Morning returned the way it always did in Cleveland — with gray skies pretending to be daylight and the radiator groaning like it resented its own job. Ethan woke on the couch, neck bent at an impossible angle, and for a second he forgot everything about burritos, invisible money, or sentient voices in his head.
Then his phone chimed.
[Good morning, Ethan.]Daily Sign-In available in 00:00:12 seconds.
He stared at the glowing text hovering softly in the air, blinking blearily. "You're kidding me. You have a countdown for mornings now?"
[Routines build stability.]
"Yeah, so does coffee."
From across the room came the familiar scrape of slippers and a gruff voice:"Who are you arguing with this early?"
Ethan looked up. Tom Miller shuffled out of the bedroom, hair in complete rebellion, wearing the same flannel pajama set he'd owned since the Obama administration. He squinted toward the couch."Please tell me you didn't fall asleep in your jeans again."
"Define 'again.'"
Tom sighed and disappeared into the bathroom. The pipes rattled in protest.
The apartment smelled faintly of reheated eggs — yesterday's failed experiment — and instant coffee. Ethan stretched, rubbing the sleep from his face. His phone buzzed again.
[Time's up.]Signing in …Day 2 Reward: Fully Furnished Clothing Stipend. $50,000 credit issued.Purpose: Restoration of dignity and wardrobe integrity.
Ethan blinked. "Wardrobe integrity?"
[Observation: Your current socks have visible structural damage.]
He looked down at his feet. The left sock did, in fact, have a hole roughly the size of Ohio."Okay, point taken."
Tom emerged, towel slung over his shoulder. "What point?"
"Nothing," Ethan said quickly. "Just — uh — the voices want me to buy socks."
Tom poured himself a mug of coffee. "As long as they're paying for 'em."
After breakfast — instant oatmeal and some dignity-saving toast — Ethan checked his phone again. A new icon pulsed beside the banking app: a tiny hanger symbol labeled Wardrobe Wallet.Inside it, a neat balance displayed: $50,000.00 Store Credit — Universal Vendor Access.
He whistled low. "That's … specific."
He held it up for his father to see. "So, apparently we've got a fashion fairy now."
Tom raised one eyebrow. "Finally. Maybe she'll retire those jeans of yours before they walk off on their own."
"Harsh, Dad."
"Honest."
Ethan laughed. "All right. You and me. Shopping day. I'm tired of looking like the before-photo in a detergent commercial."
Tom blinked. "Shopping? Like in person?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, boy. Do I need to comb my hair?"
Ethan grinned. "No point. You'll just mess it up arguing over prices."
They stepped out into the cold mid-morning air. The snow had melted into that gray slush that never fully dries, and downtown Cleveland buzzed faintly — people scraping windshields, buses exhaling clouds, shop windows fogged from heaters inside.
Ethan started the Toyota — it sputtered and coughed before finally giving in.
"Every time," he muttered.
Tom patted the dashboard. "She's got character. Don't insult her."
"She's got exhaust leaks."
"Same thing."
The drive to the mall took twenty minutes. Along the way they listened to an oldies station that seemed to play the same four songs in rotation. Tom hummed along to Sweet Caroline, drumming on the door.
"So, son," he said between verses, "you ever gonna explain how we're suddenly paying rent early and planning mall trips?"
Ethan gripped the wheel. "Long story."
"I got time."
"You wouldn't believe me."
Tom chuckled. "I already don't. That's never stopped you."
Ethan smiled, a little sheepish. "Let's just say luck finally found our address."
Tom gave him a sideways look. "Well, tell it to leave a forwarding number. I might need a refill."
The Great Northern Mall wasn't great or northern or particularly mall-like anymore — half the stores had turned into vape shops or mattress outlets. But it still smelled of pretzels and teenage perfume, and that alone made it feel alive.
Ethan parked, and they stepped into the warm blast of recycled air.
Tom stopped at the entrance, eyes scanning the crowd. "I haven't been in one of these since JC Penney still sold record players."
"Let's change that."
Ethan opened his phone. A soft chime echoed in his ear.
[Partnered stores detected.]Automatic discount mode: active.Budget: $50,000. Enjoy responsibly.]
He whispered, "You really don't miss a beat, Hal."
Tom frowned. "Who's Hal?"
"Uh … the voice in my head."
Tom nodded thoughtfully. "Make sure he doesn't start charging rent."
They started in Macy's, because Tom refused to buy anything from a store whose name he couldn't pronounce.
The automatic doors whooshed open, releasing a gust of perfume that smelled like optimism and credit card debt.
Rows of mannequins stood frozen mid-smile, wearing coats Ethan couldn't imagine anyone in his old delivery uniform ever affording.
Tom rubbed the sleeve of a navy wool jacket. "Nice stuff. Probably costs a kidney."
Ethan checked the tag: $399.
He tapped his phone — the blue glow flickered.
[Authorized Purchase — Discount Applied: 100%.]
Total charged: $0.00.
Ethan blinked.
Tom blinked.
Then Tom grinned. "Son, I like your imaginary friend."
They wandered through racks, picking shirts that actually had working buttons, jeans that didn't come pre-ripped ("Why pay for damage?" Tom muttered), and a surprisingly sleek winter coat for Ethan.
For every scan, Hal's calm voice whispered:[Approved.][Style rating: functional yet humble.][Compliment potential: moderate.]
After twenty minutes, Tom was holding up a pair of khaki slacks. "Too fancy?"
"You look like a retired pilot," Ethan said.
Tom grinned. "Perfect. They get respect at Denny's."
At the register, the cashier — a college kid with green hair and the expression of someone working their last shift before freedom — rang up their haul. The total blinked on the screen: $1,842.76.
Ethan swiped his card. The machine approved instantly.
The kid whistled. "Wish my card worked that fast."
Tom nudged Ethan. "Don't brag about our fashion fortune, champ."
Ethan grinned. "No worries. We're just simple millionaires doing our laundry in style."
They continued their shopping tour through the mall like two archaeologists discovering civilization after a decade underground.
Tom found a store called "Old Ridge Outfitters" and insisted on trying flannel jackets in every shade of brown. He posed in front of the mirror like a grizzled model.
"Dad, you look like you hunt moose for fun."
Tom shrugged. "Maybe I do now. Can't be broke forever, son."
In another shop, Ethan picked up a pair of leather boots — real leather, not the peeling fake stuff he usually settled for. The clerk approached with a sales smile.
"Can I help you gentlemen?"
Tom grinned. "Yeah, my son's trying to look less like a tax evader."
Ethan groaned. "Dad!"
"What? Honesty's free."
By lunchtime, their arms were heavy with shopping bags. Tom declared it was time for "grease therapy," so they headed to the food court for burgers and root beer floats.
They sat by the window as snow drifted outside.
Tom took a bite and sighed in contentment. "Son, this is the first time in twenty years I didn't look at a price tag and feel my blood pressure rise."
Ethan leaned back. "Feels weird, doesn't it? Like we're borrowing someone else's life."
Tom studied him quietly. "You've been working since you were sixteen. If anyone earned a miracle, it's you."
Ethan smiled a little, but the words didn't sink in easily. Guilt still hovered under his skin. He'd spent his whole life calculating every dollar, and now the numbers no longer mattered. What did a man do when he was finally allowed to breathe?
Hal's voice appeared softly in his mind:[Observation: Emotional tension detected.][Tip: Relief does not erase responsibility. It redefines it.]
Ethan set down his cup. "Easy for you to say. You don't pay taxes."
Tom raised an eyebrow. "You arguing with Hal again?"
"Yeah. He's therapeutic and annoying at the same time."
Tom smirked. "So, like me."
"Exactly."
After lunch they wandered into a thrift bookstore just for nostalgia. Tom went straight to the non-fiction aisle, fingering through titles about tools and American history. Ethan drifted to the fiction section, where a weathered copy of The Alchemist caught his eye.
He flipped through it, smiling wryly. "Of course. Guy goes on a journey, finds treasure in his own backyard. Classic."
Hal whispered: [Symbolic alignment noted.]
"Don't get poetic on me."
[Would you prefer sarcasm?]
"Yes."
[You owe me $12.50 for emotional labor.]
Ethan snorted and bought the book anyway. The cashier gave him a look that said people don't usually laugh at the register.
Back home, they unpacked their bags like two kids after Christmas. Tom modeled his new jacket for the mirror, doing a mock runway spin. Ethan nearly spit out his soda.
"Dad, stop before you hurt something."
Tom grinned. "Too late. My hip clicked two minutes ago."
They folded the rest of the clothes and stacked them neatly in the tiny closet that used to look like a second-hand store exploded inside it. Now it looked organized — hopeful.
Ethan sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand over the fabric of his new coat. It was soft, warm, and utterly foreign to him.
Hal spoke again:[Sign-In Completed.][Status: Comfort Achieved.][Next Reward unlocked in 23 hours, 58 minutes.]
Ethan exhaled slowly. For the first time in years, he wasn't thinking about bills or tips. Just breathing.
Tom walked past, muttering, "I'm gonna make pancakes tomorrow. Real ones."
Ethan smiled. "Hal, add that to the miracle list."
[Miracle #27: Tom Miller attempting culinary redemption.]
Ethan laughed softly. Maybe the universe had finally decided to be kind for once — and kindness, he decided, looked a lot like new clothes, warm pancakes, and his dad trying to dance in a mirror.