The Secret Songs of D.C. Silverenn

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The door slams behind us when we enter. I flinch at the vibration that ripples through the room. Shouldn't doors have a spring to prevent that?

Dust tickles my nose as I roam the store. It covers almost every item on the shelves, from miniature chipped tea sets to ceramic vases to paintings with only half their frames. In the corner, a brown-stained dish contains a tangle of necklaces. A locket sits on the edge away from the mass of silver chains. I flip it over, the metallic film rough against my fingers as I peek at the price tag. It's fifteen dollars, a drastic overpricing. I might as well pop into the beauty parlor and buy a new lipstick. Then again, I've never owned a locket. It would be a unique addition to my jewelry bag.

I meander to the front desk. A man stands behind it with his elbows on the counter and chin cupped in his palms. His ash-and-snow beard dangles just above a stack of mint tins. Narrowed brown eyes watch me unwavering, so intense that I avert my gaze to a stand of wrinkled magazines.

"Are you just opening?" I ask.

"I've been open for months," his gurgling, hoarse voice replies.

I glance around the store again, remembering that there was no sign out front. "What's the name of this place?"

"Unnamed."

I face the man again. His wrinkled face is hardened in a scowl. I want to tell him that kind of unfriendliness is bad for business.

"And what do you sell here?"

"Look around."

Emi sidles up beside me, looping her arm with mine. "I think we've seen all we need to." She gives my arm a tug, but I don't budge.

"I'm guessing you specialize in antiques." The man practically glares in response. He reminds me of a motionless statue guarding an ancient tomb, arms limp at his sides and his posture alert. Several beats of silence pass before I try again. "Is there anything in particular that you think will draw our attention?"

The man pops the lid of a mint tin. Only three speckled tablets remain inside, and he slips one in his mouth.

"Lady, everything you see here is salvaged from the dump. I spent zero dollars gettin' this stuff, so it means nothing to me."

"Then why open a business?"

"Quit pestering me with questions. Either you drop some cash for the junk or you don't." Before I can formulate a reply, the man disappears into a room behind the counter.

"This place gives me the creeps," Emi whispers. "Let's get out of here."

"Yeah, sure," I say. "Just give me another minute."

A book shelf presses against the wall. Paperbacks squish against each other with spines bent back and pages splayed apart. Frayed hardbacks lie in a similar disarray on the top two shelves. The bottom shelf contains a cacophony of loose papers. It takes a moment for me to recognize what it is.

"Emi, look! It's sheet music."

I bend down and begin rifling through the pages. Emi sighs, long and exasperated, behind me.

"Please, Cerise. We need to head back."

"But we might find a cool piece."

Yellowed pages covered in faded black ink slide over booklets with ragged edges. Creases forge their way along the covers, and they certainly don't improve the readability of the handwritten scores, covered in messy, misshapen notes. Anyone who says that doctors have bad handwriting clearly has never met a composer.