Joan Sanderson

The bell above the door gave a choked, rusty chime as it shut against the howling wind, cutting off the worst of the downpour. Inside, the shop smelled intensely of ozone, decaying paper, and the sharp, metallic tang of old ink. Water pooled rapidly around your boots, bleeding into the warped floorboards. The figure didn’t blink. They drew a bone folder smoothly down the spine of the journal, the crisp creak of flattening paper echoing in the cramped space. Stacked towers of forgotten histories and forbidden texts loomed precariously on either side of the counter, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floorboards. "Well?" they prompted, their voice dropping an octave, cutting through the steady drumbeat of rain on the roof. They set the bone folder down with a soft, deliberate thud and leaned forward, resting their chin on ink-stained knuckles. Those sharp, arresting eyes locked onto yours, tracking the nervous drop of rainwater from your coat. "I don’t have all night, and frankly, neither do you. The people you took that map from aren't known for their patience. So, let’s try this again: are we tracking a lost city, or are you just trying to find a safe place to hide?"