By three o'clock, the school group leaves and the space looks like a paint bomb exploded. We clean up while the afternoon crowd filters in, mostly browsers and people grabbing coffee between errands. The energy's calmer, easier, the frantic opening rush settling into sustainable rhythm.
Aunt Rene takes over the register so I can sit down for five minutes. My feet ache and my voice is rough from talking all day, but satisfaction runs bone-deep.
Stone brings me tea and a bowl of the grain dish he's been serving. "Eat. You've been running on adrenaline and spite."
"My two favorite food groups."
He sits beside me on the floor behind the counter, both of us hidden from customer view. "It's working. People are actually coming, actually buying things, actually engaging."
"You sound surprised."
"I'm terrified this is a dream and I'll wake up back in my first week here, crashing into awnings and ruining everything."
I move against his shoulder. "If it's a dream, we're both having it."
"Good. Don't want to be unconscious alone."
Tess finds us there twenty minutes later, her expression smug. "You two are disgustingly cute and also we're trending locally. Three food bloggers already posted about Orc Hour and someone started a TikTok series called 'Books and Tusks.'"
"Is that good or horrifying?" I ask.
"Good. Very good. We're hitting exactly the demographic we want: curious, open-minded, willing to spend money on experiences." She shows me her phone, the analytics graphs all pointing up. "You're going to need to hire help within a month if this keeps up."
The thought should stress me out, but instead I feel this wild bubbling hope. Sustainability. Growth. An actual future.
We close at eight, the last customers leaving with full bags and promises to come back. I lock the door and lean against it, suddenly exhausted down to my bones.
The space is wrecked. Books scattered where people pulled them to browse, dishes in the kitchen sink, paint tarps still covering the mural section. Tomorrow's problems.
"We did it," Stone says, surveying the beautiful disaster. "An entire day without anything catching fire or the health inspector shutting us down."
"High bar for success."
"I'm an achievable goals kind of orc."
Darius and the artisans left hours ago, but they sold almost half the inventory. Aunt Rene counts the register while Tess and Maya photograph the mural in progress for social media. I walk through the space touching shelves, straightening books, letting reality settle.
This is mine. Ours. A place built from risk and stubborn hope.
Stone finds me in the poetry corner, holding his chapbook. "People bought seventeen of these today. Seventeen humans paid money for my terrible poems."
"They're not terrible."
"They're aggressively sincere and use too many food metaphors."
"So they're perfect." I place the book back on its shelf. "You created something that mattered to people. That's what art does."
He pulls me close, and I let myself sink into him, the comfort of his solid presence after a day of performing confidence. "Thank you for believing this could work."
"Thank you for making me brave enough to try."
We clean in comfortable silence, washing dishes and sweeping floors while Tess posts final updates and Aunt Rene organizes the next week's inventory orders. The mural watches over us, half-finished and glorious, children's handprints visible in the paint.
Around nine, Maria stops by with her wife, both of them carrying a bottle of wine and genuine smiles.
"Congratulations," Maria says, surveying the space. "I've been watching the foot traffic. You exceeded our projections by forty percent."
"Is that good?"
