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.
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