Page 4 of Till Orc Do Us Part

DROKHAZ

T he Gilded Page is smaller than I expected.

Not small in size—though it is—but small in that way old places get, edges softened by years of hands and laughter and grief. The door creaks like a stubborn memory when I push through it. The bell overhead jingles once, sharp and bright.

Inside, the air tastes of old paper, sea salt, and cinnamon. I stand there a moment, taking it in—this strange cocoon she’s built from stories.

A voice rises from behind the counter. “We’re closed in fifteen.”

Her.

I step farther in, slow and deliberate.

“I won’t be long.”

Rowan Moore looks up from a stack of battered hardcovers, eyes narrowing the instant she sees me. Her mouth tightens into a thin line. There’s ink on her fingers—fresh. A smudge of flour at her temple.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she says flatly. “Did you lose another notebook?”

“No. I’m here… researching.”

She snorts, leaning back against the counter, arms folded. “Researching what? How to gut a town one bookstore at a time?”

I ignore the barb, letting my gaze drift over the shelves. They’re packed to bursting—books stacked horizontally when vertical space runs out, slips of paper marking local favorites. A shelf labeled “Boardwalk Lore” catches my eye, heavy with self-published histories and faded photographs.

Above the window, strings of dried lavender sway gently in the sea breeze.

Not sterile. Not efficient.

Alive.

“Local color,” I say finally. “Understanding the market.”

Rowan laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Right. Because billionaires care about bookshop margins.”

“I care about human behavior.”

She arches a brow. “We’re not rats in a maze.”

“No,” I agree. “Rats don’t fight this hard for splinters.”

Her glare sharpens. For a moment, I almost admire the way she holds her ground. No mask. No polish. Just steel wrapped in worn wool.

I move through the store with deliberate slowness, sensing her gaze tracking me like a hawk. The shelves whisper beneath my fingers, spines worn from a thousand unknown stories.

A small voice pipes up from the corner.

“Hi, Mr. Drokhaz!”

I turn.

Jamie, curls wild, sits cross-legged on the floor beside a stack of picture books. He waves cheerfully.

“Good evening,” I say, inclining my head.

Rowan groans. “Jamie. We talked about this.”

He shrugs. “I like when he visits.”

She shoots me a look that could peel paint. “He won’t be staying long.”

“I am merely a customer today,” I say smoothly.

Rowan huffs. “Fine. Then be one. Fifteen minutes.”

I nod once, then let my gaze return to the shelves. My fingers brush a slim volume titled Salt and Story: Legends of Lowtide Bluffs. Next to it, The Boardwalk Companion: 100 Years of Sea and Wood.

I take both.

Without thinking, I reach for a third— Oceans Within: A Collection of Local Poetry.

Not my usual fare. Not a practical choice. And yet… something about the cover—a faded watercolor of the boardwalk under starlight—draws my hand.

Rowan watches, suspicious.

“That all?”

“For now.”

She rings up the books in terse silence, fingers quick despite the faint tremor I catch as she slides one title across the scanner. Ink smudges the edge of her palm. I find myself staring longer than I should.

“You bake,” I say suddenly, noting the faint scent of sugar beneath the salt and ink.

She blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Flour on your temple.” I gesture.

She wipes it away with a muttered curse. “Occupational hazard. The oven helps heat the shop.”

“Resourceful,” I murmur.

Her gaze sharpens. “I survive, Mr. Vellum. That’s what people do when you try to buy their lives out from under them.”

I meet her eyes, steady. “Survival is admirable. But so is evolution.”

She laughs then—a bitter sound. “Tell me, when was the last time you evolved, Mr. Vellum? You wear the same suit every day.”

I allow a faint smile. “Some things do not need changing.”

She slides the books across the counter. “That’ll be thirty-two seventy-five.”

I hand over a black credit card. Her jaw twitches.

“I take cash, too.”

“This is convenient.”

She swipes the card with a sigh. As the receipt prints, she folds her arms again, tone colder.

“You’re wasting your time. Buying books won’t change anyone’s mind.”

“Perhaps,” I say. “But words have power. Even when unread.”

Her fingers still. For a breath, I see the flicker of doubt in her eyes. Then the mask returns.

“Enjoy your books, Mr. Vellum.”

“I intend to.”

I take the bag, nod once to Jamie, and move toward the door. At the threshold, I pause.

“Your son is… insightful.”

She stiffens. “He’s five.”

“All the more reason.”

Without waiting for a reply, I step into the salt-laced night, door creaking shut behind me.

As I walk toward the trailer, books in hand, her scent lingers—ink and sugar and sea air. Unexpected. Disarming.

And I wonder if perhaps this fight is not so simple after all.

The night air bites sharper than before.

I walk slowly, deliberate as ever, back toward the trailer. The paper bag crinkles under my arm, corners softened already by salt-heavy mist.

I glance at it once—three books I chose at random. Or so I thought.

Salt and Story. The Boardwalk Companion. Oceans Within.

Without meaning to, I repeat the titles silently, one after the other. As if cataloging something precious.

I frown.

This is foolish. A distraction. I do not indulge in distractions.

But her scent lingers in my throat. Ink and sugar and salt. The way her fingers trembled, barely, as she rang me up. The fire behind her eyes when she said: “I survive.”

I grit my teeth.

Rowan Moore unsettles me.

Not because she’s loud. I have faced louder. Not because she fights. I have outlasted fighters.

But because she does not cower.

And because her son—wide-eyed, curious—walks through my world like he belongs there.

That is dangerous.

I adjust my grip on the bag, spine straightening.

Tomorrow, I will read none of these books.

Tomorrow, I will review my plans again—clean, sharp, untouched by sentiment.

But tonight, beneath this bruised sky, a part of me wonders:

What if some things are not meant to be erased?