Chapter Text
Your POV:
Her shop didn’t exist until the moment you stepped inside, or maybe you only started existing when she looked up at you. You swore you had never seen that chipped wooden door before, but it felt as if it was calling you, luring you into its depths. Inside, you found strange objects: a gramophone spinning with no tune, a cracked mirror that appeared to reflect things that weren’t there, and a tarnished pocket watch running backwards. Distracted by the odd assortment of items, it took you a moment to spot the woman sitting in the back of the shop.
And there she was.
She was draped in indigo robes that shimmered like spilled ink, her silver-streaked hair cascading around her as she silently observed you. Her lips slowly curved into a knowing smile, as if she’d already figured you out in the two minutes you’d been there, and she was just waiting for you to catch up. The air buzzed faintly around her, alive with something you couldn’t—and still can’t—describe, and for a moment, you forgot why you came—or if you ever existed before she looked at you.
Over the following weeks, you found yourself drawn back to the shop, sometimes leaving with a trinket or two, often just coming to watch her. What unsettled you, though, was how she seemed to watch you in return, her gaze lingering just a fraction too long to be casual. It felt deliberate. The two of you fell into an unspoken rhythm, a quiet game of glances exchanged in the spaces between time, eyes locking when you weren’t quite paying attention, then swiftly looking away as if it hadn’t happened, only to meet again in the next moment.
The words conversed between the two of you were spread and sparse, only occurring when you found some odd bauble to buy, searching for an excuse to talk to her. Her voice, rich and warm, seemed to wrap around you like a fur coat, and lingered in the air long after it was gone. Each time, you left the shop reluctantly, the hum of the city returning as soon as you closed the door behind you. It was strange; when you were inside, everything outside the door seemed to go quiet. And you had never noticed anyone else ever enter the shop either; their eyes seemed to just skip from one side of it to the other.
What had started as curiosity quickly grew into fascination, and you tried to convince yourself that’s all it was. But of course, it wasn’t. You hardly knew her, and she hardly knew you, but her presence was impossible to ignore. Every time your eyes locked, you felt a strong pull, an attraction that was getting harder and harder to resist.
So, one day, you didn’t.
The pull toward her was undeniable now, as natural and inescapable as breathing. When you stepped into the shop that day, the hesitation you’d harbored for weeks was shoved to the back of your mind. You walked straight to her, leaving the shelves and their oddities untouched, and when her eyes lifted to meet yours, it felt like stepping into a story already in progress.
“Is there something you’re looking for?” she asked, her voice as smooth as wine, a faint smile playing on her lips.
“I—” You hesitated, then laughed nervously, shaking your head. “I don’t know.”
She tiled her head at that, her smile softening slightly, though it never lost its edge of mystery. “That’s a good answer,” she said. “Most people aren’t brave enough to admit it.”
And just like that, your first real conversation began. It was nothing extraordinary— small talk about the city’s peculiar charm, a few idle comments on the faint smell of cedar lingering in the shop. But there was something in the way she spoke, in the deliberate weight of her words, that made you hang onto each one carefully.
From that day on, you spoke every time you visited. At first, it was simple: questions about the items you picked up, her puzzling answers drawing you in further. But as the weeks went on, the conversations grew deeper, more personal. You told her things you didn’t even realize you’d been holding onto: the aimlessness that had brought you to this city, the nights spent walking streets that felt like a dream. She listened with an intensity that made you feel like every word that escaped your lips mattered.
And she talked, too, though sparingly. Her stories were strange, full of paradoxes and riddles, but they felt important, as though she was revealing pieces of herself in the spaces between her words. The more you learned about her, the harder you fell.
There was something about the way she looked at you, like you were more than you thought you were, like you were something worth knowing. You told yourself you were just imagining it, but that didn’t stop your pulse from quickening every time her gaze lingered.
Agatha’s POV:
Agatha watched her.
At first, she had been merely curious. The girl was like so many who wandered into her shop—drawn by a pull they didn’t understand, searching for something they couldn’t name. Most came and went without a second thought. But this one was different.
She hadn’t expected to find herself intrigued. The girl was strange—there was just something in the way she moved, a quiet presence that seemed to shift the air around her in small, unnoticed ways. She told herself it was just a passing interest, a diversion. But each time the girl entered, Agatha noticed it, a subtle tug she hadn’t felt in years. She wasn’t sure why it lingered, but it did.
She knew the girl felt the pull, too. It was obvious in the way her eyes darted to Agatha when she thought the older woman wasn’t looking, in the way her hands lingered on objects as if searching for an excuse to stay. Agatha could see the hesitation on her face—curiosity and caution tangled together like roots beneath the soil.
Agatha watched her as she spoke, her voice tentative at first, but gradually finding its rhythm. The girl’s words, once she became more comfortable, came out in a rush, unguarded and revealing, as though she wasn’t even aware of how much she was sharing. She wondered if the girl even realized how easily her thoughts slipped out in those small, offhand comments. The rest of the world seemed to fall away when she spoke, and Agatha found herself listening with more intensity than she had in years.
When the girl first laughed softly, a nervous, uncertain sound, Agatha felt something shift. It was subtle, but undeniable. There was a vulnerability to her, something that called out to Agatha’s own long-hidden desires. It had been centuries since Agatha had let anyone this close, and she hadn’t meant to let it happen now. But there was something about her, something raw and unpolished that Agatha couldn’t resist. She found herself looking forward to their conversations, to the way the girl’s eyes lit up when Agatha shared one of her strange stories.
And as much as she tried to deny it, Agatha knew she was falling. Slowly, inexorably, like a stone sinking into water. And for the first time in ages, she found herself wondering what it might be like to let someone in. To stop holding the world at arm’s length.
But Agatha knew better than to trust a feeling this dangerous, even if she wasn’t sure she wanted it to go away.