The shop’s too quiet. The wrong kind of quiet. Not the peaceful, end-of-a-good-day quiet, but the something’s-missing-but-you-can’t-put-your-claw-on-it quiet. It’s unsettling, and I don’t like being unsettled. Dragons are supposed to be, you know, settled.

Leaning on the counter, glaring at the clock tower through the window. There they are—those scorch marks, faint but still legible: G + C Forever. Yeah, yeah, very funny, past me. Who knew I was such a romantic? I remember putting them there, sure—thank you very much, Zoe’s magical memory recovery service—but it still feels weird. Like looking at someone else’s bad decision and realizing it was yours all along.

I huff out a breath. A puff of smoke curls up, just enough to make the enchanted bell over the door jingle softly. At least it remembers how to do its job.

The memories are back. I get that. But they don’t feel quite the same. Maybe it’s me. Or maybe it’s the fact that yesterday, shadows slithered into town and decided to play librarian with my brain. I’m not about to start journaling my feelings about it, though, so don’t ask.

The shop creaks as I head to the back. That’s where the real treasures are—my hoard. No, not the comics. The actual hoard. Magical artifacts, scrolls, a particularly sarcastic sword. I keep them behind enough wards to make even the Faerie Court think twice. Normally, they hum like a happy dragon after a good nap. Today? They’re more like me: cranky and holding it together with sheer stubbornness.

Looking at the cover The Dragon’s Guide to Temporal Wards. The book’s older than most of the town and covered in notes from yours truly. Stuff like, “This spell is terrible, but it works if you’re desperate.” And my favorite: “If this doesn’t explode, it’s not my fault.” Past Grumps had a way with words.

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Flipping to the section on memory shadows, Skimming… Here it is: Parasitic constructs that feed on emotional connections, leaving victims hollow. I grunt. Hollow. Great word. Except now I’m not hollow. I’ve got the memories back—and, much to my irritation, the feelings that go with them.

I shove the book back on the shelf and head to the front, trying to ignore the itch in my chest. It’s not a bad itch, exactly. More like... a reminder. The shadows didn’t just come for my hoard of shiny things; they went for something bigger. The town. The team.

The bell jingles softly again as I sit at the counter, pretending I’ve got paperwork to do. Outside, the mist clings to the street like it owns the place, curling around the edges of everything. The scorch marks on the clock tower glint faintly in the morning light, stubborn as ever.

I remember why I put them there. It was ridiculous and impulsive and probably illegal. But it mattered. It still does. Not that I’ll admit it.

Zoe’s voice pops into my head from last night, all fire and determination: “Connections aren’t chains. They’re anchors.” She’s probably right, but I’ll let her have the credit. After all, it’s her job to give pep talks. Mine is to grumble about how inefficiently everyone does their jobs while secretly making sure they don’t screw up too badly.

The bell jingles again, but it’s just the wind. The air feels heavier than it should, like the shadows left a piece of themselves behind. Good. Let them try again. I’ve got fire to spare.

Glancing back at the clock tower one more time. It’s still standing. So am I. And so is the team—messy, disorganized, and prone to shenanigans, but mine.

“Ridiculous,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. But I let the corner of my mouth curl up. Just a little. The shop creaks in response, like it’s agreeing with me.