Unexpected

There are a lot of unexpected things in life.
Like my favorite café running out of chocolate muffins before noon.
Or somehow acing a test I didn’t even study for.

But losing my mother and having to move across the country...
That’s the kind of ‘unexpected’ thing no one ever really prepares you for.

But as the train thunders out of the station, leaving me behind with two very unremarkable and hideous suitcases, it finally hits me.
This isn’t some bad dream.
I’ve really moved across the country.
To a town I’ve never been in.

“Oh.”
My voice echoes through the empty station.
What now?
Just take my suitcase and go?

Is that really what I’m supposed to do? Just act like I know what I’m doing, even though my stomach is doing somersaults and every step feels way heavier than these overpacked suitcases?

Apart from the crumpled piece of paper in my hand with directions to some shop that apparently my oh-so-mysterious uncle runs, I've got no idea what to do.
What is the etiquette of just popping up at some random person's place?
It's not as if I could just say, 'Hey, I'm your niece. By the way, I'm gonna be living with you from then on...’

That's too bold. Or rude.
Probably rude.

What if he reacts badly? What if I’m completely unwelcome and this whole thing is just a disaster waiting to happen?

Still, he has to know I'm coming, right? The social worker had to say something about it. I mean, I think my stuff is already here, probably.
"What a mess," I mumbled, gathering those two hideous suitcases that are far too heavy for what I actually packed, and rolling them down the station's ramp.

Wisteria isn’t exactly a place I’ve ever heard of, and honestly, it’s tiny. Small enough that finding ‘the place’ written down on the crumpled page shouldn’t be too hard.
Marum Antler on 247 Aster Street, Niontain... or something like that...

I glance down at the page yet again and follow the oddly specific directions:
Down Main Street, past the Fleury bakery.
Left on the town square.
Past an old statue that must’ve resembled either a cat or maybe a dog, before erosion took over.
Keep going until you see a flight of stairs on your left.

Go up.

And there it is, halfway up a narrow lane, tucked between two larger buildings.
A hanging plaque with elegant, looping gold letters reads: Majaurum Atelier.
...Huh. I got the name wrong.
Eh, close enough.

The store itself is surprisingly beautiful, if not a bit worn from its age. And I can’t help but think that it’s like something out of a storybook.
A two-story brick building with a dark wooden frame, and two windows that flank a similarly dark door with a golden yet worn knob, that’s honestly probably older than me. Although the ivy vines, or some other viney plant, that run up one side have basically become a curtain on said window, essentially hiding it from the street. The other window, however, is actually covered by a satin maroon curtain.

I would think that a shop would want you to see its goods so you could buy them...
But hey, it’s not as if I have ever run a shop, what would I know?

It’s a pretty place with an equally pretty plaque in pretty golden loopy letters: Majaurum Atelier – Repairs and Restorations.
Which is essentially… an antique shop that fixes stuff.

I think.

Not that the fact is gonna change the fact that I have to live here now.
So I muster up whatever this odd feeling is and knock on the door like an idiot. Because apparently, my first instinct when arriving at a shop during business hours is to pretend it’s someone’s house.

Great start, Clem. Truly brilliant
I grab the aged golden knob, twist, and push open until a bell sings softly as the door swings inward, its fading echo mingling with the scent of age. Old books, dust, wood polish, and something sweet, too, like old varnish or paper left in the sun.
Yes, this place smells undeniably old.
Not a bad old, of course, but the type of old that is vaguely comforting, or at least enough to help alleviate the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Just a little.

For goodness' sake, Clem, it’s not as if you’re going to get your head chopped off. You’re just going to live with a complete stranger that you are apparently related to…
Okay, that sounds a lot worse now that I think about it.
But it’s not as if I have much of a choice anyway, so I should probably calm down. I mean, first impressions are everything. Right?

That’s what mom used to say. Very avidly, if I remember correctly.

Hmm, I should go inside. I probably look creepy just staring at a building anyway. Creepy people stare at buildings. And, ugh, you're not a creep, and that's...really no way to start anything.

So I do.
After a deep breath, and all the excitement and dread of watching paint dry, I peek in, mostly because my hideous suitcases can’t seem to cross past the threshold like some bad omen.

“Um…hello?” I mumble as I finally get a good look at the repair shop.
The infamous Majuram Atelier, or at least I think it’s infamous?
I was told it was vaguely popular, although what can be popular about a shop that repairs things is beyond me.

Still, it’s almost stereotypically what I imagined when I was told that I was moving into a place that’s also an antique repair shop. It looks cluttered but also organized in a way that is undeniably pretty.
Classical...
Timeless...
Antique...

Obviously, I mean it’s in the name. But the place seems to have its own aesthetic that differs from my imagination. I was thinking more along the lines of a 2nd hand store.
This is far more... fancy.

Hugging the walls of the shop, shelves, display cases, rows, and racks filled with antique clocks softly ticking in sync, porcelain trinkets, old-timey clothes, and other knick-knacks that I don’t even have names for. In the middle, tables filled with cake-like displays that hold even more trinkets stacked together in such a way that looks both chaotic and dignified.

Finally, after much struggle, I yank the suitcase past the threshold and close the door behind me.

Only to find, on my right, a blonde man no older than 20 behind a dark oak desk, polishing some white trinket.

“Sorry, Miss, we’re closed,” he says, briefly glancing up only to acknowledge my existence in the shop before returning to his task, “I’m waiting for a guest. We’ll be open tomorrow at 9.”
If he’s closed, then shouldn't he lock the door?

“Um, yes. I think you’re waiting for me,” I mutter, walking up to the desk and lifting my hand in an awkward half-wave, “I’m going to live here from now on.”
Ah, too blunt.

The man's arms stopped mid-action like a broken clock arm.
Slowly, the man blinks up as if noticing a ghost that had always been there.“...Clementine. You’re Clementine.”
That sounded less like a question and more like he’s double-checking his reality.

For a second, I'm confused.
Because obviously, this man cannot be my uncle.
He looks maybe twenty-five. My uncle is supposed to be fifty.
And he’s pretty.
The type of soft pretty you’d see in a magazine, not in an old shop. Although I guess his round glasses and long, tied-back hair give him more of an artsy vibe than old-timey. It takes me way too long to realize he genuinely might be my uncle when I see his eyes.

Honey-hazel eyes.
Like those of my mother.

“Yes,” I say so quickly that the man jolts backward. “Clementine. Clementine is I. I am Clementine. Yes.”
Damn it, too many yeses.
There goes his first impression of me—
“You look so much like your mother.”The remark confuses me, because for one, I don't really. Not her blonde hair, nor her honey hazel eyes.
But for some reason, that very simple remark hurt ever so slightly.

“Oh, um, thank you.”

He stays still for a good minute before he clears his throat as he gently places the trinket he was holding down.
“Well, welcome to Majuram Atelier. I’m Kenji. Your boxes arrived last week. They are in your room, upstairs, yes. Um, first door, to the, the...”
He snaps his fingers once.
Then twice.
Before he finds the words, “to the left, um, yes”. For some reason, his overall awkward demeanor is rather refreshing, or at least it's enough to stop me from my own anxiety.
“You should go and make yourself comfortable,” he snaps his fingers, yet again pointing to the stairs behind him, “I’ll bring tea up.”

He gently places the trinket on the desk before walking toward the back of the shop. Just before he enters the back room, which I assume is a break room of sorts, he turns with a soft smile. "Make yourself at home, Clementine."
With that, he enters, and I am left alone in the shop.

Well, that went better than I thought it would. He also seems a bit thrown off by the situation.
Glad to see I’m not the only one who was taken aback by the entire thing.

After a quick once-over of the golden-tinted shop, I take my luggage and head to the stairs that hug the wall behind the counter. I walk up the creaking, aging, narrow stairway to the second floor with some effort, since, despite the advertisement, rolling suitcases seem more of a hassle than I thought.

The stairs spit me out into a floor that… somehow feels bigger than the entire store below.
At least width-wise, I think.
Nevertheless, it shouldn’t be possible, considering the fact that I saw the building from the outside like ten minutes ago.

Eh, who cares? Old buildings have weird layouts anyway.

I walk down the unusually long hallway towards the last room on the left. But as I do so, something catches my eye. A door just before mine slowly creaks open as if a sanctuary of dust had come to reclaim fallen territory. And like any good tendent, or guest, or whatever I am, I let my curiosity take over and shove any politeness I had away before peeking into the room.
For safety.

Obviously...

It seems like a storage room of some sort, but if I'm being honest, it's more of a cardboard maze made by a raccoon bored out of its mind. Boxes are stacked upon boxes in neat little rows with a clear path in and out on opposite ends. Along the walls, bulky stuff, likely furniture, is covered by white cloth.

Despite all that, dust seems to be the most prevalent thing in the room. At least more than oxygen, considering the coughing fit that hits me when I lean in.
Thus curiosity killed the cat...
And its lungs.

It's an odd room for sure, though nothing that interesting. So I back away from the dust kingdom; however, as I do so, one specific thing catches my eye.

A small, worn, lopsided cat plushie leaning against one of the white cloths.Well, can I really call it a plushie?
It reminds me more of those dolls that have small beans inside them.
It’s cute?
Or at least it has some amount of charm.
Midnight black like the little cat I had when I was a kid. Inky, if I remember correctly.
Honestly... It’s kinda sad looking with its mixed fabric, loose stitches, and missing eye.
I carefully grab the doll, brushing off some of its layers of dust.
It's kinda soft. Nearly light as a feather. And in better lighting, I can confidently say

It’s cute.

Well, except for that ugly sticker attached to it. All worn, yellowish, and oily.
Gross.

But still, something about it is oddly nostalgic. Like a little piece of home, I didn't realize I needed.

"Um, uncl-" I call out with a voice that is probably louder than I actually needed. Calling him ‘uncle’ feels a bit weird, to be honest."Kenji, can I borrow the doll that's up here?"
A muffled response comes from the bottom of the stairs, and it sounds close enough to a yes that taking the doll should be fine.
Part of me thinks he didn't actually hear me. Eh, I'll just ask him about it again later.

Carefully, I tuck the doll under my arm and grab my luggage. Making sure to close the door to the curious storage place and my head to the room on the left.
My new room.

I open the door, and I'm not sure what I expected. Frankly, all my expectations for what my life would be like went down the drain last month.
However, the room is cozy, with a twin-sized bed that hugs the left wall and a closet that opens on the right.
It would probably be a lot cozier when the boxes that contain my life get...
Organized?
Put away?
It feels wrong to say it like that.

But there’s not much I can do about that.
So I look around and try to imagine some kind of life here... only to bump into the corner of a desk, like those you see in museums, with a note with looping letters resting on it.

‘A writing desk. Your mother once told me you liked to write. I hope you get lots of use from it.’

Huh.
Weird. I always assumed Mom and Uncle didn’t have contact. I didn’t even know he existed until after she passed.
It was always just us against the world, so I thought she and her family lost touch or had a falling out, but apparently, they didn't.
Or maybe they did. I would imagine a brother would want to visit his sister if she were in the hospital, but then again, I shouldn’t speculate on grown people's stuff.

I carefully place my luggage next to the writing desk and the cat plushie on top of it.
Like a silent guardian.
With a very ugly sticker. Carefully, I peel the yellowing sticker off. Because, honestly, it looks half-moldy, and I don’t want to deal with it, so I flick it off somewhere for tomorrow’s me to clean up.
“Nice to meet you. My name is Clementine.”

Great.
I’ve been reduced to talking to a cat doll. Ugh. I should probably start unpacking. I really don't have much to do anyway. I turn towards the first box, which holds whatever miscellaneous thing I put in it.

Frankly, I wasn't thinking much when I packed—

It takes all of a second.
Before a harsh gust of wind slams straight through the room. Rattling the windows violently as an odd metallic smell fills the air. It’s strong enough to push me back, blow boxes through the room, and drop the temperature, sending shivers up my spine. It’s as if the room froze inward.

It takes all of a second.
Before a voice, deep and distorted, speaks behind me.
“Well, what do we have here?”
It takes all of a second.
For me to turn around and see a man. A man who was not here before. But a man whose smirk... Seems as devilish as they come.
“So you're the one who freed me.”

“What?”