The Clerk
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Epilogue
“Are you sure?” she asked quietly.
I didn’t answer right away. I just stared out the window and finally said, “It’s either clear out all the rubble and start construction, or sell.” My voice sounded small, even to me. “The fines start next week.”
We were on our way to pick up Susan. The closing was at eleven.
I had started calling it “the parcel.” Saying bookstore was too much. Too sharp. Too full of years and dust and memory. Bookstore made my throat close. It made me think of our aunt, of all the afternoons tucked between shelves, of the way she used to run her fingers along the spines like she was greeting old friends. Calling it the bookstore made me want to sob.
Because it wasn’t a bookstore anymore.
Not after the fire.
Not after everything.
And the city had notified us that if construction didn’t begin, the fines would begin accumulating daily, starting this Monday. So, yes—we agreed to sell it.
It would become a coffee shop. I already knew how hard it would be to drive past and see that—see people laughing where our aunt, where we used to sit behind the counter, see strangers sipping lattes where shelves of books used to be. And if the coffee shop didn’t last, then maybe it would turn into a bicycle store. Or a boutique selling clothes no one needed.
It didn’t matter.
Whatever it became, it wouldn’t be ours anymore.
And that was the part that hurt the most—how quickly a lifetime could become someone else’s project. How a place that had held part of our childhood, our family, our aunt’s entire heart ... could just become a line on a real estate listing.
I swallowed hard, wishing I could pretend it didn’t matter.
But it did.
We parked at Andrew’s and walked the short distance to the parcel. Susan and Andrew were already there, standing in front of what was left of the building—our building—running a makeshift garage sale. It looked strange, almost wrong: small folding tables set up in front of a boarded up shell, displaying the last few things we had managed to salvage from the rubble. The pieces that weren’t too charred for someone, anyone, to take home.
After today, whatever remained would be hauled off to the city dump by the new owners.
Even thinking that felt like a punch to the chest.
We all knew we weren’t doing this for money. Not even a little. We were doing it because we needed something that resembled closure. Some kind of ritual to mark the end of this chapter. Maybe letting these things go, piece by piece, would make it easier to let go of the rest.
As we approached, Susan was talking to one of our neighbors. One of the old ones—One of the ones who had known our aunt. Someone who remembered what the parcel meant before it became rubble.
Those are the only neighbors who talked to us.
Not the new people.
The coffee shop owner.
The boutique owners.
The ones who never looked up, never waved, never understood.
They didn’t realize this block had once been a family. That we all took care of one another. That the parcel wasn’t just a storefront—it was a heartbeat in the middle of the street.
“Hi, Anne,” Samantha said softly.
“Hi, Samantha,” I replied, trying to smile.
“I was just bringing by that item you had ordered,” she said. “Saw Susan out here and figured I’d save you a trip to the shop.”
“Thanks.” I reached for the case, then hesitated when I realized how awkward it might be for me to open it.
Before I could say anything, Hana stepped forward. Her voice was warm, steady. “I can take it.”
Samantha handed her the case. Hana opened it carefully, almost reverently, as if she knew what this moment meant to me. She set the case on one of the folding tables, lifted the piece out, and held it up so I could see it. The metal caught the morning light—soft, not harsh—almost like it understood this wasn’t a celebration so much as a stitch holding a difficult day together.
“It should fit perfectly,” Samantha said. “If you want to try it on. I know you’ll want a proper ceremony later, but if it doesn’t fit, I can take it back and resize it.”
I looked at Hana, searching her expression. She met my eyes and nodded once, gently.
Samantha stepped behind me. “I’ll lift your hair, okay?”
I nodded. Her hands were warm against my neck as she swept my hair up. She gestured to Hana. “Grab that little block, the magnet. Just hold it over the clasp.”
Hana picked it up from the case, her fingers steady even though mine weren’t. She leaned in close to me so she could see what she was doing—close enough that I felt her breath against my cheek—and held the block over the collar.
There was a soft click as it opened.
Hana took the block and set it back in the case. Then she lifted the collar and, with gentleness, placed it around my neck. The metal was cool at first, then warmed almost immediately against my skin.
“Go ahead and close it,” Samantha said.
Hana’s hands brushed the back of my neck—featherlight, careful—and I felt the latch click shut. The sound landed deeper than I expected, like something inside me had settled.
Samantha let my hair fall, then came around to face me. She slid a fingertip between the collar and my skin, checking the fit, her touch practiced and soft.
“Perfect,” she said with a little nod. “How does it feel? Any pinching? Anything uncomfortable?”
“No,” I said quietly. “It’s ... comfortable.”
I turned to Hana. “What do you think?”
She didn’t answer right away. She just looked at me—really looked—her eyes softening, her shoulders easing the way they did when her guard slipped. Then she smiled.
“It’s pretty,” she said. But the way she said it wasn’t about the metal at all.
Samantha clasped her hands together. “Good. Just call if you need anything. You can wear it full time—sleep in it, shower in it. The edges are rolled, so it won’t irritate your skin. And it won’t open without the magnet.”
Hana nodded, still watching me.
“We can walk back with you,” I told Samantha. “So, I can pay you.”
She shook her head. “No. Consider it a future wedding gift.”
Before I could protest, she stepped close and pressed her forehead gently against mine—a small, tender gesture that surprised me with how much comfort it carried.
“I’m happy for you, sweetie,” she whispered. Then she looked at Hana and touched two fingers to her own lips before lifting them toward her, like a quiet blessing. A welcome. An acknowledgment.