The shop rearranges itself around the name.
Maz takes half a step backwards and keeps her eyes fixed on the counter.
Mr. H? If that’s the initial from the forms… then it’s the boss. You thought he’d be… older. He might as well be carved from something colder instead.
Eli turns to Mr. H. His spine straightens as if, somewhere below thought, he knows what this name demands.
Right, ‘management’ does ring a bell. I’ll keep it there for now. That’s much simpler than where it really wants to go.
The strip lights flicker once all together before they stop for a dimmer glow. The air conditioner finds its setting for absolute silence.
Meg takes her cup and steps away from the counter to stand by the shelves.
“Sir.” Ron’s posture remains attentive and calm as he places his hands on the till.
“We weren’t expecting you in person.”
Mr. H gives Maz a polite nod.
“Everything seems to have been kept within the rules thus far.”
Maz nods back.
Stop reacting. Stop it.
Mr. H looks at a point above Maz’s head and lowers his eyelids to a slow close.
“I shall be brief.”
When he opens his eyes, they appear to have already targeted Ron.
“The basement catalogue must be brought up to date. You know better than most that…”
He checks his watch. Its black, numberless and handless dial stays unable to hold or reflect any of the remaining light, looking like an endless hole on his wrist. In the motion, a dark metal cufflink in the shape of a key reveals itself from under his jacket sleeve.
“Neglect summons entropy. Among other inconveniences, evidently.”
Ron’s face performs the labour of a furrowed brow that never fully forms.
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. H’s smile deepens into a distant yet formal line as his eyes remain cold. He presses a gloved fingertip against the counter, as if he had found a button beneath the varnish, while he scans the shop in a long sweep before his gaze stops on Meg.
Meg faces him, looking impassive, keeping her stare locked on Mr. H’s shoulder.
“Routines are a form of agreement. The ones we maintain…” He lowers his voice into a flat dryness as he withdraws his hand.
“…tend to maintain us in return.”
His attention reverts to Maz.
“Have you both been honouring your routines?”
Maz’s counting stops at five. She looks at Eli with a quick eyebrow shrug before deciding to look towards Mr. H’s direction.
Is he asking you? What routines? Work? Answer the question. What exactly is the question?
“Yes.” The word comes out with less of a tremble than her hands hidden behind the stacks.
Mr. H inclines his head as if inspecting a hairline fracture in a piece of stone. He directs his gaze to Eli.
Eli meets it as he stays otherwise motionless.
I definitely know that look from somewhere. Right. Routines, yes. We have those. The shop. The flat. The… None of those sound like any of this man’s business. What is he asking for? Move on. Move it on.
“Same as always.”
Mr. H considers Eli’s answer with a short, low hum.
“Be that as it may.” His eyes snap to his watch, then to Ron.
“Proceed. There is no need to interrupt the events.”
He turns towards the door in a single smooth motion. The hem of his coat shudders and finds rest when his steps land on the floorboards with no sound.
“Careful with the silence here.” His words carry, clear and deep, not needing him to look back or speak any louder.
“This place has a long memory. It claims what you let fall into the shadows as its own.”
He departs with the same cold composure with which he arrived.
The door swings to pull to, too slowly to suggest it might close any time soon. Above it, the bell gives a clean, one-way ring, either marking his departure or the beginning of something that has already passed. Its sound cuts short this time without an echo, as if Mr. H took the idea of marble with him and left the shop to keep its bowed wood.
No vehicles or people pass along the street when the dogs outside rise in unison to follow Mr. H. Their shadows glide across the rain-slick pavement. Three silhouettes stretch long and become one as their bodies and tails align.
The rain resumes with its fine pattering against the glass. The air conditioner reasserts itself to push back into the space that the cold has been holding.
Maz watches the door. She doesn’t move until the latch rests on the doorframe.
When have you stopped breathing? Assuming you were doing it to begin with.
Mr. H’s reflection stays in the glass a few seconds after he and the dogs have gone out of sight.
Still colder. Maybe the ‘older’ part is also true. Stop thinking about it.
She looks down at the counter. The glove print remains where Mr. H left it, a dark half-moon pressed into the varnish, even after she tried to rub it away with her thumb.
Meg sighs and leans towards Ron.
“Didn’t think he’d actually show.” She flicks a quick look at the door.
“Last time he came down here was during that–”
Ron jumps in with a nod, keeps his voice low, and opens the cash tray.
“No, after that business with the snakes–”
Meg’s finger moves to her lips to shush him. Her hand brackets her mouth in an attempt to keep the words from travelling.
“That was an entirely different case, and those snakes had paperwork.”
Ron returns the stack of receipts to the till.
“Everything’s got paperwork eventually.”
Meg throws a brief look towards the door again and tilts closer to Ron.
“He even brought his hound this time.”
“He usually shows up prepared when something ends…” Ron taps the side of the till, either unimpressed or unwilling to follow the thought to its conclusion.
“…or starts. It’s easier to claim you’ve planned it that way.”
He picks out an ever so slightly creased receipt and tugs it straight from two corners before placing it back.
“If he’s in the basement himself…” Meg’s whisper cracks into a scraping sound.
“Something in the file room is already screaming.”
Maz makes sure her pen stays busy with her clipboard, but the logging has stopped making sense, as she writes the same ISBN twice without recording the titles.
Who’s screaming in what room now? Is there a file room down there?
Eli glances between Meg and Ron before he clears his throat, chin tipped in their direction.
“So… the basement’s haunted, yeah?”
Ron looks at Meg instead of Eli.
“For the record, or not, the skeletons wouldn’t need cataloguing.”
A collection of quiet laughs ends with a beep from the barcode scanner in Maz’s hand.
Eli gives the trapdoor a sidelong stare.
It would at least make sense of the cold if the basement were in fact a mortuary. Obviously not. Right. I’ll file this bit under ‘things that are fine and not worth losing sleep over’. Moving on.
Still, his focus stays on the hatch.
Meg holds her serpent cuff as she heads back to the shelves. Her steps land with enough hesitation to allow each floorboard to play out its full note of creak.
Ron turns to the till, pushes the cash tray with a crawl of a slide, and clicks it shut.
Maz studies the glove print on the counter.
You stopped rubbing at it three minutes ago. How does a glove stain declare this spot as home?
She logs another book, the same one as before; the green light approves it twice. Her free hand reaches over her jeans pocket towards the outline of the mint tin under the denim.
Routines are a form of agreement, huh?
Her thumb taps against the ridge, through the fabric, and a muted metallic rattle responds. She moves her hand away and picks up the scanner.
You’re fine. You don’t need that sort of routine.
The green light blinks. She logs the same book a third time.
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