The shop, at least the mood inside, rearranges itself around the name.
Maz’s eyes snap away from Mr. H and find the counter as she takes half a step backwards.
Mr. H? If that’s the initial from the forms… then it’s the boss. You expected him to be older or… no, and greyer. 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 all together before they stop for a dimmer glow. The air conditioner finds its setting for absolute silence.
Meg glides her cup off the counter in a quiet sweep, withdraws for a few paces, and stands by the shelves.
“Sir.” Ron’s posture remains attentive and calm as he lands a subtle tap on the till.
“We weren’t expecting you in person.”
Mr. H gives the point above Maz’s head a polite nod.
“Everything seems to have been kept within the rules thus far.”
Maz nods back.
Stop reacting. Stop it.
Without turning, Mr. H targets Ron with his gaze.
“I shall be brief. The basement catalogue must be brought up to date. You know better than most that…”
His gloved hand lifts, and in the gesture, a dark metal cufflink in the shape of a key peeks from under his jacket. He pushes his sleeve back to check his watch. Its black dial holds no numbers, pointers, screen or light, more of an endless hole on his wrist.
“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. He presses a gloved fingertip against the counter, as if he had found a button beneath the varnish, before his eyes stop on Meg.
Meg faces him, keeping her stare locked only on Mr. H’s shoulder as the paper cup in her grip dents.
Mr. H adjusts his cufflink.
“Routines are a form of agreement. The ones we maintain…” He lowers his voice into a flat dryness.
“…tend to maintain us in return.”
His focus reverts to Maz.
“Have you both been honouring your routines?”
Maz’s counting stops at five. She gives Eli a brief eyebrow shrug before deciding to look in Mr. H’s direction.
Is he asking you? What routines? Work? Just answer the question already. What exactly is the question?
“Yes.” The word spills out of her, a bit less trembling than her hands, which she assumes she keeps concealed 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 face 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.” He drops his eyes to where his watch has gone back into hiding before tipping his chin at Ron.
“Proceed. There is no need to interrupt the events.”
He spins towards the door. The hem of his coat shudders and finds rest when his first step lands on the floorboard without receiving a creak in return.
“Careful with the silence here.” His words carry, clear and deep, not needing him to turn or speak any louder.
“This place is known to keep 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 promise it might close any time soon. Above it, the bell gives a crisp, one-way ring, either marking his departure or the beginning of something that has already passed. Its sound cuts short. No echo follows it, as if Mr. H took the idea of marble with him and left the shop to keep its bowed wood.
The dogs outside rise in unison, and beyond them, no vehicles or people pass along the street. Their shadows glide across the rain-slick pavement, three silhouettes stretching long and becoming one as their bodies and tails align.
As the dogs lead the way for Mr. H, the rain resumes with its fine pattering against the glass. The air conditioner inside 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 glance 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’s eyes find the door again before she tilts closer to Ron.
“He even brought his hound this time.”
“He usually shows up prepared when something ends or…” Ron pats the side of the till, either unimpressed or unwilling to follow the thought to its conclusion.
“…let’s say, starts. It’s easier to claim you’ve planned it that way.” He picks out a receipt that carries a slight crease. Pinching it from two corners, he tugs it straight and places 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 clears his throat, a grin pointed at the surface between Meg and Ron.
“So… the basement’s haunted, yeah?”
Ron’s attention remains with Meg as he addresses Eli.
“For the record, or not, the skeletons wouldn’t need cataloguing.”
A scattered round of quiet titters from the four of them trails off to the chime of the barcode scanner in Maz’s grasp.
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, he doesn’t look away from 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 pushes the cash tray in 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 drifts down from her side, towards her jeans pocket and across the square shape of the mint tin pressed against her thigh.
Routines are a type of agreement, huh?
Her thumb patters against the ridge, and through the fabric, a muted metallic rattle responds.
You’re fine. You don’t need that sort of routine.
The green light blinks as she picks up the scanner and logs the same book a third time.
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