There are truths, universally acknowledged, that we should all pay attention to. For one thing, death comes to us all. Secondly, shoelaces have a deeply personal aversion to staying tied. And thirdly a “Reversible Coffin,” especially if it’s on a flash, season-end sale, is not something you should entertain.

Archibald Pincer, retired taxidermist and part-time necromancer (licensed for decorative use only), had never wanted to be buried. Neither in a coffin nor under a tree. He found the whole idea shockingly claustrophobic, and had always opted instead for cremation. Indeed, he had long since invested in a cremation plan with optional posthumous haunting rights.

Unfortunately, this didn’t stop, and, truth be told, probably could not stop the Society of Forward-Thinking Internment Engineers from showing up at his door with a box the size of a medium wardrobe.

“It’s _reversible_,” said the salesman, who had the kind of smile that made you want to check your pockets. “Bi-directional. Open plan. Economical. Sustainable. Top banana in coffin technology, this. The bleeding edge, in my opinion.”

Archibald narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”

“Well,” said the man, patting the coffin, “use it while alive as a wardrobe, then die in it later! Just pull the handle marked _Final Destination_ and flop in. And there you go!”

“Isn’t that a bit… I don’t know, weird?”

“Yeah, obviously, a bit… but you’re a necromancer, right?”

“Decorative First Class!” snapped Archibald.

“There you go then. Right up your street. The salesman, whose badge read _Neville - Apprentice Reality Warper_, offered him a free shoelace as part of the bundle.

“What’s the shoelace for?” asked Archibald, eyeing it with suspicion.

Neville winked. “Ah. Good question. Special offer that. For selected, valued and esteemed clients only. Not your usual Riff-raff. Completely over the heads of your averse member of the great unwashed is this. It’s for the _Thread of Binding._ Magical. Ties things together. Universally. You get the second one when you actually sign up for the coffin.”

“Universally?”

“Entire. Multiverse. Ever tried to keep dimensional theory from unravelling? This little beauty’s how the Wizards do it. No messin’.”

Archibald accepted the box into his scullery, together with the shoelace, and a growing sense of unease.

That night, the shoelace tied itself around his left boot and refused to let go. But then things got worse and it kept _moving itself_ from left to right boot. Then back.’Perfect,’ thought Archibald, a bloody indecisive shoelace. Just what I’ve always wanted… Not.’

Archibald tried to persuade the shoelace into a sock drawer, but it was no use. The damn thing was all over the house, ravelling itself around everything and anything it could. And every now and again, Archibald would discover the lace had wrapped a loop around a chunk of some other multiverse and left a series of gaping holes between realities. Which would have been ok, except things seemed to be able to leak through. By morning, there was all sorts of whacky-weirdness going on. Archibald discovered he could no longer enter rooms the usual way. Every doorway now deposited him into a different room, or dimension, or once, into a surprisingly civil tea party hosted by his very own doppelgänger. Dopple-Archibald was _indistinguishable_. Absolutely and utterly. The same musty old dressing gown, the same suspicious mole on the left earlobe, the same unspoken fondness for pickled onions.

But stuff didn’t all translate between dimensions. Small things gave the game away. For example, the doppelgänger called Archibald’s cat _Empress Mandible_, the name of Dopple-Archie’s cat rather than actual-Archie’s cat _Mrs Stodge_. The cat’s evidently looked the same, but they clearly were not the same. Archibald’s feline was unimpressed.

“Blasted shoelace,” muttered Archibald. He tried burning it. It re-contstituted itself. He tried cutting it. It sulked and tied itself in a series of what looked like ballet moves into interpretive knots. He tried mailing it to his cousin Belinda, who deserved strange shoelaces if anyone did, but it simply reappeared in his sock drawer next to a pair of cufflinks he was fairly sure he’d never owned and then set about its knotting behaviour again.

That’s when he turned to the coffin.

“Right,” he said. “Time to sort this out like a proper wizard.”

“You’re not a wizard,” the coffin reminded him.

“I’ll have you know that I’m considered an ‘Advanced Dabbler’” said Archibald, snippily.

He climbed in, shoelace clenched between his teeth, and tentatively pulled the Final Destination lever.

What happened next was… well… Suffice it to say… there were flashes. Possibly jazz music. Definitely at least one large red-coloured whale. And then…

Archibald found himself back in his living room.

Only, _he_ was already standing there. Drinking tea. In his chair. The shoelace floated between them humming faintly, for some inexplicable reason. Humming not being the normal business of shoelaces.

“There’s only one way to fix this,” said Archibald.

“Agreed,” said the other Dopple-Archie.

They both turned and looked at the dressing gown. _The_ dressing gown. Faded tartan, pockets full of mysterious lint, and a gravy stain so old it had become a non-Newtonian solid.

“No,” whispered Archibald, “I don’t think I can bear it.”

“Yes,” said the other. “It’s the only constant left. The shoelace has bound everything together—us, realities, tea schedules. But if we feed it something that _truly_ belongs to just one version of us…”

“It’ll untangle the knot,” Archibald finished, swallowing hard, “allow us to revert to separate universes.”

The dressing gown, sensing what was coming, clearly reluctant, tried to shuffle backwards off the coat hook.

Archibald caught it. “Sorry, old friend.”

And so, with great solemnity (and a brief but heartfelt sigh about comfort, convenience, and the correct number of biscuit crumbs to line a pocket), Archibald offered the dressing gown to the shoelace.

There was a flash. Then a whoomp!

When Archibald opened his eyes, there was only _one_ of him. The other was gone. So was Mrs Stodge.

His own living room. Back to normal

The shoelace lay curled on the floor, inert, still humming faintly to itself like a pensioner on a park bench in the sunshine.

But the dressing gown… was gone.

He looked down. He was now wearing a beige cardigan he didn’t remember owning. It was disappointingly inoffensive. The sort of thing worn by someone who had opinions about toaster settings.

“Well,” said Archibald. “At least it doesn’t have a gravy stain, I suppose.”

He opened the kitchen cupboard. Mrs Stodge glared at him.

“Tea?” he asked.

The cat flicked her tail, turned around twice, and settled into the laundry basket.

Somewhere, a dressing gown hung suspended in time, slowly knitting the laws of physics back together.