The Dreamwalker [ON HOLD]

Chapter Four

Alaric's Antiques was only a short drive from Adela's place. Adela understood now why the store didn't come up in the search results as quickly as the others had. It wasn't really a shopfront, but rather a small business inside a cute little cottage home, run by the town's trusted antique specialist—Alaric Zane.

A vintage welcome sign hung on the door, along with the word Open written in beautiful cursive font. Adela turned the knob of the door and stepped inside. Warmth greeted her, as did the smell of oil paint, musty cloth, and on the counter beside her, potpourri. It was an odd mixture of smells that gave Adela a slight headache. Her mother had loved coming here, often volunteering her time to help Alaric run his small business on weekends and during peak holidays. But Adela, herself, had never been to Alaric's Antiques before.

Adela looked around.

Oil paintings in elaboratively carved frames hung across the walls, with barely an inch of space between them. Antique wood cabinets filled with dainty figurines, collectible china cups, and thimble collections were scattered in different places. Adela could see intricate handmade floor rugs hanging from display clips, statues, carvings from different cultures and countries, wartime paraphernalia, sewing machines, wooden spindles, a grandfather clock that ticked with each passing second—the whole store looked like a hotchpotch of cultures and fashions through the ages. Adela also spotted some odd objects, too—objects she had never before seen in her life. They were the kind that belonged in the fantasy novels she read and movies she enjoyed.

Adela could hear the soft sound of vintage records playing in the background, too, along with the soft clink and thump from the movement of items by someone in one of the aisles.

"Hello?" she said, hoping to get someone's attention. "Is anybody here?"

The clinking and thumping of objects stopped; the floor creaked. Adela peered her head into the aisle she thought the sound was coming from. As she did so, a thin, breathy voice made her jump back in surprise. She turned to see an old man sitting behind a crowded front counter with rare items under glass. In front of him was an antique till, the keys clunky like an aging typewriter.

Adela stared at him for a moment before she said, "Alaric?"

"Yes, dear?" he replied, his eyes glistering behind his bulging spectacles. The spectacles were so oversized, that he had to push them back over his nose every few seconds. Alaric's face was heavily lined, and he had a fringe of grey-white hair around his slightly bald, mottled scalp that had very much of its own ideas about how it wished to arrange itself. With each movement he made, a tremor followed. But despite his advanced age, he had a lively vigour about him; an aura of youthfulness radiated from his weathered exterior.

"I—I was wondering if you could help me with something," Adela said as she opened her bag to retrieve the diary. "I don't know if you know me, but—"

"You're Irina's daughter, dear," he offered.

"Um, yes, I am. My mother mentioned me to you?"

"She did, dear. She spoke very fondly of you."

Adela fought the urge to cry.

"I am saddened about her disappearance," he went on to say. "I am sorry for your loss."

"You speak as if she's—she's... gone. For good."

Alaric gasped. "I would never suggest such a thing! Your mother was one of my closest acquaintances—friend, if you'd like. I am merely saying that her missing when you need her most is... rather unfortunate. I feel for you, dear."

Oh. "Thank you?"

"What brings you here, Miss Heart?"

Adela handed the diary over to Alaric. "I found this diary the other day. It belongs to someone; I don't know who." It wasn't a lie; she technically had no idea who Mystery Man was and even if she did, how was she going to explain being in possession of a diary that an imaginary person left behind? "I was wondering if you knew anything about it. If it's of any value, I mean."