Page 51 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Thirty-Six

A fter Adelaide left, a restless energy settled over Pen.

He paced the apartment, mind churning, unable to focus.

Eventually, he found himself in the hidden room, sitting in front of the Underwood typewriter, its worn keys staring back at him like a challenge.

He wanted to leave her another letter, but the words refused to come.

The first one hadn’t scared her off, surprisingly. She’d seemed pleased, even. A reluctant, unguarded smile tugged at his lips as he recalled the way she’d blushed, cheeks turning a cute shade of pink as she tucked the note into her back pocket.

Five failed drafts later, the waste bin overflowed with crumpled pages.

He slouched back in the creaky captain’s chair and closed his eyes, trying to push the image of her smile from his mind.

This wasn’t the time to get distracted. He needed a plan.

An exit strategy. He needed his logical mind back.

He couldn’t be dreaming about some doe-eyed girl, as beautiful as she was.

He opened his eyes, straightened. Forced himself to focus solely on how she might help him escape.

It wasn’t as if he could come right out and tell her he was trapped in the bookshop, locked in some alternate reality.

That would never go over well. No, he needed to ease into it, let her connect the puzzle pieces on her own.

He began typing, his fingers clicking across the keys:

The wall looks great! The color really brings out the bookshelves. You’ve got impeccable taste. I can’t wait to see what you do next to bring the bookshop back to life.

Short. Harmless. Encouraging.

He tore the page free, folded it and headed back up into the bookshop.

Frankie was darting around the main area, his paws skittering against the hardwood floor as he chittered excitedly.

The little fox weaved between shelves and furniture, his energy boundless.

Poor guy , Pen thought, watching as Frankie disappeared into the children’s section.

No wild animal should be caged like this .

The irony wasn’t lost on him. He, too, was a caged animal, pacing the confines of this timeless prison, biding his time, waiting for a crack in the walls.

“I’m trying, boy,” he muttered, his voice low, and almost pleading, as Frankie darted back out and circled his legs. He glanced down at the note he clutched, its edges already curling from the pressure of his grip.

He slipped the note into the old letterbox and let out a soft sigh that was swallowed by stillness.

Back upstairs, Pen dropped onto the sagging sofa and picked up The Screwtape Letters by C.S.

Lewis from the worn side table. He’d found it misfiled in the folklore section, a hidden gem buried among tales of faeries and legends.

He’d started it a week ago and had devoured the first half in just two nights.

Lewis’s writing always captivated him, offering an escape from the monotony of his days.

But things had changed since Adelaide had arrived.

Now, the words couldn’t hold his attention.

He kept seeing her face. The way she laughed with the man fixing the locks.

The way she brushed a stray hair from her face as she studied the shop like it might whisper its secrets to her, if only she listened carefully enough.

His thumb traced a line on the page: “ The present is the point at which time touches eternity. ” He snorted softly.

If that were true, then this, this time loop, must be his eternity.

A stale, endless present he couldn’t seem to escape.

He tossed the book aside and leaned his head back, staring up at the cracked plaster ceiling as his thoughts began to spiral, shadows dancing in the corners, twisting like whispers he couldn’t quite hear.

“I’ve had just about enough of this day,” he whispered, his voice rough with exhaustion. He pushed himself off the couch and made his way to the bedroom.

The room was cloaked in darkness, save for the eerie silver light spilling through the window.

Moonbeams stretched across the worn wooden floorboards, illuminating narrow paths of light while the rest of the room dissolved into deep, shadowy pools.

Pen moved carefully, stepping only where the light touched, as if the darkness might swallow him whole.

It was a foolish, childish habit, one that reminded him of a game he used to play with Val: Don’t step on the crack, or you’ll break your mama’s back. He smiled faintly at the memory, but it faded quickly.

Val. Dave. Will.

Their names struck a chord deep within him, and the ache of missing them tightened his throat.

In his mind, they were still young, their faces frozen in time like the faded photograph tucked away in his wallet.

But out there, beyond this cursed loop, they were grown now.

Probably married with children who were the age they had been when he left.

Did they wonder what had happened to him? Had they searched for him, called around, checked hospitals? Or did they think he’d abandoned them? The thought churned his stomach, leaving him hollow and sick.

For the first time in his life, he longed to be back in Oak Ridge, back in the familiar chaos of his old life.

He would have given anything to hear Dave’s laugh again.

To see Will’s wide, boyish grin. To listen to one of Val’s tall tales.

But the past was lost, and the future wasn’t coming.

All he had was this, this aching, unchanging present.

Was this the cost of defiance? The price he had to pay for trying to create a future different from the one handed to him? Perhaps that was it.

Perhaps this was his punishment. His purgatory.