The streets of Gravity Falls were quiet tonight, too quiet for Eliot's liking. The lamplights cast an orange glow on the cracked pavement, their dim light flickering in the chilly summer breeze. He walked slowly, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, the fabric stretched thin against his wiry frame. Every step felt heavier than the last, as if the weight of the night was pressing down on him, bending his shoulders forward.

The sky above was a sliver of dark velvet, thick clouds hanging like some bruised memory, keeping the stars hidden. He didn't need the stars tonight. He already had his own darkness to navigate, one he couldn't shake off, no matter how hard he tried.

Eliot hated this part of the walk—had hated it for as long as he could remember. The stretch of road between him and his house felt like a chasm, an abyss he'd never quite be able to cross. The looming shape of the church was already coming into view, its steeple stretching too high against the backdrop of the darkening sky, like it was reaching out to grab him, to pull him into something he never wanted to be a part of.

It was right next door. Too close for comfort.

He could hear the faint echoes of the bells ringing in his mind, even though they hadn't tolled in hours. The sound was a reminder of everything he hated: the sermons, the forced smiles, the cold hand of his father on the back of his neck as he was dragged along to services, expected to play the part of the perfect preacher's son. The same cold hand that had slapped and punched him more times than he cared to count.

The thought of going home twisted something deep inside him. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go—there was no other place that could feel like home. Not that he'd ever really felt at home in that house. Not with the smell of incense and old books hanging in the air, not with his father's hollow words echoing through the walls, filling every corner of the house with something Eliot had learned to hate. The lectures. The guilt. The cold hands that were supposed to comfort him but only bruised him instead.

His father would be waiting.

Eliot's throat tightened, and he had to swallow down the bitter taste that came with the thought. His dad was probably already pissed off. And if he wasn't, Eliot was sure he would be soon enough. After all, he just ran off without any explanation after the sermon.

It wasn't even that Eliot disliked the church itself. It was the damn hypocrisy of it all. The way his father stood in front of everyone on Sundays, pretending to be some holy man, when all Eliot could see behind the façade was a man who was barely hanging onto his own anger, his own rage, like it was a tight rope he was always about to fall off of.

His father had told him—more times than Eliot could count—that he should be grateful. Grateful for what, exactly? Grateful that the bruises didn't show? Grateful that his father only hit him when no one else was around? Grateful for the silence that followed after, like everything was just supposed to go back to normal?

Eliot chuckled darkly to himself, the sound bitter and hollow in the quiet of the night. He realized, with a sort of twisted irony, that he had started praying—praying in his head, in the back of his mind, in a desperate, half-hearted way that made him want to laugh and cry at the same time. He wasn't even sure who he was praying to, but he couldn't help it. He was already murmuring the words, just hoping, praying that maybe—just maybe—his father would be asleep when he got home.

It was ridiculous, really. Praying for something like that. As if God, or whoever the hell was listening, would actually grant him that one tiny sliver of peace.

But there he was, his breath coming quicker with each step as he neared the house.

The church. The house. The man who lived in both.

It all felt like one giant, suffocating weight pressing down on him, and the worst part? The worst part was that he didn't even know how to escape it. There was no out. There was no way to get away from his father, from his expectations, from the way he looked at Eliot like he was a disappointment wrapped in a collar and tie.

Another chuckle, this one more bitter, more resigned.

He should've been used to it by now. After all, his father had made sure of that. His father's voice, harsh and grating, echoed in his head as he neared the house. "You'll thank me one day. You'll see. I'm just doing what's best for you."

The words weren't comforting. They were cold. And they were always the same. Like an empty mantra repeated over and over again until they lost their meaning, until they became just another part of the routine. The fight, the guilt, the waiting.

The whole damn thing was a broken record. And Eliot was stuck in it, spinning around and around with no way out.

He could see his house now—just a few yards ahead, standing tall and solitary against the backdrop of the night. Its dark windows seemed to stare back at him, reflecting the distant light of the streetlamps, hollow and silent.

He was almost there.

And yet, his feet felt like lead.

Another step. Another breath.

Eliot muttered to himself, shaking his head as he chuckled again. "Maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe he'll just sleep through the whole thing."

But even as the words left his lips, he knew better.

The door creaked as Eliot stepped inside, the sound too loud in the stillness of the night. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his hands trembled as he closed the door behind him, trying to be as quiet as possible, like slipping back into the shadows would make him invisible.

His room was just a few steps away, a small sanctuary from everything else—the noise, the anger, the constant pressure. But as he took those first few steps, a harsh light flicked on. The fluorescent glow of the kitchen light sliced through the dim hallway like a blade.

Eliot froze.

His breath hitched in his throat, eyes snapping to the door at the end of the hall. His father's silhouette was dark against the kitchen light, standing perfectly still, like a statue in the middle of the room. His face was a mask, as cold and expressionless as it had been the first time Eliot remembered seeing him—empty eyes that held nothing. No warmth. No love. Just the hollow gaze of a man who had stopped being a father a long time ago.

Eliot's throat tightened, and his legs felt like they might buckle beneath him. He wanted to turn and run—flee to his room, lock the door, and pretend the world outside didn't exist. But there was nowhere to run from this. Nowhere to hide from the eyes that were staring at him, dissecting him without a word.

His father took a step forward, just one slow, measured step. The creak of the floorboard under his weight seemed impossibly loud in the silence, but Eliot could only hear the pounding of his own heart.

His father's voice broke the stillness, low and calm, but heavy with a coldness that sent a chill down Eliot's spine.

"You're late." The words weren't a question. They were a statement. A judgment.

"I—I wasn't—" Eliot's voice cracked before he could finish, a stutter rising in his throat. His palms were sweating now, the skin slick against the fabric of his jacket. He could feel his pulse in his ears, ringing like a distant bell, but it was only the sound of his own fear growing louder. He swallowed hard, fighting to control the shaking in his voice. "I'm just going to sleep, Dad. I... I was just... I'm tired."

There was no escape from the weight of his father's gaze, the cold, calculating eyes that seemed to see everything and nothing at once. They were always like this—stone-cold, unfeeling. But tonight... Tonight felt different. His father wasn't angry. He wasn't yelling or demanding an answer. He wasn't preaching. He was just... watching. Silent. Waiting.

Eliot's chest constricted. He could feel the anxiety clawing at him, a burning tightness in his stomach. This was the part he feared the most—the moments when his father's rage was masked by something far more terrifying: calmness. When there was no immediate threat, no shouting, no screaming—just the silence of someone who had learned to control everything, even their own fury.

His father spoke again, his voice quiet and deliberate, each word measured like he was speaking through a veil of calm that Eliot could feel suffocating him.

"Where were you?" His father's tone wasn't inquisitive—it was demanding. Expectant. As if the question itself was an accusation.

Eliot's throat went dry. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The words were trapped somewhere deep inside him, like they always were when his father asked questions he couldn't answer. The truth was too dangerous. To admit where he'd been would only fuel the fire.

His father took another step forward, his hand resting against the table, fingers curling slightly, like he was preparing to grip something that wasn't quite there yet. Eliot didn't move. He couldn't.

"You've been away too long," his father said, voice low but sharp now. "The world is full of temptation. Evil." He leaned in, his breath hot on Eliot's face. "And you've been getting too close to it. Too close to things that will take your soul away. Don't you see that, son?" His father's eyes narrowed as he spoke, darkening with something that wasn't anger, but something colder, more menacing. "I warned you. I've tried to show you the way. But the evil is so strong, Eliot. It's everywhere. You can't run from it. It will follow you until it drags you down."

Eliot's legs were shaking now, his whole body trembling as the words echoed in his mind. He'd heard this before. Over and over again. His father's lectures, his warnings, his twisted version of salvation. The constant barrage of guilt and shame, all wrapped in the comforting lie that it was for his own good. That everything his father did, every punishment, every word, every slap—it was all part of a greater plan. A divine plan.

He could feel his father's gaze burning into him, waiting for an answer that Eliot couldn't give. His mind screamed at him to say something, to make the words come out and end this. But there was nothing to say. Nothing that would stop the inevitable.

His father's voice dropped lower, almost a whisper now, but with a venomous edge. "Where were you, Eliot? Where were you when your father needed you at the church? Where did you you run off?"

Eliot couldn't breathe. The walls of the hallway seemed to close in on him, his vision blurring as he stumbled back, trying to move, trying to escape the suffocating presence of his father. But before he could take another step, his father's hand shot out, grabbing his arm in a vice-like grip.

"You're not going anywhere," his father hissed. "Not until you learn what happens when you turn your back on the path of salvation."

Without warning, his father's fist slammed into his stomach, knocking the breath out of him in one brutal punch. Eliot gasped for air, staggering back, but his father was on him before he could even think. His father's grip tightened around his wrist, pulling him back, forcing him to face him.

The words came next—raining down like fists. "If you truly understood that you belong to God, this wouldn't have happened. But you're lost, Eliot. You're lost, and it's because you're too weak to see the truth."

Eliot's world spun, his body thrashing against the pain, but all he could do was collapse to the ground, gasping for breath. The tears were burning now, hot and endless as they spilled down his face, mixing with the cold sweat that coated his skin. His father's shadow loomed over him, dark and heavy, blocking out everything else.

With a final, cold glare, his father turned and flicked the light switch. The room fell into darkness.

Eliot was left on the floor, broken and trembling, his body sore and bruised, his breath ragged and shallow. He wanted to scream. Wanted to yell, to beg for it to stop. But there was no point. His father had already won.

The silence stretched for what felt like an eternity before his father's footsteps receded, leaving Eliot alone in the dark, sobbing uncontrollably. His father had left him to lie there, defeated, in a way that made the silence feel more suffocating than any sound could have.

And all Eliot could do was pray.

Not for salvation. Not for redemption.

But for it all to end.

Eliot lay on the floor, the coldness of the wooden boards seeping into his skin, but it was nothing compared to the hollow chill gnawing away at him from the inside. His body trembled, not just from the physical punishment he'd endured earlier, but from the weight of everything that had led up to this moment—the endless nights of silence, the hollow house, the absence of a mother he could barely remember. His tears stained the floor beneath him, but it wasn't enough. It never felt like enough.

I should be used to this by now.

The thought came in fragments, a reminder of how many nights he'd spent curled up in the same position, the same broken, fragile state. Yet every time it happened, it felt like the first time. Like he was experiencing it all over again, the pain sinking deeper, until there was nothing left of him but the ache. He didn't even know what to call it anymore.

His mind wandered to fragments of memories, some blurry, others sharp in their clarity. His father's voice. Harsh, accusatory. You're broken. You'll never be anything more than a disappointment. The words echoed through his skull, mixing with other remnants of his past—the quiet moments, the unspoken ones. The things he was never supposed to remember.

He couldn't remember the last time he saw his mother. The idea of her felt more like a dream, like a figment his mind created to fill in the empty spaces. She could've been gone for years, or maybe he'd pushed her out of his mind long ago. Either way, he couldn't recall her face. Not a single clear image. The absence was suffocating, and the silence left behind felt more like a condemnation than anything else.

Did she leave? Or had something else happened? He didn't know, and his father had never offered an explanation. It was like she had just vanished, faded into the background like a forgotten shadow. And as much as he wanted to ask, to demand the truth, he never had the courage. Maybe because somewhere deep down, he was afraid of what that truth would mean.

He wiped at his face, his hands shaking. The tears didn't stop, but they couldn't fill the void. Nothing ever did.

But the one thing that kept nagging at him, the thing he couldn't shake, was the idea that she might've left because of him. Maybe it was all his fault. Maybe she couldn't stand to be with someone like him.

But no matter how hard he tried to grasp at the fragments of the past, it always slipped through his fingers. His mind locked it away like a forbidden room he could never open. His heart felt torn in two, and the emptiness stretched deep into his chest, filling up every corner of his being.

It wasn't until the weight of exhaustion started to creep in, pulling him toward the silence of the room, that he realized he'd been lying there for what felt like hours.

With a groan, Eliot pushed himself up, his legs shaky beneath him. He staggered to his feet, feeling the heaviness in his body, the bruises both visible and unseen. His whole body felt like it belonged to someone else, a stranger. He stumbled toward his bed, feeling the emptiness of the room swallow him whole, but he crawled into it anyway, as if the comfort of the sheets would somehow erase the mess inside him.

His fingers fumbled in his pocket, and that's when he found them—the trinkets he stole earlier. The small, insignificant objects that had somehow become the last piece of something he could hold onto. The strange stones, the crumpled piece of paper he ripper out of Stan's magazine, the weird statue—reminders of a time before everything had become this... endless black hole again.

He let the trinkets fall into his hand, the cool metal against his skin grounding him, if only for a moment. As he stared down at them, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, though it was bitter. He thought back to the briefest moments, the ones that had somehow managed to remain clear in his mind.

Dipper.

The image of the boy made his chest tighten. Earlier that day, in those few fleeting hours, things had felt different. Eliot didn't feel so small, so invisible. Dipper had looked at him with eyes that weren't full of judgment or pity—eyes that had seen him for who he was, not for the broken boy his father had shaped him into.

Eliot closed his eyes, allowing himself a brief moment of relief. A moment where he wasn't the damaged product of years of brainwashing, abuse and neglect. A moment where he could almost remember what it felt like to be seen.

He let his thoughts drift to Dipper, to the quiet smile, to the way Dipper had listened, really listened, without pretending to understand. It was strange, how something so small could feel so significant. In that moment, Eliot had let himself believe that there might be something good in this world. Something that wasn't tainted, something untouched by all the dark, twisted things that had defined his life.

But as quickly as the memory of that afternoon came, it slipped away, and Eliot was left with only the coldness of his room, the echo of his father's voice ringing in his ears. The darkness settled back in, thicker this time, pressing down on him.

Don't get too attached to things you can't keep, he reminded himself.

Everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever wished for, had always been just out of reach. People had come and gone, lives had been disrupted, and in the end, it was always just him. Alone.

He let out a shaky breath and lay back down, staring up at the ceiling. He felt as if his body was sinking into the bed, melting into the sheets, but his mind was still racing, still clawing at the walls of his thoughts.

Eventually, his eyes drifted shut, but even in the darkness behind his eyelids, he couldn't escape. The silence, the weight of it all, pressed down on him until sleep finally claimed him.

Eliot woke up to the dull, aching reminder of yesterday's violence—his stomach sore, the bruises from his dad's fists settling in. The sharp, uneven pain twisted like a rope around his torso, every movement a slow reminder of what he had endured. His body felt like it was made of lead as he sluggishly rolled out of bed, the familiar weight of exhaustion pulling him back under. He realized he'd passed out in yesterday's clothes, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to his skin, sticky from sweat. With a deep sigh, he peeled the clothes off, the motion stiff and slow, his muscles protesting with every twist and turn.

As he moved toward his dresser, his eyes drifted to the bed, where the trinkets feom yesterday lay scattered across the blanket. His breath caught in his throat as he looked at the things—little objects that held fragments of his life, fragile memories he had no place for. He knew exactly what they were and why they were there. Each little piece, was a stolen treasure, things he'd tucked away to hold on to, just for himself. The world outside his room—his father's house, the oppressive weight of the church—had no place for these things.

Quickly, his hands moved to shove them out of sight, tossing them under his bed with a practiced ease. But that wasn't enough. He didn't trust this room, not with his father's volatile presence. Eliot kneeled down and gently pried up the loose board in the floor, revealing the hollow space beneath. He'd found it years ago, a hidden crevice in the wooden boards, just big enough to conceal what mattered most. He'd been hiding things there for as long as he could remember—anything his father would take one look at and destroy. Things that could get him beaten. Things his father would never understand.

As he slid the trinkets into their hidden compartment, memories that always seemed to be just out of reach started to trickle into his mind. They were always blurry, fragmented pieces of a life he could barely recall. A boy, no older than he was—maybe even younger. They were friends, or at least Eliot thought they were. He didn't even remember his name. A memory that had long ago faded into oblivion, like everything else good that had once touched his life. He only remembered the feeling of freedom when he was with that boy. The feeling of being himself—away from his father's wrath, away from the suffocating weight of his family's expectations. The boy's family had been different too, warm and welcoming in a way that made Eliot ache with longing. They had money, they had smiles, they had laughter—a sharp contrast to the cold, broken house that had been his home for as long as he could remember.

The boy had given him things—small gifts. Little things that didn't mean much, but to Eliot, they had been everything. A broken toy car, a soft shirt that smelled like cinnamon and soap. They were treasures to him, small and insignificant to anyone else, but they meant something. They made him feel like there was a world outside the cruelty he was forced to endure. But when his father found them—when he found the things Eliot had hidden away—the beating had been one of the worst.

His father had raged like a storm, tearing through Eliot's room, ripping apart everything he had, and with each thing that was broken, a little more of Eliot's spirit had died. It didn't matter that they were just things. They were tokens of a life he couldn't have, a life he had glimpsed through the kindness of that boy, and his father had destroyed it all. He had shouted that Eliot would never see that boy again, that if he dared to, he would be locked away in the church until he "repented." Repented for what? For wanting something more? For wanting to feel alive?

After that day, Eliot had learned to be careful. He had learned to hide what mattered, what could get him into trouble, where his father's hands couldn't reach. The loose board became his secret. His hiding place for all the things he couldn't let go of, no matter how much he tried to forget. He didn't even know why he kept holding on. They were just things, just memories, just scraps of a life he couldn't reclaim. But in the stillness of his room, with the weight of his father's anger lingering like a shadow, they felt like the only thing he could still own.

As he pressed the board back into place, he paused for a moment, his fingers brushing the wood. He didn't remember that boy's name, or his face, but the ache in his chest was still there. The ache for freedom, for a life that wasn't constantly slipping through his fingers. Was his mind protecting him from remembering the full truth of it all? Or was it just easier not to know?

Shaking off the thoughts, Eliot rose to his feet, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It didn't matter. He would just keep moving forward, just keep hiding. He couldn't change the past, but maybe—just maybe—there was something waiting for him outside this suffocating house, a chance to escape, to be someone other than what his father had made him.

As he changed into fresh clothes, the weight of the trinkets and the memories lifted for a moment. For a brief second, he let himself believe there might be something better out there, something more than what he had known.

Eliot stepped out of his room, the cool morning air in the hallway making him shiver slightly. His body was still sore, stiff from yesterday's encounter with his father, but the thought of being alone in the house lifted a little of the weight off his shoulders. The kitchen was just down the hall, the faint scent of stale coffee lingering from the night before. He hoped, just for a brief moment, that his dad would already be gone. Maybe he'd be out at the church, away on whatever "important" task had him wrapped up in his suffocating duties. Maybe Eliot could eat in peace for once.

But as he rounded the corner into the kitchen, his heart sank. His dad was there, standing by the door with a black leather bag slung over his shoulder, a grim look on his face. Eliot froze, his stomach twisting into tight knots. His dad didn't even look up, didn't acknowledge his presence. He just kept packing his things, each zip of the bag a sharp reminder of the ever-present tension between them.

"You're up early," his dad said, his voice cold, flat. No warmth, no care in the words—just the barest acknowledgment of his existence. He turned slightly to give Eliot a brief glance, the shadows under his eyes making him look older than he was. "I'll be out of town until tomorrow evening. There's a planning session for the upcoming event at the church, and we're meeting the staff outside of town."

Eliot stood there, silent, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, but he didn't say a word. His dad's tone was as devoid of emotion as ever, like he was speaking to a stranger, or worse—like he was speaking to a problem that needed to be dealt with. "Don't make a mess while I'm gone," his dad continued, like a broken record, his voice hollow, distant. "You know better."

Eliot wanted to scoff, to snap something back, but he held himself in check. This wasn't the time for defiance. His dad was already preparing to leave, already halfway out the door. As he turned to go, the door clicked shut behind him, the hollow sound of the heavy wood echoing in the quiet house.

Eliot let out a long breath, the kind of sigh that carried all the tension he'd been holding in. For the first time in what felt like days, his shoulders relaxed. His dad wasn't around. For one brief moment, the house was his.

He always felt this way when his dad was gone. A sense of relief that flooded him like a tide, washing away the pressure. His dad would be out, busy with whatever event was coming up at the church, surrounded by the same hollow, judgmental people who all seemed to follow the same robotic script. Eliot could never understand the obsession with appearances, the constant need to maintain a perfect, unblemished image. But his dad was all about that image. Always watching. Always waiting for Eliot to slip up.

Eliot remembered one time, when he was younger, when his dad had taken him along to one of these "church events." He'd been so young then, barely five or six, but he still remembered how badly he'd embarrassed his father. He didn't mean to—it wasn't like he wanted to ruin things—but the people at the event had been so stiff, so perfect in their religious little bubble, and Eliot had stood out like a sore thumb. He'd said something—something sarcastic, probably—and suddenly, his dad had yanked him aside, his face twisted in fury.

It hadn't been long before his dad had made him pray in the church every day for a week as punishment, praying for forgiveness for the "embarrassment" he had caused. The whole thing had felt like a joke, but the consequences had been anything but. Eliot still remembered how tired his knees had been, how raw his voice had felt by the end of it all. And still, his dad had never apologized. Never even cared that it was his rigid expectations that had led to the incident in the first place.

Now, when his dad went away for these planning sessions, it was like a little vacation for Eliot. No more watching his every move, no more having to hold himself back from saying something that would set his father off. He could do whatever he wanted—within reason. It was rare, but Eliot cherished these times.

He walked over to the fridge, the hum of the old appliance filling the silence. There was some milk left—just enough for a bowl—and a half-empty box of Fruit Loops shoved into the back. The cereal was stale, but at that moment, it didn't matter. He poured the milk over the cereal, the cold liquid splashing against the sugary rings. It wasn't the most appetizing or healthy breakfast, but it was enough. It was easy.

As he sat down at the counter, spooning the cereal into his mouth, his thoughts began to wander. What should he do today? He had no real plans. Nothing in this town ever seemed to offer anything worth getting excited about. But then, as he chewed slowly, something occurred to him. Wendy.

She had invited him to the Mystery Shack yesterday, and while he wasn't exactly sure what to make of it, the invitation had lingered in his mind. It felt like the first real interaction he'd had with anyone here, aside from his dad's endless lectures. Maybe it was because she seemed different. The way she had spoken to him, the way she didn't treat him like some broken thing—it had felt almost... normal. And in a place like this, normal was a rarity.

Eliot leaned back in his chair, looking out the window. Wendy probably worked today, he thought. But it wasn't just her that intrigued him. The twins—Dipper and Mabel—would likely be there too, and he hadn't seen much of them yet. It could be interesting to check out the shack again, see what kind of chaos was brewing. With his dad out of the picture, he had the house to himself. No one was watching him, no one was waiting for him to mess up.

A quiet smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he finished his cereal. The day stretched out before him, a blank canvas full of possibilities—at least for now.

Eliot walked the familiar winding path toward the Mystery Shack, his sneakers crunching on the gravel as he made his way through the town. The air had a slight warmness to it, the early summer heat hanging in the air, but it wasn't enough to bother him. The sun was barely peeking over the trees, casting long shadows across the dusty road, but Eliot didn't mind. There was something soothing about the quiet, something that allowed his thoughts to drift away like leaves caught in the breeze.
As he approached the shack, the unmistakable structure loomed ahead—a strange blend of kitsch and oddity. It looked like it belonged to a different time, an old relic of some forgotten roadside attraction. But Eliot liked it here. It was starting to become the only place in Gravity Falls where he could almost forget everything else.

Eliot pushed open the heavy door to the Mystery Shack, the familiar sound of the bell above jingling to announce his arrival. The warm, musty scent of old wood and pine instantly hit him, a strange comfort amidst the cluttered chaos of the place. The interior was as odd and disheveled as ever, but there was something about it that felt... right. It was hard to explain, but it was like stepping into a place where nothing made sense, but everything fit perfectly.

Wendy was sitting behind the counter, her legs kicked up lazily as she flipped through a comic book, absorbed in the colorful pages. She looked the part of someone who had long since resigned to the weirdness of Gravity Falls, her posture completely relaxed, like she belonged here as much as the dusty shelves and the crooked sign outside. She was the picture of nonchalance, her blue flannel shirt and messy red hair the epitome of effortless cool.

Soos was perched on a ladder in the corner, whistling a tune as he fiddled with something—Eliot had no idea what it was, but knowing Soos, it was probably something broken, waiting to be "fixed" in his own, totally unorthodox way. Nearby, Dipper was wiping down one of the counters, a look of concentration on his face as he cleaned, his eyes scanning every corner of the room like he was waiting for the next weird thing to happen.

And then there was Mabel, who, as usual, was full of energy and charm. She was sitting on a desk stacked with little Stan figurines, swinging her legs back and forth in excitement as she chattered away to a pair of tourists who didn't seem to know what hit them. She looked like she was in her own little world, her infectious energy drawing everyone's attention. Eliot couldn't help but smile at the sight of her, her legs dangling and her eyes wide with excitement as she giggled over whatever absurd thing had just caught her attention.

When the bell rang, the group looked up in unison. Eliot's eyes caught Wendy's first, and she flashed him a grin, that lazy, easy smile that made everything feel a little less heavy. It was the kind of smile that made him feel like it was okay to just... be here.

"Hey, Eliot!" Wendy called, waving a hand in the air, her voice warm and welcoming. "Back for more?"

Eliot stepped further into the room, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he gave her a small smile in return. "I came around yesterday," he said, glancing at her comic before meeting her eyes again. "But you weren't here. I figured I'd swing by today. Seems like a good day for it."

Dipper, still busy with his cleaning, looked up briefly. "Yeah, Wendy had her day off yesterday. But I told her you dropped by. Hope the shack wasn't too weird for you."

"Nah, it wasn't too bad," Eliot said with a shrug. He eyed the tourists milling around the shack, poking at trinkets and gawking at the strange artifacts on display. "This place is definitely... unique."

Wendy grinned. "That's one way to put it," she said with a half-laugh, tossing her comic aside. "Anyway, if you're looking for something to do, we could use a hand around here. Dipper's drowning in cleaning duties, and Soos is, well, Soos."

Soos, who was up on the ladder, turned around at the mention of his name. "Hey, I'm fixing stuff!" he said defensively, clearly proud of whatever it was he was "working" on.

Dipper gave him an amused look, then quickly shifted his attention back to the scattered mess around the shack. "We could use the help. The place is a mess, as usual."

Eliot glanced around, taking in the cluttered shelves and the pile of random items strewn about the floor. He couldn't help but smirk. "Yeah, looks like your uncle's really outdone himself this time."

Dipper chuckled, rolling his eyes as he straightened up. "You have no idea. He goes all out with the 'weird' stuff. Anyway, if you're up for it, we could use a hand getting things back to... somewhat normal."

Eliot hesitated for a second. He wasn't exactly a huge fan of cleaning, but something about the offer felt right. The Mystery Shack had this strange magnetic pull on him, and he wasn't about to let it slip away just because he didn't feel like wiping down a few counters. He sighed and walked over to where Dipper was working. "Sure, I'll help. I've got nothing better to do."

Dipper smiled, handing him a rag. "Thanks. It's nice to have someone I can count on to pitch in. Uncle Stan will probably make us do extra work later to 'earn our keep,' but at least we'll get it done now."

As Eliot grabbed the rag and started wiping down the counter, a tan boy around their age walked in. He had the kind of awkward swagger that made Eliot immediately think he didn't belong here, a little too stiff in his movements, like he was trying to act cooler than he was. Mabel, upon spotting him, immediately ducked down behind the desk, her eyes peeking out mischievously.

Eliot couldn't help but chuckle at the sight. "Really? You're hiding behind the desk?" he said, a grin spreading across his face.

Mabel shot him a playful look. "I'm not hiding, I'm just strategically observing," she said in a mock-serious tone, but the way she twirled her hair gave away her excitement. She clearly couldn't resist the impulse to be goofy, even if it was in the most awkward of situations.

Dipper, rolling his eyes, let out a long-suffering sigh. "This is going to be interesting," he muttered, but there was no mistaking the fondness in his voice. He had long since learned to accept Mabel's quirks, and probably found them endearing by now.

Wendy chuckled, shaking her head.

Eliot glanced over at the guy who had walked in, raising an eyebrow. He was wearing a somewhat generic outfit—a shirt and jeans—but there was something about the way he looked around that screamed "out of place." Eliot couldn't help but feel a little bad for him, considering the way Mabel was currently plotting some sort of embarrassing greeting.

"Well, I'm sure he'll survive," Eliot said with a chuckle, watching Mabel's antics from the corner of his eye.

"Yeah, that's Mabel for you," Dipper said, shaking his head as he continued cleaning. "She'll either embarrass him or try to flirt with him. Or both."

As the conversation drifted away from the new arrival, Eliot felt a sense of ease wash over him. The banter, the teasing, the way everyone seemed so comfortable with each other—it was like stepping into a world where he didn't have to constantly second-guess everything. There was no judgment here, no expectations. It was like the shack, with all its strange trinkets and oddities, had a certain magic to it that made him feel like he could just be himself. For the first time in a while, it felt good to just be.

As they were working, Eliot could feel the tension in the air—mostly from Dipper's constant fidgeting, trying to get everything in order, while Mabel had her usual chaotic energy, running around and making everything a little more... complicated. While wiping down some shelves, Eliot saw the boy—who was just as baffled by all the weird knick-knacks and gadgets as he was—pick up a folded piece of paper. The way he looked at it, Eliot immediately guessed it was something Mabel had left behind.
From behind a row of Stan figurines, Mabel's head popped up, her wide eyes locked onto the boy. She squeezed her cheeks between her palms in exaggerated excitement, her voice almost a whisper. "He's looking at it. He's looking at it!"
Eliot tried to hide his grin as the boy unfolded the note slowly, his face shifting between confusion and genuine curiosity. He read it silently for a second, then glanced up, eyes wide and a little unnerved.
Mabel couldn't hold back her excitement, her voice bubbling over as she leaned out from behind the figures with a mischievous smile. "I rigged it," she said proudly, as though she had just achieved some great triumph.
Eliot chuckled softly under his breath at Mabel's antics. She was so... Mabel.
Dipper, still wiping down a jar of what could only be described as "creepy eyeballs," turned his head, a concerned look crossing his face. "Mabel, I know you're going through your whole 'boy crazy' phase, but I think you're kind of overdoing it with the 'crazy' part." His tone was dry, like he had said this a thousand times before and wasn't exactly thrilled to have to repeat it.
Mabel shot him a look, her eyes wide in playful disbelief. "Whaaat?" she drawled, blowing a raspberry in his direction. She sauntered over to Dipper, her hands clasped over her chest like she was the world's biggest romantic. "Come on, Dipper!" she cooed, her voice soft and theatrical. "This is our first summer away from home! It's my big chance to have an epic summer romance." She looked positively giddy, as if the whole universe was depending on this romance.
Dipper rolled his eyes, barely even looking up from the jar. "Yeah, but do you need to flirt with every guy you meet? You even tried to flirt with Eliot too."
Eliot laughed aloud, shaking his head. "Mabel sure knows how to make a guy feel welcome," he teased, making her giggle and flash him a bright, innocent smile.

"Mock all you want, brother," Mabel said with a bright smile, shaking her head dramatically. "But I've got a good feeling about this summer." Her tone was full of optimism, like nothing could rain on her parade. "I wouldn't be surprised if the man of my dreams walked through that door right now."
With a confident flick of her wrist, Mabel pointed toward the door draped in red curtains, the faded Museum sign above it barely legible through years of dust. It was like a dramatic movie moment—except, instead of a handsome stranger, the first thing that came through the door was their great-uncle Stan. He lumbered in, holding up some signs carved out of wood that looked like they were made from leftover decorations. To top it off, he was holding a bottle of cheap orange soda in his other hand, which he was vigorously burping from.
The whole scene was so absurd that Eliot couldn't help it—he burst out laughing. The timing was perfect, like some kind of twisted comedy skit. Mabel's wide-eyed expression of disgust only made it better. "Oh! Why?" she groaned, putting a hand over her face as if trying to block out the horror of the situation. Even Dipper snickered beside her.
Stan's eyes immediately flicked to Eliot, narrowing slightly as though he was mentally preparing for some kind of war. "Oh, God, not you again." Stan groaned, rolling his eyes like Eliot was some sort of persistent nuisance he couldn't get rid of. But then, his gaze landed on the broom in Eliot's hand. "Wait a minute..." Stan muttered, his mood shifting as his eyebrows lifted, clearly a bit more pleased with the situation. Eliot leaned against the counter, shrugging nonchalantly as he held up the broom.
"Missed me?" Eliot asked, the words coming out cheekily, not even trying to hide the playful glint in his eyes.
Stan let out a huff, but it wasn't the grumpy, angry response that Eliot had grown used to from him. "Son of a-," Stan muttered, scratching the back of his neck. "You helpin' out? Good. Just know I'm not payin' you." His voice was gruff, but there was an undertone of approval—whether he wanted to admit it or not.
The rest of the group silently watched as Stan scanned his mostly underaged "staff," his expression hardening. "All right, all right. Look alive, people!" He called out, his tone turning more serious, but still carrying that bored edge to it. "I need someone to go hammer up these signs in the spooky part of the forest."
There was a heavy silence for a beat before Dipper and Mabel both shouted at the same time, "Not it!" The words were practically synchronized, and Eliot couldn't help but smile at the way they seemed to have this quirky, unspoken rhythm between them.
Soos, who had been balancing precariously on a ladder nearby, threw his hand up dramatically as well. "Uh... not it."
Stan turned to him with a glare. "Nobody asked you, Soos."
Soos just shrugged, unfazed, and took another huge bite of his chocolate bar, leaving a trail of melted chocolate on his face as he chewed. "I know. And I'm comfortable with that," he said around a mouthful, his voice muffled and carefree.
Stan let out a sharp exhale, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked around at his unmotivated team, frustration slowly creeping into his expression. It wasn't that he expected any of them to be helpful, but this was just... well, classic.
He glanced in Wendy's direction, who was still lounging behind the counter, completely absorbed in her comic book. With a sigh that could rival the best of his tired complaints, Stan raised his hands dramatically, ready to shout.
"Wendy!" he called out, the sharpness of his voice cutting through the air. "I need you to put up this sign!"
Wendy didn't even bother looking up from her comic. She let out a long, exaggerated sigh, as if she were about to embark on a Herculean task. "I would, but I... uh... Can't... uhh... reach it." She slouched back in her chair and gave an exaggerated stretch, as though the thought of getting up to hang a sign was an impossible feat.
Stan stared at her for a moment, his face going deadpan. "I'd fire all of you if I could," he muttered, the words coming out like a soft threat. His tone was flat, but there was a certain grim humor to it. It wasn't that he cared much about firing them—he couldn't afford to—he just liked to say it for the effect.

"Alright," Stan said, grinning mischievously as he lifted his hand, waggling his finger around as if he were making a thoughtful decision. He started the classic rhyme, jabbing his finger in one direction after another like he was really counting. "Let's make it, eeny-meeny-miney... you!" His finger landed squarely on Dipper.

Dipper blinked, taken aback by his great-uncle's abrupt decision. "Oh! What?" he groaned, a mix of disappointment and mild panic creeping into his voice. "Grunkle Stan, whenever I'm in those woods, I feel like I'm being... watched."

Stan rolled his eyes, letting out an exaggerated groan as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Ahh, this again," he muttered with a grunt, like he'd heard this same line a thousand times before.

Dipper, undeterred, turned his gaze to the side, his brows knitting with unease. His voice dropped to a lower, more serious tone as he tried again. "I'm telling you—something weird is going on in this town. Just today, my mosquito bites spelled out 'beware.'" He pulled his shirt back a little, revealing his arm with the swollen, red bites. Sure enough, they looked like they might spell something—almost.

Stan squinted, leaning in with a look of practiced disinterest. "That says 'bewarb,'" he replied in the flattest, most unimpressed tone, crossing his arms.

Dipper looked down, scratching the bites sheepishly, his cheeks slightly pink with embarrassment. "I—I mean, close enough, right?"

"Look, kid," Stan said, waving a dismissive hand, "the whole 'monsters in the forest' thing is just local legend." He made air quotes with his fingers for extra emphasis, his tone filled with the kind of forced patience he only seemed to reserve for moments like this.

Eliot, who'd been observing this entire exchange with mild interest, tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. "Wait—there are legends like that?" he asked, feeling a bit out of the loop. He'd lived in this town his whole life, but somehow, he hadn't heard much about any supposed monsters lurking in the woods.

Stan raised an eyebrow, smirking a little. "Obviously you didn't hear about them, you live in that church or whatever," he grumbled, rolling his eyes. "Anyway, they're just stories drummed up by guys like me to sell junk to guys like that." He jabbed his thumb toward a particularly sweaty, over-excited tourist clutching a bobbling-head Stan figurine with an almost reverent look in his eyes.

Stan didn't miss a beat, tossing the bundle of signs into Dipper's hands, who let out a defeated sigh, feeling the weight of his new task. "Take the Soul Shepherd with you," Stan continued with a dismissive wave, grinning as he glanced over at Eliot. "He obviously doesn't know about these things, so he'll protect you from whatever monster might come your way." There was a glint of humor in his eyes as he finished, as though the idea of Eliot—someone he liked to rib about being too "churchy"—was somehow the perfect fit for Dipper's partner in spooky business.

Eliot raised his eyebrows, a bit caught off guard by the nickname "Soul Shepherd." It wasn't the first time Stan had called him something like that, but the unexpected task of hanging up signs in the "spooky part" of the forest was still sinking in. A wry smile crept onto his face as he looked back at Stan, shaking his head slightly.

"Well," he said, letting a sarcastic edge slip into his tone, "thank you, oh wise Grunkle Stan, for entrusting me with such an honorable quest." He placed a hand over his heart, feigning solemnity. "Who knows? Maybe the legends are real, and you're just trying to get rid of us."

Stan didn't look particularly amused, just grunted and rolled his eyes. "Less talk, more walk. Chop-chop!" He clapped his hands, ushering them toward the door with an annoyed gesture.

Eliot turned to Dipper, slinging an arm casually over his shoulder as they headed toward the door. "Don't worry," he said, a reassuring grin on his face. "I'll be here to back you up if things get too... monstrous."

Dipper managed a small smile, though his brow was still furrowed. "Thanks. And, uh, sorry in advance if this turns into a really weird trip."

"Oh, please," Eliot replied, laughing softly. "It's the Mystery Shack. If it's not weird, we're probably doing something wrong."