The Department Store of Lost Things, Stave 4

The deeper Rowan went, the quieter the store became. Not silent, but hushed in the way a room grows still when everyone has finished speaking and waits to hear what will be said next. The shelves here were lower, the aisles wider. Objects sat alone or in careful pairs, no longer crowded by their neighbors, as though they had earned the right to their own space.

Rowan slowed, uncertain whether the heaviness in his chest was dread or relief.

He had (perhaps foolishly) expected that understanding himself would be enough. That naming the shape of his fear would somehow solve it. Instead, he felt stripped bare, every defense laid gently but firmly aside. He knew why he had withdrawn. He knew how his silence had calcified into distance. 

What he still did not know was whether there was anything left to return to.

A narrow shelf stood against the far wall, its contents sparse. Rowan approached it with care, as though it might vanish if he moved too quickly. On the middle shelf lay a small wooden box, its lid carved with a simple pattern of pine branches. The workmanship was uneven, the lines not quite symmetrical. He recognized it immediately and took it with as much care as his trembling hands could muster. He sat down on a small nearby bench before his legs decided to stop supporting him.

Maren had made the box in shop class one winter, insisting it was meant for “important things.” Rowan had laughed at the time, asking what could possibly qualify.

“Things you don’t want to forget,” she’d said, offended.

He lifted the lid.

Inside, resting on a folded piece of tissue paper, was a note. The paper was creased, the ink slightly faded, but the handwriting was unmistakable: Maren’s, rounded and confident even when she was young.

You forgot this again, the note read. I’m keeping it safe. —M.

He remembered the day now: a summer afternoon, humid and bright, when he’d left the Ridley house in a rush, distracted by something trivial. He’d forgotten the small stone he always carried in his pocket then. It was a smooth, reddish-brown piece of sandstone, one he’d picked up on the same day he and Maren first walked to the river alone. He’d only realized it was missing hours later, too late to go back.

He had assumed it was gone. His hands trembled as he lifted the tissue paper. The stone sat nestled inside, unchanged.

Rowan pressed his lips together, hard, and nodded once, as though answering a question he had either forgotten or been unwilling to ask.

So Maren had kept things.

He closed the box carefully and stood, the bench creaking softly in protest. The store seemed to shift around him, not rearranging itself so much as guiding his attention onward, like a subtle hand at his back.

Another display waited nearby: a single book laid open beneath a glass cover. Rowan approached it slowly, already certain of what he would find.

The page was not from The Night Before Christmas itself, but from a flyleaf. The paper was thick, yellowed with age. The handwriting was neat and deliberate, each word pressed firmly enough to leave a faint impression on the page behind it.

For Maren and Rowan, it read.
So you’ll always have a story to come back to.
—Dad

Thomas had never been extravagant with words. He’d been affectionate, yes, and steady, but his love had lived mostly in action, in showing up, in listening, in making room. Seeing the sentiment laid out so plainly struck Rowan with a force he hadn’t anticipated.

He had not imagined himself in Thomas’s future-facing thoughts. He had assumed without evidence that time and distance had thinned him into a footnote.

The store, it seemed, disagreed.

“You were never forgotten,” Silas said quietly.

Rowan startled, then exhaled as he turned. The shopkeep still stood a respectful distance away, his presence no longer surprising so much as… grounding. Like a landmark you notice more clearly once you know where you are.

“I didn’t think I was,” Rowan said automatically. Then he stopped. The words rang hollow even to him. He shook his head gently.

“I think,” Rowan corrected slowly, “that I told myself I was. Because it was easier than believing I mattered and still stayed away.”

Silas nodded once. “That’s often how it works.”

Rowan swallowed. “She was hurt.”

“Yes,” Silas agreed, without hesitation. “But not in the way you fear.”

Rowan looked up sharply.

Silas’s gaze rested on the small wooden box, the folded note, the kept stone. “Some people understand distance,” he said gently. “They don’t like it. They certainly don’t consciously choose it. But they recognize it for what it is.”

Rowan’s voice came out rough. “And what is it?”

Silas considered him. “A language,” he said. “Poorly spoken, perhaps, and sometimes misunderstood, but typically by the source, not the audience, especially in your case.”

Rowan turned back to the book beneath the glass. “I was afraid she’d decided I wasn’t worth the trouble.”

Silas shook his head. “She decided you were worth keeping room for.”

The distinction hit Rowan with startling clarity. He felt something shift inside him… not a dramatic breaking, but a careful realignment, like a door finally hung straight on its hinges.

Rowan moved on, his steps steadier now. At the end of the aisle, set apart on a small table draped with green felt, lay the book he had been searching for. He knew it without touching it.

The cover was green cloth, faded to a softer shade at the edges. The corners were worn, the spine bowed inward from years of being held open. Gold lettering spelled out the familiar title, dulled but intact.

Rowan approached it slowly, reverently. When he lifted it, the weight was exactly right. Inside the front cover, in handwriting he recognized instantly, was a note written at a slight slant, the ink darker in some places than others.

Read often, read together. And if it falls apart, remember that it was loved.
—T.R.

Rowan closed the book and held it to his chest, not hiding it, simply acknowledging its presence.

Silas stood beside him now, closer than before. “That one,” he said, “has been waiting.”

“For me?” Rowan asked quietly.

“For what you’re ready to do,” Silas replied.

Rowan nodded. He felt calmer than he had all evening, though the sadness had not disappeared. It had simply changed shape. Less sharp, more spacious.

“I don’t know what to say to her,” Rowan admitted.

Silas smiled, small and kind. “You might not have to say much… maybe not anything at all. But you do have to bring the truth with you. That will be enough.”

Rowan looked around, suddenly aware of how finite the space felt now. The shelves no longer stretched endlessly. The store seemed… complete.

“What happens to this place?” he asked.

Silas tilted his head, glancing around the store and smiling faintly. “It remains.”

Rowan smiled faintly in return. That seemed like the appropriate answer.

He turned toward the exit, the book secure in his hands. As he walked, he noticed the objects he had passed before — the scarf, the bird, the tree stand — now resting quietly, no longer demanding his attention.

At the door, Rowan paused and looked back.

“Thank you,” he said, unsure who, or what, he was thanking.

Silas smiled warmly, nodded his head, and bowed slightly. Rowan got the feeling that he would be welcome back.

The bell chimed softly as Rowan stepped out into the night.

The snow had slowed, flakes drifting lazily through the lamplight. Pinebridge looked the same as it had before. Its brick sidewalks mostly white with collected snow, its glowing storefront windows radiating light and warmth, everything set with the quiet patience of winter. Despite this, Rowan felt changed within it, steadier, as though he’d finally learned how to stand.

He turned toward the Ridley house and began to walk, the book warm against his coat, carrying with him what had been kept—and what, at last, had been found.