Why does the menu change based on which customer enters, and what ingredients give the coffee that otherworldly aroma? Which card tricks does the owner refuse to perform, and why do certain patrons pay with coins from no recognizable currency? What's brewing in that back room cauldron?
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And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.
― Roald Dahl
The brass bell above Cornelius Blackwood’s door chimed with an oddly discordant note as Elena stepped into the cramped magic shop. Dust motes danced in the amber light filtering through bottles of colored glass, each containing substances she couldn’t---and perhaps shouldn’t---identify.
“Welcome, welcome,” wheezed the proprietor from behind a counter cluttered with curiosities. His pale fingers traced the spine of a leather-bound grimoire. “Looking for something specific, or shall we let fate guide your selection?”
Elena had come seeking a simple charm bracelet for her niece’s birthday, something innocent and sparkly. But the deeper she ventured into the shop’s maze-like interior, the more the mundane world seemed to fade away. Crystal balls reflected not her face but shadows that moved independently. Tarot cards shuffled themselves in neat stacks.
“This one calls to you,” Blackwood murmured, appearing beside her with unsettling silence. In his palm rested a silver locket, its surface carved with symbols that seemed to shift when she wasn’t looking directly at them. “A family heirloom, you might say. Passed down through generations of… collectors.”
Elena’s fingers closed around the locket before she could stop herself. The metal was warm---too warm---and for a moment she could have sworn she heard a child’s laughter echoing from within its hollow chambers.
She paid without haggling, desperate now to leave the shop’s oppressive atmosphere. Only later, as she walked home through streets that seemed subtly wrong---shadows too long, birds flying in perfect spirals---did she realize she couldn’t remember the proprietor ever mentioning a price.
That night, her niece Sarah put on the locket with delighted squeals. The next morning, Elena found the child standing perfectly still in the garden, staring at something only she could see. When Sarah finally turned, her eyes held an ancient hunger that no seven-year-old should possess.
“Auntie Elena,” she said in a voice layered with whispers, “the pretty lady in the locket wants to play.”
