I blink. “Stop what?”
“Talking.”
He doesn’t even look at me when he says it. Just keeps walking, faster now, like he can’t even bear being next to me.
My chest tightens, but I don’t say anything.
He’s always like this. Detached. Dismissive. Mean in a way no one else seems to experience from him but me. And every time he shuts me out like this, I wonder what I did wrong.
What I always seem to do wrong.
When we reach the shop, Mason doesn’t wait for me, of course. He pushes the door open with a sharp creak and disappears inside without a word.
I follow more slowly, and the moment I step inside, I gasp in awe.
The shop is… beautiful.
Golden light spills through the front window, spreading onto every surface. Wooden shelves line the walls, filled with old books, rusted cameras, cracked globes, and vinyl records stacked in crooked tower.
There’s an entire section of antique clocks too, and of sheet music.
And even a collection of mirrors that hangs above a chest of drawers.
The place smells like old wood, leather, and something faintly sweet. Like oranges and pipe smoke.
A small, handwritten sign above the register reads:The Foundry. All things lost. All things found.
I almost smile at that.
Until I see my dad. He’s behind the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, carefully dusting the corner of a high shelf. His head turns when the bell above the door jingles, and the moment he sees me, his whole face lights up.
“Dad!” I rush over, relief blooming so fast it almost makes me dizzy.
He sets down the rag and opens his arms just in time for me to throw mine around him.
“Hey, there’s my girl,” he says warmly, hugging me back. He smells like cedarwood and old paper. “Been counting down the days.”
Mason comes up beside me, and smiles at Dad politely. He’s always like this around other people. Especially our father. It’s the version of Mason everyone else sees. The one I barely recognize.
I step back awkwardly, shoving my hands into my coat pockets.
Dad’s smile softens. “Glad you both came. I wasn’t sure if you’d actually show.”
“I said we would,” Mason replies, smile still intact. “We’re here to help, right?”
“Right,” Dad says with a nod. “Still a lot to organize before the official opening next month. Stock’s in, but half of it isn’t sorted properly.”
I smile faintly, but if I’m honest, I didn’t really come here for the shop. I mean, I’m happy to help. I want to help. But mostly, I just came to be near them. Mason. Dad. I’m tired of feeling so far from the people I’m supposed to be closest to.
“What should I do?” I ask, stepping around the counter, looking for something—anything—to make myself useful.
Dad thinks for a moment, then gestures toward a stack of vintage postcards and pressed flower bookmarks. “You can sort those by decade, if you’re up for it.”
“I’m up for it,” I say, already moving toward the table.
Mason heads to the back to unload a new crate of books, and for a while, the shop is quiet, except for the occasional hums of movement. And every so often, I hear a soft thud or metallic clatter from the room behind the curtain at the end of the hallway. The staff room, Dad called it earlier, where his colleague is apparently working on “something that probably shouldn’t be disturbed.”
I’d asked who it was, and he just waved it off. “Someone helpful,” he’d said. “Bit of a recluse, but smart. Keeps to himself.”
