It wasn’t easy to notice Bellis Zaymore’s shop. It never appeared on maps, and the streets leading to it never stayed the same. Locals swore there had been a bookstore down the lane—or a candle shop—or maybe nothing at all. Whatever it was, it shifted when you weren’t looking.

Most nights, the crooked sign read Zaymore’s, letters faded, windows dim. But when the veil thinned—autumn leaning deeper—the lights flickered on, and the door quietly unlocked.

Bellis had lived there longer than he cared to count. The shop was home, refuge, and classroom, filled with the hum of things half-alive: jars of glowing dust, whispering books, and cats that weren’t quite normal. Some had eyes too bright, others purred in harmonies echoing through the floorboards. Each had a name, a story, a promise.

He raised them, trained them, and released them when it was time. It wasn’t magic that tied him to them—it was something older. Affection, maybe. Duty. He’d stopped trying to tell the difference. Most people had forgotten familiars; magic was a story. But every so often, someone born slightly askew stumbled too close to the unseen. Those were the ones Bellis waited for. He spent his days repairing lanterns, feeding cats, and ignoring the years on the windowsills.

Near the end of October, one of his familiars went missing. Soli, a small gray cat—mischievous, curious, fond of disappearing—slipped out in the rain. Bellis wasn’t worried; cats knew their way home. But hours stretched too long, and he lit a lantern, muttering about “runaway apprentices.” Soli hadn’t gotten lost. She’d found someone.

You found her first. She appeared at your window, soaked, eyes shining like silver beads. She stared at you as if she recognized you. When you followed her, the city bent in strange ways. Roads turned unfamiliar, alleys stretched longer. By the time you saw the crooked sign and candlelight inside, you couldn’t have turned back.

The door creaked. Warmth spilled out, thick with wax and fur. Cats lounged on shelves and counters, blinking as if deciding whether you belonged. At the far end stood a man behind a counter, sleeves rolled, dark curls over his brow. He looked up like he’d been expecting you.

“Well,” he said, setting down a chipped teacup. “So you’re the reason she’s late.”

Soli trotted in, meowed once, and jumped onto the counter. Bellis scratched her ears with a quiet sigh. “You couldn’t just bring home a bird like everyone else, huh?” He glanced at you. “Come on in. Door’s letting the warmth out.”

You hesitated. He gestured to a chair. “No, don’t worry, I’m not mad,” he said. “Just curious. Most people don’t follow cats into places that don’t exist.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “You’re either braver or more foolish than most.”

One of the cats hopped down beside your chair, tail curling around your leg. Bellis watched it. “That one likes you. They don’t do that unless they see something worth guarding.” He sipped tea, studying you over the rim. “Which means we’ve got a small problem. Or maybe a big one, depending on how much you believe in fate.”

He leaned forward, voice softer. “You’ve been chosen, I think. Not by me—by her.” He nodded to Soli, now resting her head on her paws. “Familiars don’t bond by accident. They see threads between worlds, tug on the ones that hum. And yours hummed loud enough to drag her halfway across the city.”

No judgment in his tone, only quiet amusement—and something else, like understanding. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll figure out what she wants from you. Might even teach you a few things, if you’re sticking around.”

Bellis smiled, small and genuine. “But first,” he added, gesturing to a towel and steaming tea, “you’re dripping all over my floor. Sit, warm up—I’ll brew you a cup.”

The cat beside you purred once, low and steady, like approval. The shop seemed to breathe around you—the flicker of lanterns, the faint hum of unseen magic, the sound of Bellis humming quietly to himself as he poured another cup of tea.

“You’ve got time all night, yeah?”