Chapter 8

Ryan stood outside the storefront just after sunrise, the sky behind the mountains a pale, blossoming gold. Overnight frost still clung to the edges of the sidewalk, but the air held that unmistakable warmth of spring trying to make headway. He shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets and stared at the taped-up brown paper that had clung to the windows since before he bought the place.

Today, finally, he was taking it down.

He tugged at one corner, the tape peeling with a brittle rip that echoed faintly along the quiet main street. The paper gave way reluctantly, flakes of old adhesive drifting like dust in the cool air. He pulled off one sheet at a time, each revealing a little more of the interior beyond: dark, unlit, ghostlike outlines of shelving units, tools stacked in crooked piles, and an old counter that had probably seen decades of transactions.

The last sheet came loose with a soft whoosh. Ryan stepped back and took in the full reveal, feeling simultaneously proud and uneasy—as if he’d opened a door to a room he wasn’t entirely sure he belonged in.

Inside, the shop looked even smaller than he remembered. A narrow rectangle of a space, wood-plank walls stained a deep amber, the floor worn smooth in some places and splintery in others. Dust layered every surface in a thin gray film. A faint smell of old lumber clung to the air, warm and nostalgic but edged with disuse.

Light slipped in through the newly cleared windows in long, pale beams, cutting through the dimness and illuminating floating specks. Ryan unlocked the door and stepped inside; the hinges groaned a greeting. The air felt still and cool, like it had been holding its breath for years.

He walked toward the counter, dragging his fingers lightly along the surface. A track of clean wood appeared beneath his touch, the dust rolling away like fog. “You need a lot of work,” he murmured to the space, voice swallowed by the emptiness.

This was supposed to be a fresh start. A plan. Stability. Something honest he could build with his own two hands after dismantling his old life piece by piece. But standing here now, surrounded by neglect and possibility in equal measure, he felt that familiar tightness in his chest.

What if the town didn’t need this? What if he’d overestimated demand? What if he failed so thoroughly there’d be no coming back from it?

He exhaled, slow and shaky.

A stack of old paint buckets leaned precariously in one corner. A solitary ladder stood like a sentinel near the back door. In the far right corner, a crate of outdated hardware catalogs sat half-collapsed, their covers sun-bleached. This place had history—it felt lived-in, worked-in, abandoned only in recent years.

And now it was his.

Ryan moved to the front windows, now letting in a full wash of morning light, and looked out at Willow Creek. A couple of early risers ambled by—an older man walking his dog, a woman carrying a basket of clean linens. Both slowed subtly as they noticed the uncovered windows. Not staring, not judging, just ... observing. Curious.

The kind of curiosity that burned holes through gossip lines.

Ryan tried to nod politely, but his throat felt unusually tight. He wasn’t ready for an audience. Not yet.

He retreated back into the dim interior and let the door fall closed. The muted thud echoed through the hollow space.