Chapter 2

2

T atler's Books is a small local hole-in-the-wall bookshop owned by a sweet elderly man with soft tufts of white hair. Age has slowed his steps but the twinkle in his big brown eyes and the soft wrinkle around his smile are warm and youthful.

The chime on the door sings as I push it open, announcing my arrival. The musky smell of old books pervades the air, filling my heart and head with a deep sense of calm. My shoulders instantly relax as I take in the familiar spot I've frequented every week since I moved here. The bookshop has been here since the early 80s. The floor is checker-tiled near the entrance with a dark green carpet blanketing the shelves on either side of the main aisle. A chipped dark wood checkout counter sits at the epicenter of the small shop. Eclectic paraphernalia and B-movie posters from the 1950s decorate the yellow-tinged walls.

A spot of white pops into my vision, peeking out from one of the aisles. Mr. Tatler breaks into a wide grin.

"Serena," he says warmly.

"How are you, Mr. T?" I smile back. I've always found interactions with elderly people to be easiest for me and oftentimes the most genuine.

"Fine, just fine, my dear. What brings you in today?" He cradles a stack of hardcovers in his frail-looking arms.

"Oh, just general displeasure with the modern world—what else?"

He huffs a short laugh. "I see we're gonna need something stronger than decaf." Sighing, he nods his head for me to follow.

This has become our little tradition. I come in, Mr. Tatler brings out two coffees and we sit in the two worn leather chairs near the classics section which have clearly seen better days. I never see anyone else in the store which is a relief, actually. Mr. Tatler and I became fast friends, bonding over our love of fiction and mythology. I know that the shop has been in his family for generations but business must not be thriving, since the last time it was updated was probably the late 90's. But I don't mind. I think it adds to this place's charm.

He places the steaming styrofoam cup in my hands. Then, sinking into the worn brown leather, he holds up a hand for me to begin.

"So," he says expectantly.

"So what?" I lift the steaming cup to my lips and blow.

"What's the story this week?"

"No story, just self-isolating as usual. Hence, coming here to hide among the new releases."

He chuckles. "Nice try. You're not getting off the hook that easy. What's so terrible that you have to hole up in this rotting building with a decrepit old man?"

"I've just been thinking about the past a lot," I admit. "Nothing has turned out the way I planned. It feels like the only time I can escape my regrets is when I lose myself in a book. "

I raise my eyes to his shyly. Saying it out loud feels kind of embarrassing.

"There is nothing in this world worth feeling regret over. It keeps the past alive, but always out of reach. Don't torture yourself." He pauses. "Maybe what you need is some friends your own age."

I laugh. "People think I'm weird. Anti-social. And they're probably right." I hesitate before continuing. " I think there's something broken in me. I try , but I can't relate to most people. Everyone makes it look so easy. They laugh, and they joke, and they all seem so light compared to the way I feel inside. I mean, I feel more connected to my favorite book characters than I do to people I know and they're not even real. How ridiculous is that?" I pause, studying my hands wrapped around the warmth of the cup. "Sorry, I don't mean to dump all of this self-pity on you."

He leans forward in his chair.

"There is absolutely nothing wrong with you, understand? You're not broken. Your heart is kind and generous. You're wise beyond your years. And you must never forget that you possess a very rare, child-like wonder inside of you. The kind of wonder that allows you to see beyond what is and glimpse what could be. You see a world of ideals, a world of possibility. You, my dear, have a wanderer's soul."

A wanderer's soul.

It sounds beautiful, but I know it's just a fancy way of saying I'm a hopeless dreamer. And look where it's gotten me in life.

He smiles sadly. "You're meant for more than any of those people can imagine. Your life is going to be bigger than even you know."

"Are you kidding? There is nothing exciting or big about my life."

"So change it." He shrugs .

"Easier said than done. I have a job. Bills to pay. I can't just go off and have these wild adventures in order to find myself like they do in books and movies. This is real life—I'm not some heroine."

"But what if you are?" he asks earnestly, studying me for a long minute.

"This feels oddly like a therapy session. Would you like to collect payment now, or are you going to bill me at the end?"

"Listen. I've lived a long time." His brown eyes fix mine in a serious gaze. "Many lifetimes, or so it seems. Your only regret in life will be to remain in the shadow of the person you want to be. When you close your eyes and see the story of your life, who are you? Who is that young woman that you feel you are failing to be?"

The air is suddenly thick, the silence unending.

"I—I don't know," I whisper. He shakes his head.

"Yes, you do. And as long as you are afraid to admit it to yourself, you will not be happy. You will not be fulfilled."

"Wow, tell it like it really is, Mr. T." I blow out an aspirated breath.

"What is it you want out of your life, Serena?"

I take a second and think about it.

I want a lot of things. I want a do-over of the last ten years. I want to live in a world where my dad is still alive. One where my sister and I still speak. One where I don't sabotage myself and my dreams. One where I am in control. Where I know myself and my strength. One where I am a force of nature. The main character instead of the wallflower side character that you don't think twice about.

As if hearing all of my inner dialogue loud and clear, he stands and says, "I know just the thing."

Mr. Tatler gestures for me to follow him. Placing my coffee down on the wobbly side table, I trail him to a peeling gray door at the back of the shop. He fishes a small keyring from his pocket and jostles the door open to reveal a secret staircase.

"What's up there?" I ask.

"My prized books. Some first editions, special editions. I suspect you are in need of something sturdier than your average paperback."

I follow him up the stairs and wait as he keys open another door.

"Why have I never seen this before?" I ask as he holds it open for me to pass.

"I don't keep this open to the general public."

I take in the room. I didn't think this place could be any cozier—any homier—but this second floor is even more charming than the first. Dark mahogany bookshelves line the walls. In the center of the room are two large glossy wooden reading tables and chairs. Large windows framed by thick cobalt curtains sit on the far wall, bathing the room in buttery sunlight. The smell of old books is mixed with something that reminds me of shoe polish, of fresh leather. The whole room gives off an air of rich academia.

"This is beautiful!" I trail my fingers along the multicolored spines as I pass by, not recognizing any titles. "I had no idea this was up here."

"That's the idea now, isn't it?" He smirks when I glance his way.

"So, Doc, what do you recommend? First edition of Pride and Prejudice , or will it be a signed copy of Anna Karenina ?" I tease.

"Neither, I'm afraid." He pulls his hands from his pockets and strides over to the far wall where a tall glass bookcase stands nestled in the corner. It shimmers in the light of the sun— spotless, without a speck of dust. Inside the glass case is a heavy book of the deepest purple with silver leaf detailing a shape that resembles a winged creature.

Something seems to hum from that direction. A nearly imperceptible vibrational pull.

"It sings to you," he says, barely louder than a whisper.

Easing open the case, he removes the beautiful volume and smooths the cover in his crinkled hands. Placing it down on one of the large reading tables, he pulls out a chair and motions for me to sit. I knit my brows together as I slide into the wooden seat.

"This." He points a finger atop the book's binding, peering down at me. "This is what I would recommend for your particular ordeal."

"Mr. T, I was just venting about my life. It's no big?—"

"I know I am not mistaken," he cuts me off, "in thinking you desire more from your life. And that life desires more from you."

"Mr. T, I appreciate you trying to cheer me up, but what is this?" I tilt my head, staring up at him quizzically.

"Open it," he says. I flip open the heavy leather-bound cover. The lining is a velvety black material, and as I turn the first page of cream-colored parchment, I realize it is blank. As is the second page, the third, the fourth… I glance up at him, perplexed.

"It's blank."

"Look closely. It is not blank, even though it is unseen."

Okay, dude, I'll bite.

I squint, seeing nothing. "I'm looking closely," I sing, drumming my nails on the table. "Still not seeing anything."

"Your story lies between the folds of these pages, waiting to be revealed. To be discovered. To be lived." I shake my head, not understanding his cryptic riddles .

"But how do I read it if I can't see anything on the page?" I persist.

"You need only ask."

"Are there magic words or something?" I chuckle doubtfully to hide my growing exasperation.

"Perhaps." He moves around the table to stand across from me. Then, nodding toward the book, he urges, "Look again."

My jaw falls open as I stare down at the ink beginning to form on the page. I marvel at the sight, transfixed and befuddled.

"How did you?—"

He holds up a cautionary hand, interrupting my train of thought. "Say the words only if you truly seek a life beyond the bounds of the mundane. What comes next is not for the faint of heart."

His words fill me with trepidation, sending a wave of goosebumps down my arms. I blink, glancing from his face back to the spreading ink. My eyes widen further as a silent request etches itself onto the page.

Read me. Speak me. Sing me.

I would look upon the world as it were. To see what is unseen. To know what lies beyond the veil.

The words strike an inexplicable sense of foreboding within me. Yet I can't tear my eyes away from the page.

Serena.

I gasp, pushing back from the heavy chair. My name's sudden permanence on the parchment fills me with a deep sense of unease, bordering on dread.

"Okay, very funny," I say apprehensively, an edge of panic lacing my words as I stare him down. This is beginning to feel less and less like a practical joke or innocent magic trick.

"I didn't bring you here for a laugh."

I swallow thickly. My intuition is tugging at me, flashing warning signs that it's time to leave. Something is not right about this.

Studying him closely, I realize that he isn't all that short. His shoulders are not as sunken as I thought, his body not as frail. And then it suddenly dawns on me that I don't know this man that well. While his stature is still far from imposing, I am now aware that he has led me upstairs behind locked doors and is spewing fanatical nonsense at me with a frightening degree of conviction. My palms grow clammy at the prospect of a homicide with my name on it.

"I have to go," I mutter, rushing for the door. I scurry past him and yank at the handle, but the door is locked. I tug relentlessly before whirling to him.

"Unlock the door," I command.

A sudden sharp pain shoots through my fingertips and up my forearm, rooting me where I stand. I cry out and grip my right arm as the spasm works its way higher and higher. He remains watching me, unfazed by my outburst.

"What the fuck is happening?! Are you doing this?" I shout, holding up my searing arm.

He watches casually, offering no answer. Trembling from the pain, I wrestle the door handle with my good hand.

"Open this door!" I cry, panic threatening to choke me.

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

I turn to face him, pressing my back against the wood.

"What do you want from me?" I grit .

"Say the words."

" What? "

"Say the words, and you will be free."

What the actual fuck.

"If I say the damn words, you'll stop whatever you're doing? You'll let me go?" I bark, fighting to keep my voice steady.

He inclines his head in a silent dare.

I cautiously approach the table and slide the book toward me. The pain is now lancing through my other arm and up my shoulder. Bracing my throbbing hands on the cool table, I tonelessly recite the words on the page.

" I would look upon the world as it were. To see what is unseen. To know what lies beyond the veil. "

My heart thunders as I glare back at the old man. At the face that, at one point in his life, might have been handsome. But those kind brown eyes now hold something strange and secret. Something dangerous.

I open my mouth to say something but am distracted by the steam rising from below me. A sizzle crackles in my ear and I jump back, feeling a flood of heat roll off the book. Only it isn't coming from the book.

My hands have left a detailed imprint where they branded the wood. Steam hisses as it touches the cool air, and the entire table seems to vibrate. The book begins to glow brilliantly like a hot coal, eager to leap from the fire and wreak havoc on the world.

"Oh my god," I breathe in horror. "Oh my god, what's happening to me!" My throat tightens to the point of pain as hellfire scalds my uplifted palms.

But something catches my eye beyond my burning hands. A small, slow metamorphosis.

Mr. T's features begin to melt, to shift. Wrinkles begin to smooth, sagging cheeks right themselves against gravity, thin lips grow full, pink and plump. Patches of white hair warm into burnished waves that flow like an ocean tide bathed in sunset. Bony arms form smooth, lean muscle and the person before me stands tall, his figure no longer that of a non-threatening elderly bookstore owner.

A vital young man now stands before me, looking beautiful and fresh as springtime. The only thing recognizable about him are those brown eyes. Only they burn brighter now, the irises like melted chocolate. That sparkle has returned accompanied by an air of mischief.

In a matter of seconds, Mr. Tatler is gone, replaced by a beautiful stranger.

I let out a blood-curdling scream.