A Curious Trade: Epilogue
Long after the swirling snow had settled into a gentle hush outside, Ambrose found himself alone at the counter, poring over a large, leather-bound ledger. The lantern light flickered against the old pages, revealing names, dates, and cryptic notations scribbled in Ambrose’s spidery handwriting. Each line represented a deal—some trifling, some monumental—sealed within the walls of his shop.
He ran a fingertip down one column, skimming the entries of the day:
Irrational Public-Speaking Anxiety – Traded for a pocket watch.
Temptation to Erase Guilt – Declined; no sale.
Persistent Self-Doubt in a ‘Chosen One’ – Claimed as partial payment for… well, let’s call it “services rendered.”
With a snort of amusement, he closed the ledger, resting his palm on the worn cover. Outside, the last gusts of winter’s storm rattled a loose shutter. Tiberius dozed on the windowsill, tail curled around his paws, while Moss lounged under the counter, occasionally glancing up as if to make sure Ambrose was still there.
“It’s been quite a day,” Ambrose murmured to them both. The dog and cat gave noncommittal blinks, each in their own wordless way confirming: Yes, indeed. Carefully, the shopkeeper slid the ledger beneath the till, out of sight. A faint tingle in his palm reminded him that he’d accepted more than just intangible doubts and regrets; he’d also earned a fresh story, the echoes of an encounter that might resonate for years to come. Somewhere out beyond the frosted glass, a newly emboldened scribe was forging a path home—or perhaps onward to the next adventure. Ambrose could almost hear the enthusiastic chatter they might unleash on the unsuspecting villagers, proclaiming they had “bested a shadow” with the help of a grumpy shopkeeper and his odd curiosities. He pictured the local gossips’ faces, half-incredulous, half-riveted, and let a rare chuckle escape.
In the stillness that followed, a tiny pang of nostalgia nudged him—long-lost echoes of a time when he, too, might have believed in grand quests. But he shook his head, dismissing the feeling. 'Sentiment has its place,' he muttered, 'just not here.' He rose, stirring the embers in the hearth until they glowed a comforting orange. “Time for bed,” he muttered, though whether he spoke to Moss, Tiberius, or the restless magic thrumming through his shop was anyone’s guess.
Before extinguishing the lantern, he cast one last glance at the cabinet and at the chest near the back that still shimmered with delicate frost. A smile—wry and knowing—tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Sleep well, you lot,” he said to the relics and jars, the mirrors and keys. “Because tomorrow, who knows what kind of nonsense we’ll host next.”
A final flick of the lantern’s flame plunged the shop into darkness, save for the glowing coals in the hearth and the faint luminescence from a few stubborn vials. Outside, the wind carried a single note of calm, as if, for now, even it was content to let the shop keep its peace. Inside, Ambrose shut his eyes, listening to the soft exhalations of a day finally ended.
No refunds, indeed. But if the newly emboldened scribe ever returned—friend, nuisance, or both—at least Ambrose would have something new to jot down in that ledger of impossible trades. And maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t mind the company.
