A Curious Trade
Winter had laid its icy grip upon the town, painting the cobblestones with frost and casting halos of pale light around the few lanterns still burning. The air was crisp and sharp, the kind that bit at your nose and turned each breath into a fleeting cloud. The town itself, nestled against the bend of a slow-moving river, seemed to have been frozen in time as much as by the season. Crooked buildings leaned toward each other like old conspirators sharing secrets, their roofs bowed with the weight of centuries.
It was a quiet morning, the kind where sound seemed to carry farther, where the crunch of boots on snow echoed in the stillness. The river ran sluggishly under a crust of thin ice, its surface rippling faintly in the weak morning light, like an elderly man grumbling his way through another cold day. High above, the steeples of the town’s ancient church cast long, jagged shadows, like fingers reaching across the frosty rooftops. The few early risers shuffled through the streets, their heads bowed against the biting wind, their breaths hanging in the air like ghosts reluctant to vanish. Somewhere in the distance, a creaking sign swung idly on its hinges, adding a faint, mournful rhythm to the hush of the town. Around this time, the shopkeeper, a man known only as Ambrose to the townsfolk, shuffled toward the front window of his peculiar establishment. No one really remembered when Ambrose had first settled in the town. Some swore he’d always been there, like the cobblestones or the church spire, simply part of the town’s fabric. Despite his shy and often sardonic demeanour, he had managed to make a few friends over the years—chiefly the priest, who found Ambrose’s wit oddly refreshing, and the gravedigger, whose grim sense of humour rivaled his own. Town gossip hinted that Ambrose’s friendship circle was suspiciously well-suited to a man who seemed to have an uncanny familiarity with finalities, both spiritual and mortal.
He pulled back the heavy curtains, not with the enthusiasm of a man eager for business, but rather with the mechanical precision of someone tending to an obligation they couldn’t quite shake. The shop—if it could even be called that—had no name above the door. Its sign, faded and weather-beaten, had once proudly displayed a wood-carved owl carrying a scroll, its wings outstretched as if in mid-flight. But time and neglect had softened its features, leaving it worn and indistinct—a cryptic emblem that no one seemed able to decipher anymore. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of aged wood, varnish, and something faintly metallic. Shelves groaned under the weight of oddities: tarnished compasses, jars filled with sand that seemed to shift when no one was looking, and books whose titles were written in languages long forgotten. Among them were objects that defied easy description—shapes that appeared to morph when viewed from different angles, colours that danced on surfaces like trapped light, and faint hums that made the air feel heavier. Everything in the shop seemed to exist just slightly out of place, as though waiting for someone to understand its true purpose.
Ambrose sighed as he adjusted a small clock on the counter. It ticked irregularly, as though mocking the very concept of time. "Another day," he muttered, though to whom or what, even he wasn’t sure. "Time and dust, my two great nemeses," he added under his breath. Moss, his small and unimpressed border collie, twitched an ear but didn’t bother lifting his head from the warm spot near the hearth. The cat, named Tiberius for reasons Ambrose refused to explain, sat on the windowsill, watching the world outside with the detached judgment only felines could muster.
But the curtains were open now, and good ol' Ambrose resigned himself to the possibility that someone might wander in. They always did eventually, drawn by curiosity, desperation, or perhaps something deeper they couldn’t quite name. And as he busied himself with dusting a particularly finicky globe that seemed to spin on its own accord, the faint jingle of the shop’s doorbell broke the morning stillness.
He didn’t look up immediately. "We’re not open," he called, though the door had never been locked. Not for lack of trying—years ago, several enterprising fellows had tested their luck by sneaking in under the cover of night. None of them made it far; legend had it they reappeared miles away, bruised, dizzy, and laughing uncontrollably, their pockets inexplicably filled with dried lavender. After that, word got around, and no one dared come unannounced anymore. Ambrose, for his part, had long since misplaced the key—assuming there ever was one to begin with.
"Oh, uh, sorry," came a hesitant voice, followed by the scuff of boots on the worn wooden floor. "I just… the shop looked interesting."
Ambrose sighed, set down the globe, and finally turned to face his first customer of the day. "It’s freezing out there," he said, his tone hovering somewhere between irritation and resignation. "Sit by the hearth. I’ll get the tea—not because I’m feeling generous, mind you, but because I’d rather not have you collapsing on my floor." He gestured toward a worn chair near Moss, who glanced up briefly before returning to his nap.
The customer, a young man wrapped in a threadbare coat, hesitated. "That’s very kind of you."
"Kindness has little to do with it," Ambrose muttered as he moved toward the back of the shop, his voice trailing off. "I’d rather my day not start with a frostbitten fool. Tea it is."
The young man shuffled awkwardly toward the hearth, his boots squeaking slightly on the wooden floor as if they, too, were unsure about overstaying their welcome. He perched on the edge of the chair, hands outstretched toward the fire, and glanced nervously around the room.
“Bit of an odd shop you’ve got here,” he ventured, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of the silence.
Ambrose, returning with two mismatched cups of tea, raised an eyebrow. “Odd? Coming from the man who just wandered into a shop with no name, no hours, and no apparent customers?”
The young man flushed, hastily wrapping his hands around the steaming cup. “Well, it’s not every day you see a carved owl with a scroll hanging above a door. Thought it might be a library or… something.”
“A library,” Ambrose repeated flatly, settling into a chair across from him. “Yes, because libraries famously don’t label themselves. And serve tea.”
The man shifted uncomfortably under Ambrose’s steady gaze. “I’m just passing through,” he mumbled, taking a cautious sip. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Passing through,” Ambrose echoed, his tone dripping with skepticism. “Yet here you are, sitting by my hearth, drinking my tea, and insulting my establishment. Fascinating route you’ve chosen.”
The young man blinked, unsure whether to apologise or laugh. “I didn’t mean—”
Ambrose waved a hand dismissively. “No matter. You’re here now. Just don’t touch anything unless you have a pressing desire to see your future—or someone else’s.”
The man froze mid-sip, his eyes darting to the shelves of peculiar objects. “You’re joking… right?”
Ambrose leaned back in his chair, regarding the young man with a faint, knowing smile. “Am I?”
A hush settled between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the soft hum of an unseen mechanism deep within the floorboard. The young man wondered what exactly he had stumbled into, and whether he truly wanted to find out. Still perched on the edge of the chair, hands clasped around the steaming cup, he shifted his gaze uneasily around the room, as though half-expecting something to lunge at him. “I mean, it’s just a shop. Right? Jars, old books, a few knick-knacks...”
“Knick-knacks,” Ambrose echoed, punctuating the word with a soft huff of disapproval. “I assure you, everything here has a purpose—possibly nefarious, but a purpose nonetheless.”
The young man tried for a casual laugh, though it emerged a bit strained. “Sure it does. It’s just that, look right there, I’ve never seen a compass that spins clockwise and counterclockwise at the same time.”
Ambrose arched an eyebrow. “An unfortunate byproduct of a navigational dispute. It’ll show you the way, but not necessarily the one you want.” Drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, he watched the visitor over the rim of his teacup.
The man dared another question. “How much does one of those compasses cost?”
“It’s hard to say,” Ambrose replied, setting down his cup. “I don’t deal in currency so much as… other forms of payment.” Rising to his feet, he moved to a nearby shelf where a jumble of peculiar gadgets was displayed.
“Other forms of payment?” The visitor’s eyes darted from Ambrose’s face to the shelf. “Like… antiques? Bartering?”
Without turning around, Ambrose opened a small drawer and plucked out another tarnished compass that was laying there, its needle spinning as though unwinding time itself. “You wouldn’t happen to have an unused secret, would you? A memory you’ve been meaning to forget? Perhaps something that’s been weighing on your conscience?” He angled the compass so the man could see it hum faintly. “Those make for particularly good bartering chips.”
“I—I beg your pardon?” The visitor stood so quickly he nearly spilled his tea. A battered leather wallet slipped halfway out of his coat pocket.
“There’s no need for alarm,” Ambrose said, turning with a taunting gleam in his eye. “I’m not asking for your soul. Those are notoriously high-maintenance. A fragment of a forgotten promise, however? A regret you’d rather lose? That’s the currency of the realm here. I take it… and you get this.” He waved the compass lightly.
The young man stared, backing away a half-step as if the compass might leap at him. With a nervous laugh, he nodded at his coat pocket. “Look, I’m not sure I’m comfortable trading my memories… or regrets… or whatever. Would you accept coins?”
Ambrose’s lip curled into a half-smile. “Coins? Good heavens, no. Do I look like the average marketplace huckster? Besides, do you really want to pay mere money for something with as much potential as this?”
An odd hum emanated from the compass, sounding like distant bees in a hive. The visitor glanced at it and grimaced. “Potential for what, exactly?”
“For guiding you to the exact place you need to be,” Ambrose answered. “Or the last place you want to be. Hard to say which. That’s half the fun.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready for that kind of ‘fun,’” the man said, easing back toward his seat. “I only came in because it was cold outside, and I saw the owl sign—”
“Yes, yes,” Ambrose interjected dryly, “the sign that apparently screams, ‘enter here, freeze your conscience in exchange for a haunted compass.’ Always a crowd-pleaser.” With a small shrug, he placed the compass back in its drawer. “Look, if you’re not interested, that’s fine. But mind the shelves. I can’t be held responsible if you brush against something and it decides to take a souvenir from your psyche.”
The man’s gaze flickered warily to the strange relics. “Is everything in here… enchanted?”
“Not everything,” Ambrose allowed, pointing dismissively to a chipped teacup in a dusty corner. “That one’s just… old. But yes, a fair number of these pieces are magically opinionated. Which is why I keep them off-limits unless a customer truly knows what they want—and what they’re willing to lose.”
“Well,” the visitor ventured, gingerly setting his tea on a side table, “maybe there’s something simpler? A trinket that doesn’t come with… existential risks?”
At that, Ambrose’s brow lifted in mild amusement. “You’re in the wrong place for simple, my dear fellow.” He made a show of tapping his chin, then walked to another glass display case. “Though there is a pocket watch that only shows the present moment, no matter how hard you try to recall the past or foresee the future. It’s been deemed somewhat dull, so it’s hardly a bestseller.”
Strangely relieved, the man brightened. “That… actually sounds perfect. How much for it?”
Ambrose considered him a moment before responding. “I’ll tell you what: for you, since you bravely endured my hospitality, I’ll accept something small. Perhaps… that creeping self-doubt you suffer whenever you speak in public.”
A look of surprise broke across the man’s face. “How did you—?”
“Observant chap, me,” Ambrose said lightly, waving off the question. “Do we have a deal?”
Caught between skepticism and an inexplicable conviction that Ambrose was entirely serious, the young man nodded. “Deal.”
They shook hands, and Ambrose handed over a worn silver pocket watch, which ticked quietly in the hush of the shop. Instantly, the visitor’s posture seemed to straighten, as if a subtle weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
“Huh…” He blinked, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s… actually… wow.”
Ambrose settled back into his usual nonchalance. “Congratulations. You’ve offloaded a minor neurosis onto a dusty old shop. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a globe to threaten with a duster.” Turning away, he made a dismissive gesture but paused long enough to glance over his shoulder. “Bundle up before you go. Winter’s a harsh mistress, and you’ll find her less forgiving now that you can’t blame your nerves for the chill.”
The young man lingered a moment, staring at the watch in his hand as though it might vanish if he looked away. Finally, he tucked it into his coat pocket and cleared his throat. “I… appreciate this.”
With that, the bell jingled softly as he slipped out into the cold, leaving Ambrose alone with his fluffy companions and a lingering swirl of dust motes in the lamplight. The shopkeeper let out a small sigh, eyes drifting toward the vacant chair by the hearth. He stood by the door for a moment longer, watching the young man disappear into the winter haze. The small brass bell overhead gave one last tremulous ring before settling into silence. For a heartbeat, the shopkeeper’s gaze lingered on the frosted windowpane, his reflection faintly visible among swirling patterns of ice. In that reflection, something akin to wistfulness flickered—gone in an instant, replaced by the familiar sneering mask he wore so well.
He turned back toward the hearth, his boots making soft thuds on the old wooden floor. Moss lifted his head just enough to offer a bleary, vaguely reproachful glance, as though questioning why Ambrose still bothered with these curious visitors at all. Tiberius remained perched on a high shelf near the window, tail wrapped neatly around his paws. If he’d noticed the customer, he gave no sign; his thoughts, if any, were as inscrutable as the faint hum that still emanated from the newly dusted globe.
The dog gave a half-hearted yawn and ambled closer, claws clicking on the floorboards. With a resigned snort, Ambrose ruffled the dog’s ears. “At least you’re predictable,” he muttered, his tone more affectionate than he’d ever admit. The fire hissed and popped, dancing shadows across rows of odd trinkets. Faint dust drifted in the lamplight, giving the shop a dreamy haze, as though it existed somewhere between the waning night and the coming day. A low groan of the old floorboards broke the hush, reminding Ambrose that morning was still young. He eyed the disordered shelves—some of which seemed to shift on their own—and exhaled in resignation. More visitors would come. They always did, drawn by the nameless sign, the endless rumours, or simple wanderlust that belied a deeper craving for the extraordinary. Somewhere out there, another lost soul was trudging through the snowdrifts, unwittingly bound for Ambrose’s doorstep. And if his instincts were right, today would bring a particularly odd assortment of them.
With a final scratch to Moss’s ears, Ambrose steeled himself for what lay ahead. Outside, the wind rattled the shutters, as though urging him to brace for more than just the cold. Inside, Tiberius hopped down from his shelf, landing without a sound, and drifted toward the chair still warm from the previous occupant. The cat settled there with a regal flick of his tail, looking just as unimpressed by the swirling magic of the shop as he was by Ambrose’s daily routine. In the silence, the shopkeeper smirked. “All right, you two,” he said quietly, addressing the dog and cat in equal measure. “Let’s see who wanders in next.”
He was just about to settle into his chair—perhaps even dare a moment’s respite—when the shop’s brass bell jingled again. He paused mid-sit, eyebrows knitting in mild annoyance. So much for a quiet morning.
This time, a whirlwind of colour and energy appeared in the doorway: a middle-aged woman swaddled in a voluminous purple shawl. Patches of melting snow clung to her boots, and as she stepped inside, she shook the remaining flakes from her wide-brimmed hat, sending tiny droplets skittering across the floor.
“By all means,” Ambrose muttered, eyeing the damp mess, “turn my shop into a winter wonderland. I was worried it looked too tidy.”
Ignoring his remark, the woman glanced around the cozy interior, her voice rising with bright curiosity. “Ooh, you’ve got quite the set-up here! So this is the famous shop I’ve heard so much about—no sign, no hours, and an owner who trades in secrets.” She leaned in as if sharing privileged information. “They say you might even be older than you look—something about a pact with an ancient being.”
Ambrose blinked slowly. “Is that so? I heard I was the illegitimate son of a swamp hag and a disgraced alchemist,” he said, then gestured toward Moss, the sleepy border collie. “My dog can vouch for that.”
The woman’s cheeks coloured slightly. “Well, rumours do take on a life of their own,” she allowed. “And you know this town—everyone chatters all day, especially about places they shouldn’t venture into.” As she spoke, she bustled further into the shop, peering at the nearest shelf. “I’m Mathilda Bellweather, by the way. Delighted to meet you, Mr. Ambrose. Actually, I’ve been meaning to pop in for ages.”
He tucked his hands behind his back, his tone laced with dry politeness. “Is that so? And what essential curiosity has finally drawn you here?”
Before she could answer, Mathilda gasped at the sight of a small jar containing sand that shimmered in pastel hues. “My word… why is it moving like that?”
“Perhaps it’s reacting to your enthusiasm,” Ambrose said with a slight shrug. “Or maybe it’s summoning a sandstorm to match your disposition. I wouldn’t tap the glass, if I were you.”
Her fingers, which had been hovering inches from the jar, snapped back as though she’d touched a live wire. She let out a half-nervous, half-delighted laugh. “Right, of course. Don’t want any sand devils escaping—or whatever that is.” With obvious reluctance, she tore her gaze from the jar and moved over to study an array of antique keys. Each one was pinned carefully against a velvet backing. “Oh! These are lovely. Do they, by chance, open anything special? Secret doors, chests of gold… the gates of a lost city, perhaps?”
“If you’re lucky. Or unlucky. Depends on your point of view,” Ambrose replied. “One of them supposedly opens the most boring door imaginable. Another might lead to a corridor of infinite length.”
Mathilda tilted her head, momentarily baffled. “And how would one know which key does what?”
He gave a faint smirk. “You don’t, until you try. It’s much like life—maddening guesswork. Shall I fetch you a blindfold to enhance the experience?”
She tried to sound nonchalant, though her eyes danced with curiosity. “Let’s not be too hasty.” After a beat, she cast him a sidelong glance. “Actually, I’m not here for an endless corridor. I’ve heard you might have a key that locks away regrets. Something of that sort.”
“Who told you that?” he asked, his expression flickering just for a moment.
She waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, you know, people. Around town. They say you trade in regrets, fears, secrets—little ephemeral things that weigh heavy on the soul.”
“So you’ve come to offload one,” Ambrose murmured, not quite a question.
Mathilda hesitated, her bravado wavering. “It’s complicated. I’m not even sure if I truly want to forget it. But sometimes the temptation is… strong.” A nervous smile crept onto her face. “It’s silly, isn’t it?”
“I won’t pretend to be your conscience,” he said with surprising gentleness. His tone sharpened again as he turned to open a nearby cabinet. “But if you proceed, don’t expect a refund if you change your mind.” She laughed, the sound strained. “You certainly know how to set a mood, Ambrose.”
In the cabinet sat dozens of keys, each labeled in a swirling, archaic script. One in particular, small and intricately wrought, glowed faintly in the dim light. Ambrose tapped the cabinet door.
“That’s the one. If you turn it in any lock—a diary clasp, a wine cellar door—it seals away a single regret. Presumably forever.” He closed the door gently, as if not wanting the key’s influence to loom. “But there’s a price. A memory you do want might slip away along with it. Think of it as an emotional aftertaste.”
Mathilda fidgeted with the edges of her shawl, taking a step back. “Thank you,” she said, her voice subdued for the first time since entering. “I need a moment to think.”
With a slight nod, Ambrose looked back toward the hearth. “I’d offer you tea, but I just gave my last hospitality brew to a previous customer. You’ll have to settle for banter and a slightly stale biscuit.”
“Banter is my favourite beverage,” she teased with a half-hearted grin. “But no biscuit, thank you.”
While Mathilda wandered away to examine the rest of the shop, Moss rolled over with a canine sigh and resumed his nap. Tiberius, ever regal, hopped to a higher shelf and began to groom himself, looking as interested as a cat can. Outside, the wind roared as if impatient to deliver another traveler to Ambrose’s doorstep.
“I hear there’s another blizzard on the way,” Mathilda remarked, staring at the frosted window. “Good for business, I suppose? Folks come in seeking shelter.”
Ambrose gave a noncommittal shrug, though his gaze drifted momentarily to the door. “One never knows who might wander in.” Something in his voice hinted that he sensed more than just another curious local would arrive. Someone else was coming—someone with a heavier secret or a deeper question—someone who could test not only the shop’s inventory, but Ambrose’s well-guarded truths. Mathilda set down her hat on the counter, glancing back at the cabinet of keys. “I’ll just… browse a bit, if that’s all right?”
“By all means,” he replied, voice returning to its usual dryness. “Just don’t turn any random keys or open any suspicious doors. And try to avoid anything humming, glowing, or whistling.”
She feigned offence. “But that’s half the inventory!”
He merely raised an eyebrow as if to say Exactly, then turned away, leaving her with her thoughts. In the lull of conversation, the ticking of a dozen old clocks seemed louder than ever, each second carrying an odd, weighty anticipation. Ambrose could feel in his bones that the day’s real appointment hadn’t arrived yet. For now, Mathilda was there to be entertained—or warned—while the storm outside gathered its strength. She hovered near the cabinet, unable to tear her eyes from the faintly glowing key. For a few charged moments, she said nothing. The only sounds in the shop were the soft crackle of the hearth and the ticking of several oddly synchronised clocks, creating an almost oppressive hush.
“I take it you’re still considering,” Ambrose remarked dryly, not looking up from where he was re-adjusting a row of vials. She forced a small laugh. “Well, it’s not every day a person contemplates locking away a regret.” Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the key—hesitated—then pulled back. “What if… once it’s gone, I realize it was actually important to me?”
“Is that your question?” he asked, setting aside the vials to give her his full attention. “Because if so, you won’t find the answer scratched on the back of that cabinet.”
Mathilda shot him an uncertain glance. “It’s just, I can’t help thinking: regrets shape us, don’t they? If I lose it, I might lose part of myself.”
“Indeed.” Ambrose’s tone was so mild, it was hard to tell whether he was mocking her or agreeing. “That is precisely what makes it a regret.” With a slow, deliberate motion, he shut the cabinet door. “You can’t have it both ways. Either you keep your regret, or you lock it away.”
She shifted from foot to foot, sighing as she glanced toward the hearth. Moss opened one eye, flicked an ear, and settled back down without so much as a yawn while Tiberius, perched on a high shelf, eyed Mathilda as though vaguely disappointed she hadn’t done anything more dramatic yet. Eventually, Mathilda pressed her lips into a thin line. “I came here thinking I could just… choose to forget. But maybe I needed to see this place to understand that regrets aren’t always the enemy.” Her eyes slid to the dog, then back to Ambrose. “Sometimes, they remind us of what not to do again.”
“Quite philosophical for someone who nearly tapped on a jar of swirling sand devils,” Ambrose noted, though the faintest hint of approval touched his features. “So you’ve decided?”
She glanced one last time at the cabinet. The glow from within seemed to pulse gently, as though beckoning her toward relief—no more guilt, no more nightly second-guessing. Yet some stronger part of her insisted that she should hold onto her mistakes, if only to remember why they mattered.
“Yes,” she said, finally. “I’m going to keep it—my regret, I mean. Perhaps it’s not as unbearable as I thought.”
Ambrose nodded, his voice returning to its usual dryness. “Suit yourself. You won’t get any lecture from me. Frankly, I applaud not cluttering my ledger with yet another halfhearted transaction.” A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he added, “Though Tiberius might’ve enjoyed a bit of novelty.”
Mathilda set her shoulders back, relief mixing with lingering doubt. “So what do I owe you—for your time, at least? Or do you charge in regrets for that too?”
“Time,” he echoed, moving toward the counter. “An interesting notion. Perhaps you can repay me by informing the next wide-eyed local that I do, in fact, sell more than dusty knick-knacks.” He rummaged briefly under the till, producing a small bundle of dried herbs and sliding it across the counter. “Here. That’s a calming blend. Good for nerves on sleepless nights.” She picked up the bundle, inhaling a gentle scent of lavender, apple, peach and maybe white tea. “Thank you, Ambrose. This is kind of you.”
“Kindness has nothing to do with it,” he said, turning away just a bit too swiftly. “More an investment in preserving the peace of this town—and my own, if fewer folks wake in fits of anxiety.”
Mathilda gave a smile, tinged with gratitude. “I appreciate it all the same,” she said, then retrieved her hat from where she’d set it earlier. With one last look at the shop’s labyrinth of shelves—and at that glowing key behind the cabinet door—she stepped toward the exit.
The wind howled as she opened the door, sending a swirl of snow and cold air skittering over the threshold. Pausing on the stoop, she glanced back. “For what it’s worth, I hope I made the right choice,” she murmured.
Ambrose remained silent, just watching her, his expression unreadable. The small brass bell chimed overhead as Mathilda slipped out into the storm. For a moment, he stood there, hands resting on the counter, gaze fixed on the space she’d just vacated. “So,” he drawled at last, more to himself than to Moss or Tiberius, “two down… which means there’s room for one more surprise today.”
The dog let out a soft huff, curling into a tighter ball. The cat flicked an imperious tail, feigning absolute disinterest. And Ambrose, with a weary roll of his shoulders, moved to tidy the stray footprints melting on his floor. Some part of him knew that the next footstep through his door would echo heavier than the last two—and a corner of his mind could not decide whether he should dread or welcome it.
A fresh gust of wind whistled through as Ambrose finished wiping away the last remnants of Mathilda’s footprints. Outside, the storm had intensified. Snow clung in thick clumps to the windowpanes, half-obscuring the world beyond. Even Tiberius seemed unnerved; his tail flicked in impatient arcs, eyes fixed on the doorway as though expecting something—or someone.
“It’s all right,” Ambrose murmured to the cat in a rare moment of reassurance. “Some days just won’t take a hint.”
No sooner had he spoken than the battered door flew open, propelled by a rogue gust. A figure stumbled in, half-buried in swirling snow, wearing mismatched armour plates over a thick winter cloak. Dripping slush trailed behind them in an untidy puddle.
“H-h-hello,” the newcomer managed between chattering teeth, fumbling to swing the door shut against the howling gale. “Is… is this Ambrose’s shop?”
Ambrose grimaced at the wet mess now spreading across his floor. He’d have to mop it up—again. “So they tell me,” he said, crossing his arms. “Though this is the third time today someone’s barged in uninvited. Let me guess: you’re fleeing frostbite?”
The newcomer shook off a layer of snow, revealing a young, round-faced individual—neither quite as old nor as imposing as their mismatched armour implied. he carried a satchel stuffed with crumpled papers, battered notebooks, and a small, well-worn sheath at their belt. A sword hilt jutted out, but it looked more decorative than lethal.
“I… I wouldn’t say fleeing exactly,” he replied, cheeks colouring. “But yes, your hearth would be most welcome, s-sir.” Their eyes flickered around the shop, equal parts awe and confusion. “W-what is all this?”
Ambrose sighed. “My questionable life choices, condensed into knick-knacks. Now shut the door before the wind takes half of them.”
The newcomer managed to latch the door, then lurched over to the hearth. Moss lifted his head, blinking in mild curiosity, while Tiberius hopped onto a tall shelf, tail swishing with open suspicion. After a moment’s respite by the fire, the stranger exhaled, trembling hands splayed out toward the warmth.
“Thank you,” he said softly, voice steadier now. “I—I’m sorry for intruding. I was directed here by… well - you’d probably laugh - by a prophecy of sorts.”
“A prophecy.” Ambrose’s tone was flatter than a frozen pond. “Of course. Because who doesn’t love a good prophecy on a winter’s day?”
The stranger attempted a wry smile. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but hear me out. I was at the inn nearby—The Golden Pike. Old man there told me: ‘When the snow rages, seek the signless shop. Within, an item awaits that can turn the tide, if the worthy claimant be true.’” He paused, fidgeting with a soggy glove. “I figured it was nonsense, but, well… here I am.”
“You and your entire trail of melting slush,” Ambrose observed coolly. He gave the nearest patch of wet floor a withering look. “And what exactly is this item supposed to do? Mop itself up?”
“I-I don’t know,” the stranger admitted. “Only that I’m on some… quest. Everyone keeps saying I’m the one who’s supposed to do it, though I’m hardly a warrior. I’m more of a traveling scribe.”
“A traveling scribe in half-baked armour,” Ambrose quipped. “Promising.”
His remark barely fazed the newcomer. “It’s all I could scrounge together. I’m not looking to fight dragons—just to figure out why this prophecy latched onto me.” With sudden resolve, he rummaged through their satchel and retrieved a battered, water-stained scroll. “The innkeeper said you had an… artefact that can dispel a looming threat. Something about a shadow with eyes of ice.” A nervous glance flicked to Ambrose. “Whatever that means.”
At the mention of shadow with eyes of ice, Tiberius’s ears flattened, and Moss let out a low, uneasy whine. Ambrose’s expression darkened imperceptibly. He turned away to hide the fleeting look of concern.
“Where did you say you heard this?” he asked, voice carefully controlled.
“The innkeeper told me he overheard it from a traveler passing through,” the scribe answered. “He mentioned your name specifically. Said if I found the right relic, I could stop… something.”
Ambrose snorted. “Or unleash it, more likely. People do love half-truths.” He stepped back toward the cluttered shelves, scanning them with the air of a reluctant participant. “Any prophecy that references an ominous shadow is rarely about a pleasant day at the fair.”
The scribe knelt, petting Moss gently behind the ears, more for their own comfort than the dog’s. “I gather you’ve dealt with this before? Or… does your shop attract these sorts of threats?”
Ambrose didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he fixed his gaze on a large, locked chest near the back wall—a chest secured by three ornate latches and ringed with faint inscriptions. The lantern light glinted off its worn brass edges. “It might,” he said, letting each word fall heavily. “That chest, for instance, contains something older than both of us—and I suspect it’s what you’ve come for.”
A hush fell, broken only by the hiss of the fire and the scratch of Tiberius’s claws on wood as he shifted restlessly. Snow gusted against the windows, and a strange tension gathered in the air, as though the very shop were holding its breath.
The scribe cleared their throat. “Should I… open it?”
Ambrose spun on his heel, eyes narrowing. “Absolutely not, unless you’d like to reduce this entire block to rubble.”
The scribe paled, but summoned courage. “Then… how do we use it? The prophecy said something about turning the tide, stopping a menace that’s growing in the north.”
For a heartbeat, Ambrose did not answer. His gaze flickered to Tiberius—who blinked in catlike disapproval—then to Moss, who had gone uncharacteristically still. Finally, he inclined his head, beckoning the scribe closer to the chest. “Perhaps I can show you. But know this: the relic inside is not a trinket you simply wave about. It’s… a prison. One that’s meant to hold the very shadow your prophecy speaks of.”
The scribe swallowed hard. “So it’s already captured?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Ambrose knelt by the chest, tracing a fingertip over the runes. “But these seals are ancient, and they… degrade.” He paused, an odd mix of irony and gravity colouring his tone. “It appears our mutual friend in the inn is actually your foe—someone orchestrating events to see if you can crack it open. If you do so unwisely, well…” He snorted. “Let’s just say winter will feel like a mild inconvenience.”
Lightning flickered outside, illuminating the window with a ghastly glow that turned the swirling snow a ghostly white. When it faded, the interior of the shop felt darker than before. The scribe took a tentative step backward.
“How do we stop it, then?” Their voice was hushed, fear creeping into each syllable.
Ambrose rose to his feet. “Good question. I wish I had a clever, pithy answer. Usually I charge regrets, secrets, or memories for these sorts of bargains. But in this case, we may need something more… direct.”
Before the scribe could press further, the shutters banged violently. A shape loomed outside the frosted glass—a tall, cloaked figure whose features were lost in the swirling snow. Through the glass, a glimmer of something pale and unearthly glared into the shop, like eyes made of ice.
Moss sprang to his feet, growling deep in his throat. Tiberius arched his back, tail bristling. The air crackled with static, and a few scattered trinkets on the shelves began to hum ominously. One mirror’s surface clouded until it showed only the silhouette at the door, magnified and distorted.
“Well,” Ambrose muttered, “I suppose there’s no sense in ignoring our guest.”
Without waiting for the scribe’s reply, he strode to the entrance and yanked the door open. The wind nearly tore it from his grasp, flinging more snow inside. The cloaked figure stood motionless, head bowed beneath the storm. Only those glacial eyes stared ahead, reflecting the faint lantern light.
“I’m closed,” Ambrose barked over the howl of the wind. “Try again tomorrow.”
No response came—just a curling tendril of mist, threading past the threshold and coiling around Ambrose’s boots. Then, in a voice that seemed to scrape the air like frozen steel, the figure spoke:
“We both know your doors are never truly closed, shopkeeper.”
A flicker of genuine unease crossed Ambrose’s features. He held his ground with practiced composure. “Funny, I was just telling my new friend here about half-truths. Care to enlighten us on the other half?”
The stranger raised a gloved hand, and the wind abated slightly, creating an eerie calm in the shop’s entrance. “The relic in your chest was never meant to be sealed away forever. Now is its time… to be unleashed.”
A strangled sound came from the scribe behind Ambrose, who clutched at their satchel. “Unleashed for what purpose?” he asked, voice shaking.
“For bringing about a reign of ice,” came the whispered reply. “A reclamation of all that once froze beneath the Northern Wastes. You—” a gleaming gaze settled on the scribe “—are the key to unlocking it. The prophecy was but a lure to bring you here.”
Ambrose exhaled, breath visible in the sudden chill. “Well, colour me utterly unsurprised.”
In a heartbeat, the intruder lunged forward, gloved hand stretching as if to seize the scribe. Ambrose slammed the door shut in a flash of movement, jamming his shoulder against it. The figure pounded once, sending shards of ice creeping through the wood, but Ambrose held firm. Behind him, items on the shelves clattered and shook, reacting to the surge of power.
“Don’t just stand there gawking,” he snapped at the scribe. “Help me with the chest. If that thing breaks in, we need to be ready to counter it—somehow.”
Hastening across the floor, the scribe fumbled with the old latches. A swirl of glyphs flared across the metal, responding to their touch. Each latch glowed in turn, emitting a high-pitched whine that made Moss bark and Tiberius yowl in protest.
Ambrose, still bracing the door, called over his shoulder, “Careful! I said it was a prison. Unsealing it without the proper method could free the shadow—”
“I know!” The scribe’s voice cracked. “But we can’t just let that thing outside claim it. Better we face it on our terms than give it the advantage!”
As if in agreement, one of the battered shelves toppled, scattering relics across the floor. The brass bell above the door clanged, and the shutters banged in unison, as though the entire shop was protesting this confrontation. Snow continued to slash across the threshold, but Ambrose’s boots held, refusing to yield another inch. With trembling hands, the scribe pressed down on the final latch. The chest emitted a furious hiss of energy that lit the shop in a brilliant flash. In that searing moment, the intruder’s pounding stopped cold. Moss barked furiously, Tiberius hissed, and the scribe stumbled backward, eyes wide. When the flash subsided, the chest’s lid stood slightly ajar. A swirl of icy mist lifted from inside, as if taking shape. Ambrose, half-blinded by the afterglow, staggered away from the door. The stinging cold lessened, replaced by an almost tangible hush.
“Did we… seal it or free it?” the scribe ventured.
Ambrose approached warily, stepping over fallen trinkets. The silhouette of the cloaked figure no longer loomed in the window, though wisps of shadow might have fled into the night. He peered inside the chest, shoulders taut with tension. Within lay a single crystal orb, crackling with faint arcs of frost. Spiderweb patterns of ice formed and melted along its surface, as though it fought an internal war between containment and release. Ambrose exhaled slowly.
“You locked it deeper,” he murmured, relief and caution mingling in his voice. “Or at least… bought us time.” He cast a sidelong glance at the scribe. “I suppose you did pass your prophecy’s test, in a twisted way. Congratulations. You just saved us from an eternity of blizzards—again, not that it was on my to-do list.”
The scribe sank to the floor, breath ragged. “Th-thank you. For the… directions.” A watery laugh escaped their lips. “I was certain I’d just ruin everything.”
“You almost did,” Ambrose shot back, but his usual dryness had a note of grudging respect. “Though you’re not half bad for a traveling scribe with questionable armour.”
He let out a shaky chuckle. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
From the far end of the shop, Tiberius padded over, tail still puffed. He gave the orb a disdainful sniff, decided it wasn’t worth his time, and turned to hiss once at the door. Moss trotted over to press his muzzle against the scribe’s knee, offering a comforting presence. Ambrose straightened, rolling his stiff shoulders. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be having my payment. I don’t stock relics that can trap cosmic threats for free. And I’ve no interest in your coins.”
The scribe blinked, retrieving their satchel. “You want my regrets? My secrets?”
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Tell you what. I’m feeling magnanimous—must be the adrenaline. Give me your unwavering self-doubt about this ‘hero’ business. The idea that you have no right to step up.” He raised a brow. “You clearly can handle yourself, if somewhat clumsily. Might as well make it official.”
Uncertain, the scribe studied his face. “Is that… truly what you want?”
“Yes,” Ambrose replied, deadpan. “Because the next time some prophecy entangles this shop, I’d prefer a visitor who doesn’t bumble around half-convinced they’re in the wrong place. You might actually come prepared.”
A shaky laugh bubbled up from the scribe’s chest. “All right. It’s yours.” And with that, he gripped his outstretched hand. There was no visible spark or glow, just a subtle release—like a knot in one’s stomach unraveling. Ambrose glanced away, refusing to betray any sentiment.
“Well, then,” he said, pulling his hand free, “do try not to freeze on your way out. The storm’s still unpleasant, but I suppose it beats an onslaught of ancient ice demons.”
The scribe nodded, tucking the battered armour more securely around their body. “I’ll manage. Thank you, Ambrose.” Their gaze swept over the upended shelves, the humming relics, and the now-sealed chest. “What are you going to do with that orb?”
“Put it back in time-out,” he replied, “along with my hopes for a peaceful retirement.”
Before he could respond, the wind rattled the door once more, and a flurry of snow gusted in. With a determined set to their jaw, the scribe braced himself and stepped out into the storm. Moss let out a single bark in farewell; Tiberius flicked his tail, perhaps a grudging salute. The brass bell gave a final tremor as the door shut behind them.
For a long moment, Ambrose stood there, letting the hush settle. Only after the footprints melted did he slump slightly, exhaustion creeping in. Well, that’s three, he thought, picturing the unlikely trio who had crossed his path today—a nervous traveler, a regretful local, and now a reluctant hero with a supposed prophecy. Must be a record.
He cast a tired glance at Moss and Tiberius, who returned to their usual positions with an air of exaggerated normalcy. One more day in a thousand that had passed, and a thousand more to go, it seemed. Perhaps tomorrow would be kinder—or at least quieter.
“Then again,” he muttered, stooping to right the fallen shelf, “I should know better than to tempt fate.”
A thin line of sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating the cracked windowpane. Outside, the storm was already beginning to wane—its fury spent, or perhaps contained. Ambrose allowed himself a small, weary smirk.
“No refunds,” he said aloud, mostly to himself, but also to anyone—or anything—still lurking in the shadows.
