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I own a magic shop.
Well, I don’t own it so much as my grandmother does, and no, it’s probably not the kind of magic shop you’re thinking of. The windows are opaque, yellow from the inside. The air hangs heavy with smokey incense that lingers around for longer than it should. Beige walls with hints of brick peaking throughout stand proud, tall, and tired. They loom overhead as silent guardians with so many stories to tell, secrets to keep. The ancient wood floors may sing sickening tunes with every step, but we’ll be damned if there’s a single nail sticking up. It’s dark, though bright enough to see everything just clearly enough despite the lack of actual light sources that no one asks about. We don’t carry any cheap novelties, black and white wands, top hats, rabbits, or any of the other nonsense that people come through our doors in search of. Most people. The people who don’t know where they’re at.
People like the one in front of me at the counter asking for rosemary and thyme. She’s ancient, wrinkly with eyelids practically drooped shut, and I imagine if I breathed too hard in her general direction, I might just cause a dust storm. I’d hate to clean that off the shelves, the nooks and crannies of the many artifacts that reside within these humble walls. The sheer thought is enough for me to force back a gag.
She doesn’t know what she’s doing here. Not really.
Her voice creaks and moans as she speaks, not unlike my great aunt Hilda, my grandmother’s sister. She could somehow snore while awake, as if her vocal cords or throat were too tight, and you’d almost guess she’d fallen asleep with her eyes open if she weren’t still talking.
Not like the old lady in front of me. Instead, she’s more like a mouse. Quiet, soft, as if she were testing her footing merely by speaking. I couldn’t help but be enraptured. This tiny thing standing before me was, at the moment, the most interesting thing in the shop by far. Simple, ordinary, but abound with… something. Mystery? Confusion? Vagueness? That certain je ne sais quoi? Perhaps. Or perhaps I’m simply bored out of my skull.
Yeah, that’s probably it.
It’s not like we don’t carry rosemary and thyme. Rosemary is a close relative to sage and has similar if ever so slightly different uses. Or very different ones if you know what you’re doing. As for thyme, you’d be surprised just how many spells call for it. I personally don’t care for it, it’s a basic backbone and little else. Use thyme in any shield and I could probably break it with a snap of my fingers, thyme shields aren’t very hard to counter. Not to be confused with time shields, however, which actually are a pain in the ass to get around. My magic’s all about plucking the proper strings. Unfortunately, time doesn’t like to be plucked.
And that’s why I don’t dilly dally. I wrap her rosemary and thyme separately and in our special ‘butcher’s paper’ as people regretfully refer to it as. She calls it that too but I don’t make a stink, it’s not worth it, and again, she probably doesn’t understand this isn’t your average corner stop. No matter, she’s a customer all the same. Strings wrap neatly into bows I was taught well over a decade ago by hands just as wrinkly as those of our valued customer. She thanks me with a gentle smile and a tender nod, turning ever so slightly to the door before looking back at me.
“Thank you” she says “truly.”
“There’s no need, it’s just some groceries” I smile, but it’s nearly as dry as the herbs I was just handling.
“No, it’s not that. You simply reminded me of my grandson is all. It’s what I needed today” she continued with another warm smile as if she hadn’t come in here nor five minutes ago for herbs rather than a chance encounter with a stranger. I wasn’t able to actually ask what her grandson was like given her sudden burst of impossible speed as she left the shop, and maybe I’m the one who doesn’t understand.