The Department Store of Lost Things, Stave 2

A soft bell chimed overhead as Rowan stepped inside, the sound warm and round, as if struck by a practiced hand rather than the jostling of a door. The air was rich with the scent of cedar and old paper, the kind of smell that made him think of attics and winter trunks and things kept for reasons no one could quite articulate. He was still brushing the snow from his coat when his eye caught on a heavy, cast-iron tree stand resting at the foot of a display table toward the back of the store. It had deep green enamel and a holly-leaf pattern worn smooth with age. The sight tugged at something in him, a half-memory rising and fading before he could grasp its shape.

“Good evening,” a warm voice offered.

Rowan turned. Behind a counter nearly hidden amongst the myriad display cases, bookshelves, and tables stood a man with silver-threaded hair and a vest that seemed a deliberate nod to some older era, though he wore it with an ease that resisted nostalgia. His eyes were calm, quietly perceptive without probing. “Welcome to Morrow & Reed. I’m Silas,” he said with a small incline of his head. “Please browse as long as you like. Should you need help, you have but to ask.”

Rowan murmured his thanks, grateful for the invitation and the lack of questions. He stepped deeper into the golden lamplight of the nearest aisle, resisting the urge to glance back at the tree stand. He’d come with a purpose. Best to begin with the books.

Rowan moved slowly down the first aisle, the shelves rising above him like quiet sentinels. Books lined them shoulder to shoulder, their leather spines softened by time, gilt titles dulled to a whisper. The paperbacks were yellowed and bowed as though they had been read too many times in too little light. The floorboards creaked faintly beneath his boots, not in complaint, but acknowledgment.

He told himself to focus.

Children’s literature seemed the most obvious place to begin. He trailed a finger along the shelf labels until he found Verse, Seasonal, Classics, then pulled down the first promising volume. “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” published sometime in the middle of the last century. The illustrations were charming enough, all rosy-cheeked children and round-bellied saints, but the book was too pristine, its spine stiff, its pages barely broken in. He returned it to its place.

The next copy was older, its cloth cover frayed at the corners, but when he opened it, the pages crackled sharply, unused. Another was bound in leather so dark it was nearly black, its lettering ornate to the point of severity. Rowan shook his head. That wasn’t it either.

He began to feel foolish, standing there splitting hairs over a poem that was, at its heart, the same no matter the binding. And yet, somehow, he knew. He knew what he was looking for. He could picture the weight of it in his hands, the way the cover bowed slightly inward, as though it had learned the shape of being held.

After several minutes, he closed the last book with a quiet sigh and leaned back against the shelf.

“Not so easy,” he murmured. The heating vents in the store purred on at that moment, as if exhaling in agreement with him.

He wandered on, letting the shelves guide him rather than any clear intention. Somewhere behind him, he heard the faint scrape of wood on wood. Perhaps it was the shopkeep (what did he say his name was? Silas?) adjusting a chair or opening a drawer, but the sound never came closer. Rowan was grateful for the space.

Near the end of the aisle, a low display caught his eye. It held a small assortment of objects that didn’t immediately announce their purpose: a brass compass, its glass clouded; a child’s music box, its lid chipped; a folded scarf, red yarn dulled by wear.

Rowan slowed.

The scarf was unmistakable now that he was closer. Too small for an adult, knitted unevenly, the stitches tighter at one end than the other. He reached out before he could stop himself, brushing the fabric lightly with his fingertips.

Maren had been ten, maybe eleven. She’d learned to knit that winter, determined to make something “useful” rather than decorative. The scarf had been too short even then, scratchy as anything, but Rowan had worn it every time it snowed until Helen finally insisted he let her wash it.

“You’ll ruin it,” Maren had protested.

“It’s already ruined,” Rowan had said, grinning.

He pulled his hand back as though stung.

That scarf had been lost years ago. Left behind during a move. Or perhaps donated by mistake. He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen it, only that one winter it simply hadn’t been there anymore. He straightened, heart thudding a little harder than before, and forced himself to move on.

Further along, tucked between two bookcases, sat a narrow worktable. On it lay a small wooden bird, pale and unfinished. One wing had been carefully shaped, smooth beneath the light; the other was little more than a suggestion, rough with tool marks.

Rowan swallowed.

Thomas had shown him how to carve that bird one afternoon after school, spreading newspapers across the kitchen table and setting a small block of wood between them. Rowan had been impatient, his hands clumsy around the knife.

“Slow down,” Thomas had said, smiling. “The bird’s not going anywhere.”

Rowan had nodded, tried again, failed again. Eventually, he’d set the piece aside in frustration.

“I’ll finish it later,” he’d promised.

Thomas had nodded as though that were enough.

Rowan had never finished it.

He stepped back from the table, pulse quickening now, unease creeping in alongside the warmth. Coincidence, he told himself. The world was full of unfinished projects. Full of red scarves and half-carved birds and people who left things behind.

He turned the corner into the next aisle.

The snow globe was impossible to miss. It sat on a small pedestal, its glass dome slightly cracked at the base, the liquid inside faintly clouded. A miniature house stood within, crooked chimney capped with snow, a pine tree leaning just a little to one side.

Helen had given it to him one Christmas when his mother was working a double shift. Rowan had dropped it years later during an argument with Maren. The argument was nothing terrible, nothing worth remembering the details of, but he remembered the sound the globe made when it hit the floor. Remembered how Maren had gone quiet afterward.

“You didn’t have to bring it,” she’d said, too carefully.

He hadn’t known what to say then, either.

Rowan rubbed his palms against his coat, grounding himself, and moved on more quickly now, as though momentum might protect him from whatever pattern was forming.

He nearly collided with a small crate placed at the end of the aisle. Inside it, among a jumble of objects, stood a tin soldier, its paint chipped, one drumstick missing.

A laugh escaped him before he could help it, soft, surprised, and gone almost immediately.

He and Maren had spent hours one winter night inventing stories for that soldier during a power outage, turning him into a hero, a fool, a villain redeemed at the last moment. When the drumstick broke off, Rowan had wanted to throw it away.

“It’s still a soldier,” Maren had said, offended. “Just a quieter one.”

Rowan closed his eyes briefly.

He felt as though he were walking through a dream stitched together from pieces of his own life, and yet everything here was solid beneath his fingers, real beneath the soft glow of the overhead lamps.

“You find what you were looking for?” Silas’s voice came from nearby, the same gentleness and tranquility in it as with his first greeting.

Rowan turned. The shopkeep stood a few steps away, hands folded loosely, expression open but unreadable.

“I...” Rowan hesitated, then shook his head. “Not yet.”

Silas nodded as though this were expected. “Sometimes what we look for is shy,” he said mildly. “It prefers to be sought rather than found.”

Rowan gave a faint, humorless smile. “I’ve been doing plenty of seeking.”

“So it seems,” Silas said. His gaze flicked, not pointedly, but observantly, toward the shelves Rowan had just passed. “Take your time.” With that, he moved away again, leaving Rowan alone with the quiet and his thoughts.

Rowan exhaled slowly again. He hadn’t meant to wander this far. He hadn’t meant to linger. And yet, here he was, surrounded by evidence of a life he’d stepped away from piece by piece.

At the far end of the store, partially obscured by a tall bookcase, he noticed something heavy leaning against the wall. He approached it cautiously. He realized as it came into view that it was the Christmas tree stand he’d seen from the entrance.

The stand was old-fashioned, cast iron, painted a deep green. The tightening screws were worn smooth, the enamel chipped in places where hands had gripped it year after year.

Thomas had taken him out alone that year. Maren had been sick, curled under blankets with a book, disappointed but resigned.

“Just us this time,” Thomas had said, clapping Rowan on the shoulder.

They’d trudged through snow to the edge of a small lot outside town, breath puffing, boots crunching. Thomas had let Rowan choose the tree (a little crooked, but sturdy) and had shown him how to secure it in the stand back home.

“Doesn’t have to be perfect,” Thomas had said. “Just has to stand.”

Rowan reached out and rested his hand briefly on the cool metal.

His chest tightened, not with pain exactly, but with something heavier, recognition, perhaps. Or regret, more likely. He straightened abruptly, suddenly aware that he was very tired.

He drifted back toward the front of the store, unsure what else to do. The bell over the door was visible now, the outside world just beyond it. Snowy, lamplit Pinebridge was waiting.

Maybe he should go. Maybe he should try again tomorrow.

Silas appeared beside the counter, as if summoned by the thought.

“Leaving already?” he asked kindly.

“I don’t think what I’m looking for is here,” Rowan said, though even as he spoke the words, they rang false.

Silas studied him for a moment, then inclined his head slightly toward a narrower aisle Rowan hadn’t noticed before. The light there was softer somehow, warmer.

“You’re welcome to look a little deeper,” Silas said. “Some things keep to the quieter corners.”

Rowan hesitated. Then, slowly, he turned toward the aisle and took a step forward, the shelves closing around him like the turning of a page.

The Department Store of Lost Things, Stave 1

Rowan Monaghan drifted down the familiar brick sidewalks of Pinebridge as if wandering through an old photograph, the kind faded at the corners from years of handling. A light snow fell in soft, lazy spirals, gathering along the storefronts he used to race past as a boy, back when Christmas Eve meant warm lights and open doors. The streetlamps began switching on as he walked, their glow exactly as he remembered: golden halos barely visible against the ochre of the dusky horizon. For a moment he could almost pretend nothing had changed. But memory had a way of warming the air and chilling the heart all at once, and Rowan felt the tug of both as he wandered, waiting for his mother to finish her shift, wishing he knew how to mend the years that had slipped away.

He checked his phone. No new messages. His mother would still be at the hospital, and given the time, would likely be there until well past seven. Christmas Eve for an ER nurse was rarely a courteously quiet night. When he was young, he’d wait for her by the living room window of their tiny house. He’d press his forehead to the glass, which was only slightly less cold than the small icicles hanging from the gutters, and try to guess from footfalls on the sidewalk whether his mother had finally come home. At that age, Pinebridge’s winter nights felt too wide, as though they were holding more silence than should be allotted at what should have been a joyous time of year.

Now, at thirty, he didn’t wait at windows anymore. He walked.

He passed the old bakery, the one that still made gingerbread men with googly-eye candy. It was run by someone new these days, but the sign was the same: a wooden plaque carved into the shape of steaming loaves of bread. Light glowed warmly through the front windows and spilled across the sidewalk. It made the snowflakes dance, momentarily bright before vanishing.

Two children hurried by him, one dragging the other by a mittened hand, both wearing coats a size too big. Their father trailed behind them with a paper bag of last-minute purchases and the weary patience of a man trying to preserve holiday cheer by sheer force of will. Rowan stepped aside to let them pass. He found himself smiling a little, then immediately felt slightly foolish for it.

At the end of Main Street, Rowan stopped. If he turned left here and went all the way up the walk, following the gentle rise framed by leafless but fully decorated old maples, he’d eventually reach the Ridley house. He could picture the porch light, warm against the snow, illuminating the wreath with pinecones the size of his fist, hung on the door by Mrs. Ridley (Helen to her friends). And there, head pressed against the windowpane, Maren’s silhouette could just be made out through the slight frost on the outside.

He did not turn left. He stayed where he was.

Standing there, the wind carried a thread of music to his ears, barely audible. It wasn’t until he heard the faint rise of voices, a mingling of young and old, high and low, that Rowan realized carolers must be out tonight. He glanced toward the town square. The sound was coming from that direction, like a steady pulse of warmth to help fend off the growing chill. The music tugged at him, gentle but insistent.

He walked toward it.

Pinebridge’s small town square looked just as it had when he was young: the old fountain wrapped in evergreen boughs, benches lightly dusted with snow, a scattering of families bundled in coats and scarves. A group of carolers stood near the fountain, their songbooks lifted toward the lamplight as the last glow of the setting sun retreated beyond the horizon. The harmonies floated across the space in soft waves, only slightly warbled by the increasing intensity of the falling snow.

Beside them stood a thin man with a well-worn book in his hands. His hair was nearly white beneath a wool cap, and he adjusted his stylish muffler so that his face was well-exposed. A half-circle of children sat at his feet in the thin snow, fidgeting, eager to hear what the man had to say.

The carolers finished their song, their breath pluming in the air. A smattering of applause drifted through the square. The man with the book cleared his throat. It barely made a sound, but was enough to turn everyone’s heads toward him, immediately paying attention.

“Well now,” he said, his voice warm and steady. “We’ve sung our carols, haven’t we? I think that earns us a tale.” Several children wriggled in evident approval. One boy bounced impatiently on his knees.

The man withdrew a pair of small, round spectacles from his coat pocket, put them on, then held the book up so that the crowd could clearly see it. Its cover, dark green cloth worn smooth at the edges, shimmered in the lamplight.

“I thought,” he said, “that tonight might be just the night for an old classic.”

He opened the book to the first page and began to read, his voice carrying nearly-forgotten words in an immediately familiar cadence:

“‘Twas the night before Christmas…”

Rowan’s breath hitched as his eyes closed.

In an instant, he was in the Ridleys’ living room again. He could smell the pine of the Christmas tree, sharp and comforting; hear the soft crackle of logs in the fireplace; sense the warmth of Maren’s father Thomas presence beside him on the couch. Maren, sprawled on the rug, would always begin by making faces at the rhyming couplets, only to end up mouthing them along by the poem’s midpoint. Mrs. Ridley would slip into the room with cocoa, passing mugs that steamed in the cozy firelight.

And Rowan, small, awkward, uncertain, had felt, for reasons he didn’t fully understand at the time, like he belonged.

Thomas Ridley was the one who’d made space for him. That first Christmas in Pinebridge, his mom working late, Maren had invited him to spend the first part of Christmas Eve with them, at least until his mom got home. So he’d gone over there, but wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He wound up standing somewhere in between the front of the Christmas tree and the fireplace, his hands thrust into his pockets, not really knowing what Christmas Eve was actually all about.

“Come on, lad,” Thomas had murmured, shifting to give Rowan a spot on the couch. “No sense perching there like a bird on a wire.”

The memory struck with its familiarity. He felt it in his chest, sudden and sharp.

He had forgotten how the original book looked, until now. Green cover, gold lettering faded around the edges, the spine soft from decades of use. Maren had once dropped it on the hearth, probably his second or third Christmas in Pinebridge. Rowan remembered the little nick on the corner. Eventually, years later, the book had fallen apart altogether. Thomas had held the pieces in his hands and shaken his head with fond resignation.

“Guess that’s what happens when you love something a little too hard.”

Rowan blinked back to the present as the storyteller reached the final lines.

“…and to all a good night!”

The crowd applauded. The children hopped up, shaking snow from their coats. Parents tugged mittens back onto impatient hands. The carolers began to gather their things. Rowan remained where he stood, feeling the last chord of the memory thrumming in his chest.

He could find that book for Maren. He should find that book for Maren.

Not the original, of course. The Ridleys’ copy was long gone, but one as much like it as possible. Old. Soft-edged. Lived-in. Something that carried the quiet gravity of winters past. Something that could say everything he hadn’t been able to tell Maren.

I remember your dad. I remember sitting in your home. I remember being part of something good.

The idea arrived with such clarity that it startled him.

He took a step backward, away from the crowd. The storyteller snapped the book shut and tucked it beneath his arm. For a moment, just a moment, he glanced in Rowan’s direction. The man’s eyes were shadowed beneath the brim of his cap, but they seemed gentle, knowing, in a way Rowan couldn’t quite place. Rowan turned away before their gazes could meet fully.

The square emptied slowly, leaving only footprints that were beginning to fill in as the snow became more insistent. Rowan stood for another moment, letting the air settle around him. Then he walked on.

Page Turners, the local bookshop, was closed; the sign in the window clearly said so. Still, Rowan stopped in front of it and peered in. The shelves were still lit. A stack of children’s books, some old, most not, sat arranged in a neat display. A glance was all it took to confirm his intuition: the book he was looking for was not the sort that regular stores kept in stock.

Snow gathered on his coat collar. Rowan brushed it away and let out a slow, uneven breath. Maybe he should go back toward the hospital instead; his mom’s shift would end eventually, and she’d ask where he’d been wandering in the cold.

The memories evoked by the recitation lingered, though… the warmth of the Ridleys’ living room, the look of the book, the timbre of Thomas’s voice. And beneath that memory, deeper and quieter, lay everything he had avoided since the funeral he hadn’t attended.

He should have been there.

The thought came with its usual bite. He deserved it.

He crossed the street, brushing snow from his collar again, and drifted toward a narrow lane between the old bakery and a stationery shop. He didn’t remember the lane being there, not as a child, not as a teenager, and downtown Pinebridge was the sort of place where everything stayed exactly where you left it. Yet tonight, the space yawned quietly, a slim corridor of warm lamplight and deep shadow. Halfway down the lane was what appeared to be the entrance to store Rowan hadn’t heard of. A sign with aged brass lettering above the door read Morrow & Reed — Antiquarian Curios. He’d walked this way a hundred times, maybe more, but he had never seen that sign, never noticed the way the windows tucked themselves back from the street, their displays dim and inviting, like an unspoken secret.

A faint glow spilled from within, soft, golden, its warmth offering proof against the cold. Rowan hesitated at the mouth of the lane, listening to the hush of the snowfall and the distant hum coming from those dwindling out of square. He wasn’t sure why the sight of the little shop made something in him loosen, like a knot pulled gently free, but it did. Before he could talk himself out of it, he took a single step forward, toward the old-fashioned door with its burnished brass handle, wondering how a place he had never seen could feel like it had been waiting for him.