I woke at 5:47. Not because I had to. Routine simply does not respect vacation.
At 5:58 I stood in front of Nicholas’ door in the inn. I knocked. Three times. Measured. Waited. Three times again. Pause. Three times.
From inside came a muffled sound resembling a human being reconsidering existence.
“What?” Nicholas’ voice sounded thick with sleep and irritation.
I did not answer.
The door flew open. Nicholas stood there in what could generously be described as structural compromise—bare feet, hair in multiple ideological directions, shirt absent, expression oscillating between panic and violence.
For a brief moment I assessed him clinically.
Posture: Defensive
Eyes: Unfocused
Response time: Delayed
Clothing compliance: Minimal
He blinked at me. “Is something wrong? Did something happen? Is it the dragon? The king? The nobles—”
“No.”
He froze. “…No?”
“Nothing catastrophic. However, something important.”
His eyes widened again. “What happened?”
I checked the hallway window. Light just beginning to enter.
“Six o’clock.”
He stared at me. “Yes?”
“Our vacation has begun.”
Silence. Complete.
He blinked twice. “…You woke me at dawn just to tell me we’re on leave.”
“Yes.”
Nicholas’ face went through several emotional phases in rapid succession—confusion, disbelief, recognition. “You’re serious.
“Yes.”
He leaned one hand against the doorframe. “You could have told me at breakfast.”
“That would have introduced delay.”
“In what?”
“In vacation.”
He closed his eyes. For several seconds he did not speak. Then:
“You negotiated with a dragon. You stabilized the kingdom. You prevented economic collapse—”
“Pending.”
“—and now you’re optimizing leisure?”
“Yes.”
He looked at me. “Why?”
“Because inefficient rest leads to diminished long-term output.”
He stared. “That’s the least relaxing sentence I’ve ever heard.”
“It is accurate.”
Nicholas rubbed his face. “You knocked three times. Three separate sets.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Consistency.”
He inhaled slowly. “…What exactly does vacation mean to you?”
“Structured recovery.”
“And that requires waking me before sunrise?”
“Yes.”
He looked down at himself, then back at me. “You analyzed my sleep posture, didn’t you?”
“Correct.”
He groaned softly. “This is not normal.”
“Predictable.”
He leaned his head briefly against the door. “I thought vacation meant sleeping.”
“It does. Until six.”
Nicholas stared at me as if attempting to determine whether summoning rituals had error margins. “You are impossible.”
“Operationally consistent.”
He squinted at me. “What happens at seven?”
“Breakfast.”
“And at eight?”
“A walk.”
He blinked. “To audit the roads?”
“To observe them.”
Nicholas slowly dragged a hand down his face. “I’m going back to bed for ten minutes.”
“That would fragment recovery cycles.”
“I do not care.”
“That is statistically unwise.”
He pointed at me. “If you knock again before sunrise tomorrow, I will join the nobles.”
I considered the threat. “Noted.”
He paused. “…Is this really nothing serious?”
“No. Today is intentionally uneventful.”
He studied me carefully. “You look disappointed.”
“I am not.” A beat. “Yet.”
Nicholas shut the door. From inside I heard him mutter something about cursed roads and cursed summoning ritual.
I stood in the hallway.
Vacation had begun. Efficiently.
The breakfast room of the inn was moderately populated. Two merchants arguing in low tones. One woman reading a ledger. A baker who smelled like structural honesty.
Nicholas sat across from me. Bread. Cheese. Eggs. Tea. Vacation.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
“Before you begin,” Nicholas said, pointing his fork at me, “I want to suggest something.”
I looked up. “Clarify.”
“Try to behave like a normal person.”
“Define.”
“Do not analyze the table. Do not evaluate the structural integrity of the chairs. Do not calculate the traffic flow between kitchen and door.”
I looked at the table. The left leg was shorter. I looked back at him. “Understood.”
“This is your vacation. People actually become more efficient if they disengage for a few days.” He leaned slightly forward. “Humans recover.”
He watched me. Hopeful.
I considered this. “Efficiency increases after rest.”
“Yes.”
“Provided the rest is structured.”
“No. Provided it is not structured.”
That required recalibration.
“I will attempt it.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Attempt?”
“Yes.”
We began eating. I chewed deliberately, without commentary. The tea was slightly over-steeped. I did not say this. The chair beneath Nicholas creaked at regular intervals corresponding to micro-adjustments in posture. I did not say this. The baker at the counter was counting coins incorrectly. I did not say this. The merchant near the window was speaking too loudly, which suggested insecurity. I did not say this.
Nicholas observed me closely. “You’re thinking.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I am… experiencing.”
He blinked. “That sounds worse.”
I took another bite of bread. Do not evaluate crumb density. Do not calculate moisture content. Do not assess oven distribution. I swallowed.
Nicholas leaned back. “See? Nothing is burning. No dragon. No nobles. No collapse.”
I nodded. “Yet.”
“Just breakfast.”
“Yes.”
“Peaceful.”
I looked around. A serving girl nearly collided with the baker but corrected in time. No injuries. Acceptable.
Nicholas sighed. “You’re counting steps, aren’t you?”
“No.” Pause. “…Not precisely.”
He stared at me. “You can relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You look like you’re calculating whether the jam distribution is equitable.”
I looked down at my plate. It was. “I am not.”
He gave me a long look. “You know, when people step away from their work, they return sharper.”
“Define sharper.”
“More capable. More focused.”
I considered that. “If I return more focused, the nobles may regret the interval.”
Nicholas groaned softly. “That was not meant as a threat.”
“It was not received as one.”
He put his fork down. “Just try. For one meal. Do not optimize anything.”
I nodded. “Very well.”
Silence settled. I counted six distinct background conversations. No. Not counted. Observed. The sunlight entered at an angle that indicated approximately—
Stop. Vacation.
I placed my hands flat on the table. Breathing. Nicholas watched. Five minutes passed. Seven. The tea cooled. The baker corrected his arithmetic. The merchant left. No crisis emerged.
Nicholas smiled faintly. “See? You survived.”
I considered the absence of disaster. “Surprisingly.”
He stood. “Good. Because you will not manage an entire day like this.”
“That is unverified.”
He laughed. “It’s nearly eight.”
I blinked. Eight?
Nicholas stood fully now. “Forget it. You can’t do it. You’ll implode by midday.”
I checked the light again. He was correct. “Oh.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Thank you for the reminder.”
“Reminder of what?”
I stood. “We must depart.”
“For what?”
“The walk.”
Nicholas stared at me. “Of course.”
“The walk begins at eight.”
“You scheduled it.” He closed his eyes briefly. “This is not vacation.”
“It is structured recovery.”
He shook his head and followed me toward the door.
And as we stepped outside, I allowed myself exactly three seconds of not analyzing the street. It was moderately successful.
We began walking at exactly eight. Not approximately. Exactly.
Nicholas walked beside me with the cautious expression of someone who had witnessed prior escalation events.
“This is leisure,” he reminded me.
“Yes.”
“No objectives.”
“Correct.”
“No audits.”
“Understood.”
We walked. The air was clear. The village quiet. A dog crossed the path, paused, reconsidered existence, and continued. I did not analyze it. Progress.
We reached the small wooden bridge over the drainage ditch. I slowed.
Nicholas noticed immediately. “Don’t.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am observing.”
The left support beam had been replaced—with enthusiasm, without alignment. The plank curvature indicated uneven load distribution. The nail pattern was decorative rather than structural. The guard rope sagged at a mathematically offensive angle.
Nicholas stepped onto the bridge deliberately. “It holds.”
“For now.”
He sighed. “It’s a village bridge.”
“It is a liability.”
We crossed. The bridge creaked—not catastrophically, but conversationally. Vacation.
We continued toward the small communal green near the well. A bench stood there. Unsupervised.
I narrowed my eyes.
Nicholas groaned. “No.”
“The right leg is shorter.”
“It’s fine.”
“It is not.”
Two elderly men were sitting on it. It tilted visibly toward the left. They compensated. Incorrectly.
Nicholas grabbed my sleeve. “Sit. Just sit. Do nothing.”
I sat. The bench tilted further. One of the elderly men glanced at me. “Morning.”
“Good morning.”
The tilt increased by two degrees. Unacceptable.
Nicholas leaned in. “Don’t.”
I stood up. “Gentlemen, may I briefly adjust this?”
They blinked at me. “It’s fine.”
“It is not.”
Vacation.
Nicholas pinched the bridge of his nose. “Max...”
“I will require a stone.”
“Max.”
“A flat one.”
“Max!”
Five minutes later I was kneeling in the grass with a rock, adjusting the bench leg to achieve acceptable horizontal alignment. The elderly men watched in silence. Nicholas stood behind me like a chaperone at a civic malfunction.
“There.”
The bench no longer tilted. The two men shifted experimentally. It remained stable. One of them nodded slowly. “…Huh.”
I brushed dirt from my hands. Vacation.
Nicholas looked at me. “You fixed a bench.”
“Yes.”
“During vacation.”
“Yes.”
“You said no audits.”
“This was not an audit.”
“What was it?”
“Cultural integration.”
He stared at me.
We resumed walking. A woman hung laundry slightly too close to the well. Splash risk. I said nothing. A cart wheel leaned against a wall without wedge stabilization. I said nothing. A child dragged a stick along the side of a wooden fence, gradually weakening the surface integrity. I inhaled sharply.
Nicholas turned immediately. “No. Let the child enjoy the moment.”
“I will say nothing.”
“You are vibrating.”
“I am stable.”
We reached the edge of the village, where a small sign marked the boundary. It leaned—not dramatically, but morally. I stopped. Nicholas stopped with structured hesitation.
“It’s a sign.”
“It is leaning.”
“It has leaned for years.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
I looked at it. If a sign marking the village boundary cannot remain vertical, what does that communicate? Instability. Neglect. Resignation.
Nicholas saw it happen. The moment. The shift. His shoulders dropped. “…No.”
I walked toward the sign. “It will take thirty seconds.”
“This is escalation.”
“It is alignment.”
I adjusted the base, pushed the post deeper into the soil, reinforced the side with a compacted stone. The sign now stood upright—vertical, uncompromised.
A small child walking past stopped and stared. “Why did you do that?”
“Because it should be straight.”
He looked at it. Then at me. “…Uhm. Okay.”
Nicholas stood several steps away. “You cannot relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You are correcting the village.”
“It improves my mood.”
He stared at me. “You are not on vacation.”
“I am. This is recreational stabilization.”
He closed his eyes. “You negotiated with a dragon. And this is what breaks you.”
“The dragon was rational.”
He looked at me. “And the bench wasn’t?”
“The bench was negligent.”
“You don’t have to treat every bench like it’s a death sentence.” Nicholas frowned. “Optimism isn’t a crime.”
“It is,” I said, “in certain industries.”
He studied me for a moment. “You don’t have to be this strict about everything.”
“I have attended enough funerals to distrust optimism.”
Silence settled between us.
Nicholas’ voice was quieter when he spoke again. “Was that… before? Or after you chose that profession?”
I considered the question. “Both.”
He did not ask again.
We walked back toward the inn. The bridge creaked again as we crossed. I glanced at it. Nicholas saw.
“No.”
“I said nothing.”
“You looked.”
“I observed.”
He exhaled deeply. “You know what? Fine. This is your vacation.”
“Yes.”
“But tomorrow we do something truly pointless.”
“Define pointless.”
“Something that achieves nothing.”
I considered that carefully. “That… is inefficient.”
He groaned.
We reached the inn. The village behind us stood marginally straighter than it had an hour ago. No dragon. No riot. No noble conspiracy. Just corrected geometry.
Vacation had been productive. And, by all measurable standards, deeply relaxing.
Nicholas turned to me with the expression of a man who had accepted defeat but wanted documentation.
“You know,” he said slowly, “for you, relaxing mostly means improving things for everyone else.”
“That is inaccurate.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“It improves my environment.”
He sighed. “Which improves everyone else’s environment.”
“Yes.”
He folded his arms. “I miss my vacation.”
“You are currently in it.”
“That is not the same thing.” He looked at me carefully. “Do you have any other plans? Something people normally do? What do you do in your world when you’re on vacation?”
I considered this seriously. “In my world, people often travel.”
“We are already traveling.”
“Intentionally.”
He stared at me. “Right.”
I adjusted my cuffs. “I require new pens.”
He blinked. “Pens.”
“Yes. For the notebook.”
“Of course.”
“The current ink distribution is inconsistent. Also the nib pressure varies under lateral stress.”
Nicholas closed his eyes briefly. “And for that we must…?”
“Visit the general store.”
There it was—the look. The one he had developed since meeting me. The preemptive exhaustion.
“If a leaning sign nearly triggered an infrastructure reform,” he said carefully, “what will a general store do?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Inventory management.”
He inhaled slowly. “Max.”
“Yes.”
“This is supposed to be simple.”
“It is.”
“We walk in. You buy pens. We leave.”
“Yes.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You will not reorganize shelves.”
“I have no mandate.”
“That is not what I asked.”
I did not respond.
We began walking toward the small general goods store near the square. The wooden sign above the door read:
General of a store
The lettering was slightly uneven.
Nicholas saw my eyes move. “No.”
“I said nothing.”
“You are thinking.”
“I am literate.”
We entered.
Structural Addendum:
