This was a good thing because I knew Clove, and she would have bought more books than we would have been able to haul on the back of the bike.
She pointed across the street.“There?”
The sign above the door readDusty Sparrow Antiquesin faded gold script.
“You hate antiques,” she said, like it was a fact.
“I don’t hate antiques,” I argued.
“You hate standing still,” she corrected.
That… was accurate.
Clove squeezed my hand and smiled like she’d already won as she led me across the street.“Come on.Just ten minutes.”
“Empty promise,” I muttered.
She ignored me and pushed the door open.
A bell chimed overhead.The shop smelled like old wood and lavender.Sunlight streamed through the front windows, catching dust motes in the air.Shelves and tables were packed with everything.Vintage dishes, lamps, old picture frames, stacks of books with cracked spines, and jewelry in glass cases.
Clove’s whole face lit up.
“This is heaven,” she whispered.
I leaned in close to her ear.“This is chaos.”
She elbowed me lightly and wandered deeper into the store.
I stayed close.Not hovering.Not smothering.Just… there.
She moved from shelf to shelf, touching things carefully, smiling at little treasures like she was collecting moments instead of objects.
I watched her more than I watched the antiques.
Because Clove alive and curious and excited was something I didn’t want to take for granted.
She stopped at a table covered in old trinkets and picked up a small music box.The kind with a tiny dancer inside.
“Look at this,” she said, turning, expecting me to be right behind her.
But I’d drifted half a step away to look at an old sign on the wall.
So when she turned, she didn’t find me.
She found a man.
A guy I didn’t recognize stood close, reaching out like he was going to steady her.
Clove reared back.
Her eyes went wide, panic flashing across her face so fast it made my blood run cold.
She stumbled and the man reached to help.
His hand touched her arm and Clove snapped.
She screamed.