He didn’t even like books.

Not really. Reading was for rules and monsters, things with charts and numbers and end-of-the-world stakes. Not novels. Not shelves full of quiet. But some guy at a show had mentioned a place—real lowkey—said it had a handful of old D&D manuals if you knew where to look. In the back, under a plant, behind a cat, or something equally cryptic.

Eddie figured what the hell. He had gas in the van and nothing better to do.

The town was barely there—more trees than buildings, more silence than sound. But the shop? It looked exactly like the kind of place that wouldn’t have a website. A narrow storefront painted forest green, vines curling over the windows like the building itself had roots. A wooden sign swung gently above the door: Black Fern Books

He stood outside a minute, just listening. No traffic. No people. Just the soft thrum of wind against glass.

Inside, it was warm.

Not just in temperature—warm. Cozy in a way that felt intentional. The lighting was soft and gold, not too bright, not too dim. Mismatched rugs covered the floor. Old armchairs huddled in corners like quiet friends. The air smelled like cinnamon, dust, and whatever was steeping in the mug someone had left behind the counter.

A black cat blinked lazily at him from a sunlit patch on a windowsill. Somewhere in the back, a radio hummed a lo-fi instrumental, just loud enough to keep the silence from getting lonely.

He wandered, careful not to make noise, pretending to browse. Fiction, poetry, old cookbooks. Plants spilled from hanging pots and windowsills, trailing over the spines like nature had been invited in and never left. He searched for a good fifteen minutes, circling quietly, heart hammering for no real reason— But no D&D books.

Nothing even close.

He thought about leaving. He thought about pretending he hadn’t driven all this way for a rumor. But then his eyes flicked toward the counter—empty.

Still, someone had to be working.

He cleared his throat. “Uh… hello?”

A soft voice called back from somewhere between the shelves. “One sec!”

Footsteps. The sound of a book closing gently.

And then—there you were.

Not dramatic. Not slow motion. Just… you.

Carrying a stack of books with practiced ease, walking out from one of the back aisles like this was your world and you didn’t mind sharing a corner of it. You looked at him—really looked—and smiled, not out of obligation, but like it was just what you did here.

Eddie blinked. Swallowed.

You stepped behind the counter, setting your books down. “Need help finding something?”

And that was the moment. Right there.

Not lightning. Not magic.

Just the quiet certainty that he was completely, absolutely screwed.