dirt. After half a mile, the forest encroached on both sides. The roots of immense trees formed natural steps as the path wound over hills. Thick vines snaked across the trail and thorns reached out to snatch the hems of both their cloaks. But the sharp branches and vines shrank away from the lantern light, and Nimhorei watched with interest.

In the distance, the shadows moved lazily in the forest, no longer filled with their frenzy. Creatures followed them at a distance, turning their glowing eyes toward them or opening their mouths to reveal sharp teeth.

“The spirits will not attack us during the day,” Lark said. “We have an understanding.”

“I’m afraid my presence may stretch their courtesy thin.”

“They are protective of their space,” Lark said with an eye to the woods. “However, I am also protective of mine, as well as the safety and comfort of my guests.”

Lark held a branch out of the way and gestured for Nimhorei to enter the clearing behind it. It was a small open space with an old metal and glass enclosure that covered a worn wooden bench. The train tracks lay a few feet beyond the shelter. They were overgrown with roots and vines that scurried away as the ground rumbled with the approaching train.

The train stopped. Its metal sides gleamed, and its windows were lit with a warm, cheery glow. Spirits moved about inside the car. Some were bright and fuzzy or shadowy and slightly transparent, their forms having yet to take shape. Others were more solid, and one sipped at a mug. Lark forced down a sigh, sorely missing friendly spirits and pleasant conversation.

Nimhorei glanced between Lark and the train, as if mildly surprised it had appeared. He smiled, and the sparks deep within his eyes glimmered. “Thank you again for having me.”

Lark nodded and smiled in return. “You are always welcome at my guesthouse.”

Then the train left, and he was gone.

Lark spent the next day washing the linens in all the guestrooms, even taking down the curtains to wash them as well. They set vases of fresh flowers in every room and refilled the cannisters of tea leaves. The nights remained filled with terrible shrieking, which failed to die down even as the days turned to weeks. After a fortnight passed, the sky glowed burgundy and plum in the evening, and there was another knock at the door.

“I imagine you have few visitors these days,” Nimhorei said. Far behind him, yellow eyes glowed from the woods, and something let out a deep growl.

“Indeed,” Lark said with muted surprise. “You’re welcome to come in.”

As he entered the guesthouse, shadows trailed from his coat, dropping to the floor and leaving dark streaks across the wood. They glittered like stars surrounded by clouds of dust, and Lark idly wondered if he was one of the gods of the nebulae.

“Ah, drat,” Nimhorei said as he noticed the trail he was leaving and tried to wave the shadows away. When they failed to dissipate, he let out a groan and ran his hand through his hair.

“Don’t worry about it,” Lark said.

Nimhorei nodded sleepily and retreated to a guestroom, flopping down onto the mattress with a loud thump. Two more thumps followed as he kicked off his shoes. Then a tendril of shadow reached out and gently closed the door. Lark summoned the broom and dustpan with a twitch of their fingers and swept up the shadows.

The next morning, Lark was hanging up bunches of tea leaves to dry when Nimhorei poked his head into the kitchen. “Let me cook something for you as thanks for hosting me.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I insist. I could use a good meal, and I’d like to make something you’d enjoy.”

Lark rested their hand on their chin. “Perhaps a hash with oyster mushrooms. I have fresh vegetables in the garden, but we would need to forage for the mushrooms.”

“Sounds lovely.”

They exited the house through the kitchen and followed the gray cobblestone path to a section of the woods that was bright and retained most of the comfort of Lark’s home, at least during the day.

“How long has it been since you had a proper guest?” Nimhorei asked.

“Fifty years, though guests have been a rare sight for a long time. Before the woods grew so wild, many spirits traveled this way, and many stayed at my guesthouse. As the years passed, the only spirits who came here were ones who chose to enter the forest and not leave.”

“I suppose it would be tempting to abandon all reason and run mindless through the woods, thrashing and screaming,” Nimhorei said. “How did you start the guesthouse?”

“I built it,” Lark said. “I doubt it’s any surprise to you that I was once like any other wandering spirit.”

A curious expression crossed his face, and he pursed his lips as though to keep himself from asking the obvious question.

“Ask what is on your mind,” Lark said.

“Then I presume you were human at one point—when did you live in that world?”

“I died in the mid twenty-first century.”

His eyebrows quirked up. “My, it’s been over a thousand years for you then, if we’re judging by linear time. That’s a long time to run a guesthouse.”

“Have you walked among the humans?”

“Only briefly, as a traveler. I’ve never been the best at blending in.”

“Then are you a god?” Lark asked.

He drummed his fingers along his chin, a furrow in his brow. “No, I wouldn’t say that. Gods take care of some aspect of the mortal world or the spirit world—by that metric, you are more a god than I am. Perhaps a god of warmth and hospitality. Or tea.”

Lark snorted softly. “Then what do you call yourself?”

“I am a traveler from outside the realms occupied by mortals or spirits. I suppose that’s why the spirits of the forest don’t know what to do with me.”

“I see.” Lark gestured to a tree, at a patch of cream-colored mushrooms with long gills and flat caps. “Here we are. This should be plenty for both of us.”

“Wonderful. Now, if you don’t mind, I would love to see your garden.”

Over the following months, Nimhorei was a regular guest. He appeared every week or two in the evening, accompanied by a colorful aurora in the sky. They cooked together, and he helped Lark plant new vegetables in the garden and dry tea leaves. When the sun went down, he sat in the living room by the fire, and they talked, the conversation and sheer presence of another person bringing more life and light into the guesthouse.

The forest spirits continued their nightly howling and thrashing, always worsening when Nimhorei was around. After he left, Lark found deep gouges in the dirt outside the garden and claw marks on the trees. Lark stood at the edge of the woods and reprimanded them.

“You must stop this. It has never done you any good,” they said. But there was no response from the forest, and the shrieking began anew in the evening.

It was dark when the familiar rush of purple and red light washed over the sky. When the knock didn’t come, Lark opened the front door and found Nimhorei on the dirt pathway, watching the forest.

“Good evening, Lark.” He smiled at them, but there was tension in his features. “I thought I saw a human spirit wandering the forest. I would hate for a lost soul to encounter the other forest spirits by accident.”

“It may be trickery,” Lark said.

“Oh, I suspect that and yet—wait, there it is again.”

A tiny yellow light flickered through the woods, casting a warm glow on the gnarled gray trees and tangled vines. It did resemble a lost soul, like so many of the ghosts who used to walk these paths. Maybe they needed a place to stay or simply someone to lead them to the train station. Nimhorei seemed to reach a similar conclusion, and he waved to the spirit.

“Are you lost, my friend?” he asked as he stepped beyond the invisible line where the trees began.

Lark followed him, reaching for his shoulder to pull him back out of the woods. “I should go after the spirit, in case it’s a trick,” they said, but their hand only passed through air. Nimhorei was gone in an instant as something snaked around him, yanking him out of sight. Lark dashed after him, following the sound of rustling as a tall, bulbous shadow rushed through the woods. They ran down a steep hill, skittering to a halt in a clearing at the bottom. Thorns stung their hands and feet as they stumbled into the center and faced dozens of glowing eyes. The shadowy forms radiated an empty, gnawing hunger.

“Let him go,” Lark said. “You will not endanger my guests.”

The light returned from the darkness, and it was attached to a massive creature with long, jagged teeth reminiscent of some denizen of the ocean depths. Its eyes were bright and unseeing. Its body rippled as it opened an enormous mouth, spitting Nimhorei onto the ground. He groaned and rose to his knees, and Lark held his shoulder to steady him.

“Are you alright?”

“Surprised and displeased with the manners of this angler fish,” he said. “Awfully rude.”

“We should return to the guesthouse.” Lark pulled him to his feet, and their hand came away with a dark shimmering substance on it, as though he were bleeding shadows. But a spirit blocked the way, growling and baring teeth.

“Do not block my path,” Lark said with a snarl of their own. “Have you roamed these woods for so long that you’ve forsaken all reason? That you understand nothing but mindless wandering and howling in the night?”

The spirit opened its mouth wide, and the saliva dripped from its teeth as its jaw stretched and cracked. Lark met its blank yellow eyes without moving. Then it relented and shrank back into the woods. With one arm wrapped around Nimhorei’s back, they followed the trail until the warm lights of the house finally appeared. Lark breathed deeply with relief as the front door locked behind them, and they gently set Nimhorei down in a chair in the kitchen.

“I’m so sorry,” Lark said. “They’ve never been so bold as to attack a guest of mine.”

“Well, I suppose I did enter their forest at night.” He shook his head. “Foolish of me.”

Outside, the howling started, and tree branches cracked and fell to the ground as the spirits began their rampage with even more vigor. Lark eased Nimhorei out of his coat and shirt and cleaned the dark ooze from his wound, unsure what was blood and what was miasma from the spirits. Lark washed his arm with warm, soapy water until all that was left was a long gash. Both shadows and light spilled up through it, like rays filtering through the many colors of a stained-glass window.

“Thank you,” he said, and he wrapped his arm in bandages. Then he summoned a clean shirt with a wave of his hand. “To tell the truth, I didn’t wish to fight back and risk harming those spirits. It is a miserable thing, to be lost and full of rage as they are.”

Lark stood and washed their hands, still filled with nervous energy. They put the kettle on. “I worry about them. When I first began the guesthouse, there were already a few lost spirits in those woods. I have tried to speak to them, but even after all these years, only a handful have left this place.”

“There are many such places where spirits become stuck.” He opened the pantry and retrieved a pair of mugs as the kettle whistled. “The spirit world is vast, likely infinite, and I imagine it’s a big shift from the mortal lives they once knew. Easy to get lost, particularly if those lives were painful ones.”

“It is.” Lark pulled out a pair of diffusers and handed one to Nimhorei before filling their own with white tea with pomegranate and orange peels. They held the hot mug in their hands and leaned against the counter. “After I died, I wandered through the spirit worlds. I found my way up to places full of light and air. Vast cities in the clouds—some of which watched over the stars and planets of the mortal world. But those places were so different from what I remembered from my life that I didn’t know what to do. So I ventured down to the lower worlds with their trees and forests.”

Lavender wafted over from Nimhorei’s tea as he took a sip. “There is beauty to be found throughout the spirit world with all its varied lands and people. And through the mortal world as well.”

“You said you come from outside of everything. What is that like?”

“There are many realms beyond life and death,” he said. “Some are so far outside the senses and cognition afforded either to mortals or spirits that they are near unfathomable, even for me. As for my world…” He met Lark’s gaze, and they looked back into his eyes, through void into a burst of colors so bright that Lark felt them warm their soul.

“My world is one of reflections. Of fractals and concatenation, kaleidoscopes of shape and pattern and thought and emotion.” Nimhorei added a drizzle of honey to his tea and stirred it delicately. “Of course, infinite reflection becomes tiresome, and it suits me more to wander the worlds of spirits and mortals instead.”

“Naturally.”

“Mortals have invented excellent creature comforts,” he said. “Tell me, if you would, what was your life like?”

“Restless,” Lark said with a huff. “It wasn’t until I reached middle age that I found something that allowed me to feel settled. My sister was a veterinarian, and she was desperately looking for a change of pace. We opened an animal shelter. I had little experience with pets, but I was well qualified to keep things clean and take care of the fundraising we needed. It was the first time I felt like I had found my place.”

Lark looked wistfully out the window, remembering the red brick building and the rolling hills of the countryside that surrounded it. “We ran that shelter for twenty years. Then my sister got sick, and she worsened quickly. Became lost and forgetful no matter how hard she tried to stay present. And she did try. When I died, I hoped I would find her again, but I never did. So I built my guesthouse.”

“And a lovely place it is,” Nimhorei said. “This house and its gardens are all a part of you, aren’t they? Your domain.”

“They are.”

“Then you could leave this place. You could take your guesthouse anywhere in the universe if you chose to.”

“Goodness knows I’ve thought about it,” Lark said. Outside the window, a shriek rang out, and the crashes in the forest sounded like trees being shredded and strewn about. “It’s hard for me to leave when I’m not sure where I want to go.”

Nimhorei grinned. “But you don’t always have to know where you’re going.”

“Do you know where you are headed next?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I have been exploring the lower realms, these worlds of nature and unending forests. But a change of pace might be in order.” He set his empty mug on the counter and tilted his head toward Lark. “You could come with me, you know.”

Lark folded their arms. “I could. Yet there is a part of me that has become attached to this place, dark and often depressing as it is.”

“I understand. If it’s about wanting to help the lost souls in these woods, though, I think you’ve done more than enough. You’ve been their beacon, their lighthouse. Warmly lit windows glowing in the darkness of their eternity.” He smiled at Lark. “You can move on.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Good night, Nimhorei.”

“Good night, Lark.”

Lark was filled with restless energy after he left. Over the following week, they cleaned the linens again and washed all the vases, but they did not refill them with flowers. Instead, they tucked them beneath the sink and folded the sheets. Then they harvested all they wanted from the garden and left the rest for the spirits. Lark strode to the edge of the forest. They ducked beneath the branches of the tree line in the area where they foraged, to the place that belonged both to Lark and to the woods.

“I’m coming in,” Lark said. The spirits remained hidden, neither moving nor showing their eyes, and Lark took a seat on an old stump. “There’s more to the world than these woods, you know. It’s not all howling and rampaging and pain. There are places with warmth and hope.”

Lark glanced at an old elm tree that one of the spirits had clawed and shredded. Mushrooms grew from a branch that had fallen. “I hoped the guesthouse might be that place for you. A place to shelter from the rain, to stay for a while before you move on to experience the rest of the universe.”

A few eyes turned to them, and shapes moved among the trees.

“I want you to know that I’m leaving. The guesthouse won’t be here anymore,” Lark said. “Please take care of each other. Maybe one day you’ll find your way out of these woods.”

The spirits merely retreated to the darkness. Lark watched them for a moment and then left. As they returned to the house, a spiral of radiant colors filled the sky with red and deep purple. Long shadows trailed behind the lights, like banners floating in the wind. The swirling shapes and color touched down on the ground and coalesced into a body. Nimhorei gestured to the dark windows of the guesthouse. “It feels different here,” he said. “I don’t suppose…were you getting ready to leave?”

“Indeed. I was hoping you would come back soon,” they said. “I am ready to go, unless you would like to spend another night here.”

Nimhorei smiled warmly at them. “I would be happy to leave with you now.”

The guesthouse glowed softly as it dissolved into light and flowed into the lantern Lark carried at their side. Footsteps crunched against the ground as a few spirits came forward to watch them go from the edge of the forest. Lark nodded to them once and then gazed at the sky. It was time to go—they had done enough.

Lark rose into the air, and Nimhorei followed. They flew until they reached the wall of clouds that formed the edge of that realm, and then they crossed the threshold, to a place that was swirling purple dust and shadow. It overlooked millions of other realms that twinkled like stars.

“I forgot how beautiful it is,” Lark said. In the distance, a train whistled as it careened through space toward another stop, another world.

“It’s wonderful,” Nimhorei said. “And even more so when one can rely upon a guesthouse for a comfortable bed and a warm cup of tea.”

Lark looked at Nimhorei and smiled. “A place to rest.”