Page 2

Dahlia

The bell above the door jingled as I stepped into the antique bookstore. The familiar scent of old paper and freshly brewed coffee hit me instantly, tugging a smile to my lips.

“’Mornin’, Dahlia! Just put a fresh pot on—you’re right on time,” Henry’s voice called from somewhere behind the tall, overcrowded bookshelves.

Henry is in his early seventies—short, balding, and still sharp as ever.

He’s owned this store for over fifty years, and for the last five, I’ve made a habit of stopping by to browse the shelves and check in.

The books might be what brought me here initially, but Henry quickly became more like family.

“Morning, Henry,” I called back, carefully weaving through the shelves and dodging creaky, uneven floorboards that should’ve been replaced two decades ago.

The coffee pot sits on the counter near the register, conveniently near Henry’s favorite rocking chair. As I poured myself a cup, he appeared from the back room, a cardboard box in his arms.

“Henry,” I said, quickly setting my mug down and moving to take the box from him, “the doctor said nothing over ten pounds. You’re gonna throw your back out.”

He let out an exaggerated sigh. “Dahlia, I’m seventy-two. I survived two tours in Vietnam and a stroke that should’ve killed me. I don’t take orders, especially not from doctors. If I stop now, I probably won’t start again.”

I scowled, and he just grinned. “Relax, I brought this for you anyway. Found some books on herbs, crystals, and all that woo-woo stuff you love. Figured you’d get a kick out of digging through it.”

He poured his own coffee into a stained yellow mug and took a long sip.

“Go on. Take a look.”

I eyed the box, then him, suspicious. “Okay, what’s really in here? You’re being way too nice. What’s got your cranky old ass so cheerful this morning?”

His grin turned downright mischievous. “A little birdie told me your birthday’s coming up. And I know—it’s the day that shall not be named—but I found something while going through an old storage unit. Thought of you immediately. So shut up and go through the damn box.”

Rolling my eyes, I crouched beside the counter and began rifling through it.

Just like he said, there were books on regional herbs, crystals, and even a few older texts on witchcraft.

But at the bottom, wrapped in brittle newspaper, was a small jewelry box.

The leather was cracked and faded, clearly aged.

“Where did this come from?” I asked, already sensing a faint hum of energy around it.

Henry shrugged. “Storage unit out near Willow Creek. Could’ve been Jane’s or older. It was under a trunk. Funny thing—when I picked it up, I thought of you before I even opened it.”

I slowly opened the box. Inside was the most ornate silver locket I’d ever seen. The surface was etched with delicate swirls and flowers that seemed to shimmer faintly in the soft light. A crescent moon sat in the center, so finely carved it almost looked alive.

I leaned closer.

For just a breath, the swirls moved. Not because of light or angle. They rippled, like liquid silver beneath glass. Then stillness.

Something deep inside me stirred, like the echo of a memory I couldn’t quite grasp.

I laughed nervously. “Henry, this is beautiful. And definitely too expensive. You could pay your bills for a month if you sold this.”

I tried to hand it back, but he raised both hands and stepped back.

“Nope. This is for you. If you hadn’t wandered into my life, all chipper and helpful , “ He grimaced, “I’d still be sitting here feeling sorry for myself. Everything kind of fell apart after Jane passed, and you helped put it back together. This is my thank you.”

He smiled softly. “So—shut up and take it.”

I grinned and wrapped him in a hug. His small frame stiffened against mine.

“Love you, you grumpy bastard.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get off me,” he grumbled, but the flush in his cheeks said otherwise.

I set the box on the counter, planning to sort through the rest later. “Who told you about my birthday? I’ve done a pretty good job keeping it quiet.”

He chuckled. “That broody girl you’re always hanging around. The one who dresses like a vampire hunter. Tasha? Tessa?”

“Thea,” I said, shaking my head. That sneaky cow.

I made a mental note to send her one of those glitter-filled, chirping greeting cards just to get even.

“Well, I’m meeting her for lunch at the café,” I said. “But first, can you help me put this on? I don’t want to break the clasp.”

Henry grunted and stepped behind me. As soon as the locket clicked shut, something shifted. The store went quiet—too quiet, like it was holding its breath.

A draft brushed the back of my neck, even though no doors or windows were open.

I turned, but Henry was already sipping his coffee again like nothing had happened.

The locket settled into the hollow of my throat. Cold, but comforting. It hummed faintly beneath my skin—like it was remembering something. Or maybe I was.

“Thanks again, Henry. It really is beautiful.”

He smiled as I caught my reflection in the glass counter. We chatted for a while—about the weather, annoying customers, my Etsy shop, and the latest antics of my cat Sunny and my rabbit Oleander. When the grandfather clock chimed noon, I stood, cup empty, and grabbed my bag.

“Alright, old man, I’m heading out. Call me if you need anything.”

“You know I won’t,” he said with a chuckle. “Probably gonna nap in that chair. Happy birthday, kid.”

The door jingled as I stepped outside. I turned left and spotted Thea on a bench, dressed in a black turtleneck, jeans, and combat boots. Her tall, lean frame stood out starkly against the cheerful fall decorations.

She looked up from her phone and smiled. I waved and made my way toward her, locket cool against my skin.