The rain smelled like rust and piss.
Typical day in Lowbridge District.
I pulled my coat tighter, shoved my hands deep in my pockets, and glared at the crumpled piece of paper I was holding.
The ink was bleeding from the rain, but the words were still readable. Barely.
"Greystone Alley, Fourth Door, look for the red lantern."
I looked up.
There it was.
Well, "red" was generous. More like "old scab brown" at this point. The lantern swung on its rusted chain, squeaking with every miserable gust of wind that clawed through the alley.
The building itself wasn't winning any awards either.
Bricks crumbling. Windows boarded up with haphazard planks. Door hanging on like it was contemplating suicide.
I kicked a broken bottle out of my way and walked up the steps, which sagged dangerously under my boots.
"Rare opportunity," the old guy at the job board said. Rare my ass.
"Golden chance of a lifetime."
Yeah, sure. If your dream is dying of tetanus in a condemned rat hole, maybe.
I knocked.
Nothing.
No footsteps, no movement inside.
Just the rain and the distant rattle of a steam tram somewhere deeper in the city.
I knocked again. Harder this time.
Still nothing.
A third knock made the door swing inward with a long, pathetic groan, like even the house itself had given up on living.
Inside?
Dust. Dust on the floors, dust on the walls, dust choking the air.
There were shelves crammed with bizarre junk.
Brass compasses with too many needles. Masks made of cracked porcelain.
A full suit of armor standing crooked in the corner, holding a teacup like it was confused about life.
Everything reeked of forgotten years and broken promises.
I stepped inside cautiously.
The floor creaked but held.
Barely.
That's when I saw him.
Behind the counter.
Old man.
Dead as a doornail.
Sitting in a rickety chair, head slumped back, mouth open in a half-smile like he'd died halfway through telling a joke.
And clutched in his gnarled hand?
A small brass key.
For a long moment, I just stood there, dripping rainwater onto the warped wooden floor, staring at the corpse.
"...Hello?" I tried.
No answer.
(Thank the gods.)
The whole situation screamed bad omen.
Bad luck.
Bad news.
But you know what else it screamed?
Ownership.
There was a note pinned to his vest.
Simple scrap of paper. Big shaky handwriting.
"Congratulations, New Owner!
The shop. and all her burdens. are yours now."
I read it three times.
Each time it made less sense.
I mean, sure, this was the address on the flyer.
Sure, I was desperate enough to take anything at this point.
But inheriting a corpse's junk heap wasn't exactly on my list of career goals.
Still.
I eyed the rows of junk.
Could be valuable stuff mixed in here.
Antique dealers paid good coin for weird shit, right?
"It's not stealing if he's dead," I told myself.
"It's inheritance."
I edged around the counter, trying not to step on anything important (or haunted), and pried the brass key from the old man's fingers.
The key was cold.
Heavier than it looked.
There was a small drawer under the counter, marked with an iron plaque:
"For Proprietor Only."
Well.
That was me now, apparently.
The key fit perfectly.
The drawer slid open with a puff of old dust.
Inside was
A heavy leather ledger.
A cracked monocle on a velvet pad.
A small tin labeled "Emergency Biscuits."
I grabbed the biscuits first.
Priorities.
I popped one in my mouth and nearly cracked a tooth.
Stale as hell. Probably older than I was.
I brushed off the ledger and opened it.
The handwriting inside was messy but determined, a looping sprawl of notes, debts, and cryptic warnings.
"Item #27 - Compass of Restless Tides - DO NOT sell to anyone with green eyes."
"Item #54 - Singing Bone - buried under floorboard three. Check monthly for complaints."
"Item #99 - Golden Hex Coin - cursed? Maybe. Keep near door anyway."
I flipped further back.
More notes, weirder now.
"Burn after reading."
(Not burned.)
"Smile. Lie. Survive."
One entry near the end caught my eye.
"The shop is older than me. Older than cities. Respect her. Fear her. Serve her."
I closed the book slowly.
Felt a shiver crawl up my spine.
I turned around, surveying the cluttered shop again.
Shadows stretched long across the walls.
The gaslights outside flickered, casting the red-brown lantern's glow through the broken windows like bleeding fire.
It would've been smart to walk away.
Very smart.
Which is why I stayed.
Because "smart" and "desperate" don't usually live in the same apartment.
I pulled a dusty rag from the counter and wiped a clean spot on the glass case.
Behind it were trinkets. silver lockets, tarnished rings, cracked hourglasses.
Treasure to the right idiot.
And let's be honest. this city was full of idiots.
Later That Night
I found a half-functional oil stove in the back room and warmed up a can of beans I stole from an abandoned crate.
Sat behind the counter, eating cold beans straight from the tin, listening to the rain thrum on the roof.
Every creak, every groan of the old wood, sounded like footsteps at the edge of my hearing.
The dead man was still slumped in the chair behind the shop.
I wasn't about to move him.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.
He was part of the atmosphere now.
I glanced at the broken monocle on the counter.
Held it up to my eye, grinning stupidly.
"Behold," I said in a fake posh voice, "the Eye of Endless Fortune!"
I laughed at my own dumb joke, nearly choking on a bean.
No one laughed back.
But somewhere. maybe deep under the city, or far above where the smoke smothered the stars.
something stirred.
Not that I noticed.
I was too busy digging through a box labeled "Definitely Not Cursed," looking for something shiny to sell tomorrow.
Near Midnight
The shop felt heavier somehow.
Like the walls were breathing slow and deep.
Dreaming.
I found an old brass bell under the counter and hung it by the door.
There.
Official.
Real shopkeeper now.
I wiped my hands on my coat and looked around.
Tables full of relics.
Shelves bowing under forgotten history.
A dead man in the back.
And me. a broke bastard with a talent for lying.
Perfect combination, really.
The wind howled down Greystone Alley.
The lantern outside guttered and flared.
I leaned back in the creaky chair, propped my boots on the counter, and smiled.
Tomorrow, the real fun would start.
Tomorrow, I'd sell every piece of junk in this godsdamned shop.
And if I had to lie through my teeth to do it, so be it.
It wasn't like anyone would actually believe me.
Right?