Child of Light, Chapter 2
A Bookseller Is Never Late
« Chapter 1: Rising Before Dawn
“You’re listening to ROCK 100.3 in the morning! Up next, we’ve got your trrrrrriple threat back-to-back morning rock out!”
What the hell? My body remained frozen, my eyes darting around, searching for something—anything—to ground me. Had he not heard that? I glanced at him, but his face blurred, like a smudge on glass. His lips moved, forming words I couldn’t hear.
Suddenly, a sharp guitar riff sliced through the silence, jolting me back to life. The world blurred again, but as it refocused, I found myself surrounded by familiar warmth. Soft, cream-colored walls, dotted with small, framed art prints, wrapped around the room. An old wooden desk stood across from me, its surface scattered with dog-eared paperbacks, notebooks, and a half-empty mug. A modest bookshelf leaned against the wall, filled with well-loved novels, some stacked horizontally to fit the overflow. My legs were tucked under a faded patchwork quilt, the weight of it grounding me in the comfort of home.
I was in my bedroom.
I blinked hard, trying to shake the static fuzz clouding my thoughts. My hand instinctively reached for the alarm clock at the side of my bed, but instead, I knocked it to the floor with a loud crash.
Suddenly, the door creaked open, and a familiar face peeked in.
"Everything alright?" my mom mumbled through a mouthful of toothpaste, her toothbrush dangling from the corner of her mouth.
I nodded, rubbing my eyes, trying to push the remnants of that strange dream from my mind. Before I could respond, the door clicked shut again.
“Welcome back to ROCK 100.3 in the morning. Looks like Fall is here today with temps in the mid to lower 60s and—”
I leaned over, mashing the top button on the alarm clock now lying on the floor. It silenced with a beep, and I left it there as I sat back up.
“That was the weirdest dream ever...” I muttered, shaking my head. "Whatever." Dismissing the thought, I swung my legs out from under the blanket.
I'm going to be late for work if I don’t get up. As I pushed myself to stand, a sudden jolt of pain shot through my knee, sending me collapsing back onto the bed. Wincing, I glanced down to find a bluish-brown bruise spreading across my knee.
Wait... wasn't this the same knee I hurt in the dream?
My heart began to thump harder in my chest. I quickly flipped my palms over, examining them for any sign of scratches, but there was nothing.
I looked back at my knee and gingerly pressed a finger into the bruise. Ouch! That hurt way more than it should. How on Earth did I manage that? I don’t remember banging it on anything yesterday. My bed was up against the wall, so maybe I’d smacked it while tossing and turning in my sleep?
There’s no way this is from my dream... right?
“Els! Don’t you have work this morning?” My mom’s voice called from somewhere beyond my bedroom door.
My eyes shot to the side table, only to remember my clock was still on the floor. 7:32.
Shit. That barely gave me enough time to open the bookshop by 8. I shot up, scrambling for clothes. Fabric flew through the air as I hunted for something decent, eventually settling on yesterday’s leggings and a soft, pleated skirt in deep burgundy, paired with a fresh collared shirt. My shirt snagged in my hair as I pulled it over my head, blinding me for a moment. I stumbled into the desk chair, wincing as my bruised knee collided sharply with the edge. The sudden pain jolted me, and his voice echoed in my mind again, “Now, sit still this time.” Sit still for what?
I managed to free my hair and pulled my shirt down, smoothing it into place. Grabbing my keys and wallet from the desk, I bolted out of my room, only to stop halfway down the hallway to wrestle on a sock, bouncing on one foot. I did the same with the other, just as my mom peeked her head out, a curling iron still in her hair.
“Cutting it a little close today, huh? You know how he feels about opening late!” she half-heartedly scolded, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “I poured you a thermos of coffee—it’s on the counter. Have a good day, honey.”
“I know! Forgot to set my alarm earlier,” I exclaimed breathlessly, leaning in to kiss her cheek before nearly tumbling down the stairs into the kitchen. Sure enough, my silver thermos sat at the end of the counter, filled and waiting for me. I scooped it up and darted into the entryway, grabbing a worn, cream-colored canvas bag from a hook by the front door. Its corners were frayed, the fabric softened from years of use, and faint smudges of ink hinted at its frequent trips to and from the bookshop where I work. I quickly stomped into my brown combat boots, leaving the laces hanging as I ran out the door.
The screen door banged shut behind me as I rushed out to my car. I patted the hood as I walked by. “Good morning, Samwise,” I greeted it. My dad surprised me with the car on my 16th birthday, saying an old wagon was a good, dependable first car. I decided that day it needed a name, as all cars should have names, after all. My old station wagon was a Samwise, my loyal and steadfast companion. Its earth-tone brown paint was faded and scratched from years of use. The car’s once-sleek lines were now softened by age, and the interior showed signs of wear, but it was dependable. Despite its worn appearance, it was all I needed to get me where I needed to go.
Tossing my book bag across the seat, I plopped into the driver’s seat of Samwise. His age was evident in the way the engine heaved to life. The tape deck clicked on, picking up where it left off the evening before with The Cranberries' latest release. I cranked down the window, letting the cool breeze wash over my neck and cheeks. I’ve always loved this time of year—everything begins to slow down. Autumn is mother nature’s deep sigh before she takes her long winter’s rest.
The drive to work wouldn’t take long. We lived in a quiet Midwestern town where traffic was rarely an issue—unless a train was coming through, but that was on the outskirts. Our cozy, old neighborhood was near the heart of the town’s center, where the bookshop had been for as long as I could remember. I probably could have walked to work if I wasn’t always running late. For some reason, no matter how early I set my alarm, I could never wake up on time. I pulled into a diagonal parking spot around the corner from the bookshop, as Mr. Hawthorne always insisted that the spaces out front should be reserved for customers, despite rarely being full. I didn’t mind parking around the corner, though.
I glanced at the clock on the radio as I reached for my thermos and bag. 7:51. Just enough time. I locked the door to Samwise and made my way toward the bookshop. It was nestled among a row of red and brown brick storefronts, with more slanted parking spots lining Oak Street, named, I assumed, for the old oak trees across the way in the town’s park.
I fumbled with my keys as I approached the old wooden door, its expansive glass window framed by weathered green paint worn to the bare wood at the edges. The brass door handle and lock had acquired a deep, rich patina over the years. Above me, a wooden sign declared, “Hawthorne’s Booksellers” in golden letters, gently tarnished with age. I slid an ornate key into the lock, its smooth surface a contrast to the rough wood. As I turned the key and unbolted the door, I pushed down on the brass handle, causing a small bell to chime softly, gently awakening the darkened, sleepy shop within.
I stepped into the dark shop, the smell of old wood and paper filling my nostrils. Sometimes I almost felt more at home here than at my parents’. The weathered shelves and the whisper of well-loved books, especially in the classics section, wrapped around me like an old friend, filling me with a soothing sense of belonging. I clicked the door shut behind me and turned the lock. Time to get to work.
I flicked the lights on and quickly made my way through the narrow rows of bookcases to the back of the shop. Behind the last row of fantasy and sci-fi novels stood a little wooden door with no label and a simple brass handle. Inside, a large walnut desk sat in the middle of the room. A matching chair with a high curved back and floral design carved in the top stood behind it. More bookshelves lined the walls in this room, with stacks of books in every corner and more piles across the large desk.
Behind the desk, on the floor, sat a tarnished black safe with a large handle next to a dial in the center of the door. I quickly spun the dial, flawlessly entering the combination before turning the handle with a click. I heaved the thick iron door open, the squeaking of the hinges filling the quiet store. Inside the safe, a small stack of manila folders lay flat on the bottom, along with a few bundles of dollar bills neatly stacked to the side. On the other side, a cash register drawer sat with money already counted out and ready for the day. We always ended the night by preparing the drawer for the morning, and I was thankful for this since I always cut it so close.
The ticking of the clock on the wall above me caught my attention and I glanced up to find I had just two minutes until store opening. I needed to be sure I opened on time. Customers were never waiting, but somehow Mr. Hawthorne always knew when I opened late. “A bookseller must always be prompt and reliable, Elswyth!” I could hear him scolding me.
Nobody called me by my real name. Not even my parents. Only Mr. Hawthorne, who’s known my family for as long as anyone alive could remember. He and my gran used to joke that they had always been old friends, even on the day they met. Whatever that means. Elswyth was passed down the line of first-born children on my father's side. Every first-born daughter in recorded family history was given the name, and since my grandmother only had boys, they passed it down to me, the first-born granddaughter. I didn’t much care for it. I was weird enough without a weird name on top of it all.
I hurried back to the front of the now warmly lit store and slid the register drawer into place with a decisive clunk, the coins shifting and settling with a reassuring rattle. I quickly moved to open the roller shades on the shop door and flipped the sign to “Open.” As the blinds retracted with their usual soft whir, I was taken aback by the sight of a figure standing just outside. A man, clad in black slacks and a matching blazer that cut a sharp silhouette against the morning light, stood with his back to the store. As he turned, his gaze locked with mine, and a sly, enigmatic smile crept across his face.
That’s when my heart plummeted into my stomach.
Continue the story…
View all chapters of Child of Light
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Oooh, so Chapter 1 was a dream!
Intrigued to see where this goes!
(Also, Samwise made me smile. 🙂)