Chapter 006: A Place to Begin
[Just because you don't give up, doesn't mean you will make it.]
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{LUCIAN GILFORD}
I left the Hearthlight Rest with the case balanced over my shoulder, the cool weight settled neatly against my back like an obedient mule. The street outside was bright already, all sunlight and chatter, the kind of mid-morning noise that could almost convince a man the world was ordinary. Merchants were calling prices, carts rattled over cobblestone, and the smell of bread drifted out of an open bakery door just far enough to make my stomach reconsider breakfast.
The case of water drew looks, of course. Not for its weight, but for what it was. I caught the stares as I passed—the curious, the suspicious, and the plain bewildered. A few whispers trailed after me, something about "bottled glass" and "strange imports." I kept walking. The sun was climbing over the roofs now, catching the moisture still clinging to the bottles through the plastic. It made the whole thing gleam like a crate of sapphires.
The shop wasn't far, two streets down from the Guild's outer square, tucked between a candle maker and a weaver's stall whose awning had long since given up on being blue. The same faded sign still hung over the doorway: Everything Must Go. The words looked almost relieved to see me.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of lemon oil and dust. Shelves stood bare, save for a few jars and a cracked clay pot that might once have held tea. The old woman was there again, broom in hand, moving it more for the rhythm than for the dirt. She looked up when the bell over the door chimed and froze at the sight of the case.
"You again," she said.
"Me again," I replied, setting the water down with a soft thud that drew her eyes like a magnet.
She eyed the bottles, the light bouncing through them. "You selling that stuff? I'd heard talk in the market. People said you brought in a shipment of cold springs."
"Not quite springs," I said, leaning against the counter. "Actually, I came about the shop."
Her brow rose. "What about it?"
"You said you're closing."
"That's right." She resumed sweeping, slow strokes across an already-clean floor. "Not much family left, no strength in my knees, and no stomach for arguing with merchants over a handful of Valis. Better to let it go before it lets me go."
I nodded, pretending to study the shelves. "I could take it off your hands."
Her sweeping stopped. "Take it off- Are you a merchant now?"
"Not officially. Yet. But I've got goods people seem to like." I tapped the case beside me. "And I need a place to sell them."
She leaned the broom against the counter and crossed her arms, gaze moving from me to the case and back again. "You have money for rent?"
"Not much. Yet." I reached down, grabbed one bottle, and set it gently on the counter between us. The condensation slid down its side in a single perfect bead. "Two of these for the month. Starting now. I'll pay properly next month, once I've got business coming in."
Her expression didn't change for a moment. Then her lips twitched into something between amusement and disbelief. "You're offering water as payment?"
I unscrewed the cap and handed it to her. "Not just any water."
She hesitated but took it. The seal broke with that same clean pop. She sniffed once, cautiously, then sipped. Whatever words she'd meant to say dissolved with the taste. Her eyes softened, her shoulders eased, and she stared at the bottle like she could see the spring it came from.
"That's…" She took another sip. "Cold. Clean. Gods, I can taste nothing in it."
"That's the point."
She set it down slowly, fingers lingering on the plastic. "You really have more of this?"
"A few."
"And you'd give me two bottles just to use the shop?"
"For the month. Then I start paying in coin. I'll even fix that hinge by the door, on the house."
Her gaze lingered on the bottle, then flicked back to me. "Two bottles."
"Two bottles."
A small smile tugged at her mouth, the kind that belonged to someone who'd just realized they might enjoy being surprised again. "You've got yourself a deal, strange man. The key's behind the counter. You fix the door hinge before sundown, and we'll call it official."
I grinned, unable to help it. "Deal."
She handed me the key, the iron cold against my palm. "Name's Yora," she said.
"Lucian."
"Well, Lucian, I hope your miracle water brings better luck than my tea ever did."
I spent the next hour walking the narrow space, mapping it in my head. The front room had a counter with a built-in drawer, a pair of display shelves by the window, and a storage closet in back no larger than a wardrobe. The walls needed scrubbing, the floorboards tightening, and there was enough dust in the rafters to start a new ecosystem. Still, it was four walls and a roof, and more importantly, a place where my water wouldn't have to sleep beside me.
By noon, I had the hinge fixed, the floor swept, and the case stacked behind the counter. The sunlight streaming through the window turned the bottles into little blue torches, casting ripples across the walls. It almost looked like a real store.
Outside, Yora sat on a stool, sipping her second bottle in the shade. "You work fast," she said as I stepped out to join her.
"Motivation's a hell of a tool," I said.
She laughed, low and dry. "Let's hope your customers agree."
I looked down the street toward the bustling market square, feeling the hum of the city pressing closer with every passing hour. Somewhere in that noise, I'd find them. Buyers. Suppliers. Maybe even friends, though that was pushing it.
The sign didn't look like much at first—just a plank of old pine Yora had leaned against the wall, its edges sanded smooth sometime before the paint on it had started to flake. The leftover can of black paint she'd used for her Everything Must Go sign still sat on the counter, sealed but not properly cleaned. I pried the lid open with my key and stirred what was left with a stick until it stopped looking like tar and started looking like ink.
The shop was quiet, dust motes shifting in the sunlight that crept through the front window. I dragged the plank outside, set it across a pair of crates, and crouched beside it with the brush in hand. My handwriting wasn't built for artistry, but I'd learned enough patience in my old life to fake it when I needed to. The first letter went down thick and uneven—the paint soaking into the grain before smoothing out beneath a steadier stroke.
Gilford General Store.
By the time I reached the last letter, my knees were sore, my hands were speckled in black, and the wood gleamed with the stubborn pride of a sign that looked half-professional from a distance. I sat back on my heels, studying it. Not bad, considering the tools. The name felt strange coming from me—too official, too permanent. But as it dried, it started to fit.
Inside, the air still carried that faint citrus scent Yora favored. I set the sign by the window to dry and went behind the counter to rearrange the space. Bottles on the bottom shelf, case tucked away, a few loose coins stacked near the register space that didn't actually have a register.
Then my phone pinged.
The sound made me jump—it didn't belong here, not in this world of wood and whispering street noise. I pulled it from my pocket, wiping a smear of paint from my thumb before swiping the screen. A new notification blinked at me, framed in red and gold like a Costco ad but with that clean, impossible precision the app always had.
New Merchant Function Unlocked
Congratulations, member!
As the owner of an approved retail location, you can now generate monthly "Treasure Hunt" pamphlets featuring exclusive member deals.
(Solyra's Treasure Hunt now available!)
I blinked. "Of course," I muttered. "Because the afterlife definitely needs marketing materials."
The phone vibrated once more, softer this time. Something flickered at the edge of the counter—just the faint shimmer of displaced air—and then a small, wire stand appeared beside the bottles. Neatly arranged within it were glossy paper pamphlets, each bearing the headline in stylized script:
Solyra's Treasure Hunt — Gilford General Store
Below the title, a bright red banner read Exclusive Deals for Members! and beneath that, clean images of products—snacks, bulk items, household goods—everything you'd expect to find in a Costco flyer, except this one bore my storefront instead of a warehouse.
I stared at it for a full minute before picking one up. The paper was warm to the touch, printed in full color with that faint, waxy smell of modern ink.
Inside, every page was neatly categorized: Food & Beverage, Tools, Seasonal, Apparel, Luxury. There was even a "Local Delivery" disclaimer in fine print at the bottom—Standard arrival 07:00 two days after purchase. Instant delivery available at 10,000Ʌ̶ surcharge.
I let out a long sigh. "You know," I said to the empty shop, "if this thing ever learns how to run promotions, I might actually need to hire staff."
Still, I couldn't deny it—something about the sight of those pamphlets, ridiculous as they were, made the space feel real. Like a store that might survive. Like a man who might.
The brush and paint still waited by the door, the sign drying under the sun outside. I stepped out again and set the board in its place above the entrance. The letters were uneven, the edges rough, but when I stepped back, the name caught the light just right.
Gilford General Store.
Not a bad start. Not for a dead man with a membership card and a miracle phone.
I leaned against the counter, one hand still smudged with paint, the other holding a pamphlet fresh from the rack. The glossy pages caught the light like a polished jewel, every inch packed with smiling models and products that had no business existing in a city where people still lit fires to cook breakfast.
My eyes skimmed the first spread—massive red lettering that shouted LIMITED TIME DEALS! followed by something that nearly made me choke.
10-Foot Plush Teddy Bear — 24,999Ʌ̶
"A comforting companion for all ages!"
I stared at it, then at the empty space around my little shop. "What would anyone in this city even do with that?" I murmured. "They'd need to rent an entire room just to sit it down."
The next page wasn't any better.
Propane Grill, 6-Burner Deluxe Edition — 19,499Ʌ̶
"Perfect for backyard gatherings!"
I blinked. "Backyard gatherings? Half this city barely has courtyards. They cook with coals and sticks. Someone's going to think this thing's a siege weapon."
Flipping another page, I found a blender—stainless steel, sleek, promising "High-Speed Culinary Performance."
"Right," I muttered. "Assuming someone here knows what a smoothie is."
I set the pamphlet down, rubbing the bridge of my nose as if that would help. It was surreal enough being alive again, but now I was apparently running a corner of suburban America in the middle of a pre-industrial city.
The absurdity of it hit me harder than the profit margins. Somewhere out there, adventurers were risking their lives fighting monsters, and here I was wondering how to market a six-burner grill to a population that thought kindling was luxury.
The pamphlet still sat open on the counter, mocking me with a page titled Seasonal Favorites. Picnic coolers, lawn chairs, LED string lights—every image a reminder of a world I'd lost. And yet, some part of me couldn't stop thinking that maybe, just maybe, there was a way to make it work.
I flipped the page again and found a small section at the back: Essential Supplies for Hot Climates — Water, Food Storage, Ice Packs.
That made me pause. "Alright," I said quietly. "That's something people actually need."
My eyes drifted back toward the bottles lined up on the shelf. If this place was going to survive, it wouldn't be on novelty or nostalgia. It would be on the things that mattered.
Still, I glanced once more at the ten-foot teddy bear and snorted. "Maybe someday," I muttered, closing the pamphlet and tucking it under the counter. "If I ever open a second branch in a kingdom of idiots."
The bell above the door chimed softly, its sound just sharp enough to pull me out of my argument with the pamphlet. I looked up from behind the counter, expecting maybe a curious passerby drawn in by the new sign. Instead, a familiar face stepped through the doorway—short, copper-haired, still wearing that faded gray work tunic from the Great Warehouse district.
"...Ilka?"
She blinked, her expression flipping from confusion to recognition so fast it could've given me whiplash. "You're the new shopkeep?"
"I prefer 'owner,'" I said, setting the pamphlet aside. "But yeah. That's me."
Her eyes darted toward the painted sign visible through the window. "Gilford General Store," she read aloud, testing the words like she wasn't sure they'd taste right. "Didn't think I'd see you again so soon. You were the quiet one who stacked crates like they owed him money."
"Hey, those crates had it coming," I said, leaning an elbow against the counter. "Turns out manual labor's not the long-term dream. So here I am—merchant extraordinaire."
Ilka stepped further in, her boots clapping against the wood. Her gaze swept the shelves, the counter, the glossy pamphlets in their wire stand. "This is yours? Already?"
"Yeah. Rented it this morning. Bit of paint, bit of charm, some very suspicious luck."
Her brow furrowed as she picked up one of the pamphlets. "Solyra's Treasure Hunt... What is this?"
"Monthly deals," I said. "Warehouse thing. Flyers for… promotional purposes."
She flipped through the pages, eyes narrowing at the first photo. "Why would anyone need a stuffed animal this big?"
"I was wondering the same thing," I said.
Her lips twitched. "Or a metal box with six fires in it."
"That one's for cooking."
"Ah." She paused, then tilted her head. "Cooking what, exactly? The bear?"
I snorted hard enough that I almost choked on air. "You've got jokes now."
"Years of practice," she said, closing the pamphlet and setting it down. "You sure this isn't some elaborate prank?"
"I'm sure. Everything here's real. I can even order more of it."
She gave me a long, searching look, the kind that measured a man's sanity more than his words. Then her eyes fell on the bottles lined up neatly on the shelf, their crystal sheen impossible to miss.
"So that rumor was true," she said softly. "You're the one selling the cold water."
"That's me," I said. "Official distributor of liquid miracles."
Ilka smiled faintly, resting a hand on the counter. "You realize half the district thinks you're some kind of conjurer?"
"I've been called worse."
"Fair," she said, glancing back at the door, then at me again. "You're not like the others here, are you? You don't talk right, don't move right. When I first saw you hauling crates, I thought you were new to the city, but not this new."
"You could say I'm from… far away," I said carefully.
Her eyes lingered on me a moment longer before she nodded. "Well, far or not, you've got something people want. That's more than most."
"Appreciate the vote of confidence."
She smirked. "Don't thank me yet. Once word gets out you're selling clean water and metal bears, you'll have the Guild sniffing around by Sundas."
"Good thing I'm not on the menu," I said.
Ilka laughed, the sound brief but genuine, and pushed off from the counter. "I'll be seeing you, Gilford. Don't forget to sleep. Merchants burn out faster than laborers."
"Noted."
She waved a hand in parting and stepped out into the street, the door creaking closed behind her. The bell jingled once more, leaving me alone with my half-dry sign, my shelves, and the faint scent of lemon oil and ink.
For the first time since waking in this world, I didn't feel like I was passing through. I felt settled.
I looked down at the pamphlets again, the ridiculous bear still grinning up from the glossy page.
"Yeah," I muttered. "Maybe I'll order one just to keep the Guild guessing."