The neon lights of London were bleeding into the rain, turning the puddles on the pavement into patches of bruised purple and sickly yellow. Sarah stared at her phone screen—blank, silent, and cold. Valentine's Day was supposed to be about roses and declarations of love, not standing alone in a freezing downpour waiting for a call that would never come.
She turned into a narrow alleyway, seeking shelter, and that's when she saw it. A dark timber door with a pair of amber lanterns.
The wind chime sang a crystalline note as she pushed inside.
The warmth hit her first, smelling of aged sandalwood and a quiet, ancient peace. Behind a heavy mahogany counter sat a man who looked like he had stepped out of a forgotten painting. His moonlight-white hair was partially hidden behind the glint of a gold-rimmed monocle, but his most striking feature was the pair of white fox ears that twitched slightly at her entrance.
"I... I'm sorry," Sarah stammered, shivering. "I just needed to get out of the rain."
"Of course, Miss Beauty. It is truly terrible weather today," the Archivist said, his voice a low, melodic baritone that seemed to hum in the quiet shop.
He glanced towards the darkened window, observing the relentless downpour. "It doesn't look like the rain will stop soon. Please, feel free to look around—see if there is anything that interests you."
"
"That's very kind of you," Sarah said, relaxing slightly as she slipped off her sodden coat.
Almost immediately, a delicate porcelain cup was placed in her hands. "Fresh tea from this year's harvest," the Archivist said softly, the steam curling around his white gloves. "To drive away the chill."
Sarah took a grateful sip, the warmth spreading to her fingertips. She wandered along the mahogany shelves, studying the artifacts. The atmosphere in the shop felt strangely comforting—a heavy, quiet peace that she hadn't felt in a long time.
"This place..." she murmured, half to herself, "it reminds me of my grandfather. He was a collector, too. He had a room just like this, where he used to tell me stories about his treasures."
Realizing she had spoken aloud, she turned back to the counter. The Archivist was standing there, gently placing a vivid crimson flower into a wooden box, looking as if he were about to seal it away. The red was so intense it seemed to burn in the dim light.
Curiosity piqued, Sarah stepped closer. "What is that?"
The shopkeeper paused, his hand hovering over the velvet lid. He looked at the flower with a gaze that was both affectionate and weary.
"A Liuli Rose," he answered, his voice low. "Or, to be more precise, a stubborn soul."
He tapped the edge of the box lightly. "I was just about to let it sleep. A wealthy banker offered a fortune for it an hour ago, but..." The monocle over his eye glinted sharply. "It refused to go with him."
"Refused?" Sarah blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion. "But... how? I mean, isn't it just an object?"
"Is it?"
The shopkeeper didn't argue. Instead, he tilted the wooden box slightly, allowing the dim light to catch a jagged, hairline fracture near the base of the delicate red petals.
"It did more than refuse," he said softly, tracing the flaw with a gloved finger. "The customer merely touched it, and this fracture appeared."
He looked up, his gaze locking with hers through the monocle.
"You see, Miss, in this shop, artifacts are not dead things. They possess souls." His voice dropped to a whisper, full of reverence. "They do not wait to be bought—they choose their own masters."
"It's... it's very sad," Sarah whispered, her gaze drawn back to the rose.
It was beautiful, yet deathly still. Its petals were a dark, suffocating crimson, looking less like glass and more like a clot of dried blood.
"It looks... exhausted," Sarah murmured.
She felt an inexplicable pull, a strange gravity compelling her to reach out. As her hand hovered just inches above the velvet box, something impossible happened. The dull, dried surface shuddered. A faint, living sheen rippled through the petals, turning the dead crimson into a vibrant, wet red—as if the flower were waking up just from her presence.
"It seems it likes you," the man said, his voice low and amused. "Go ahead. Touch it."
"Me?" Sarah looked up, wide-eyed.
The Archivist didn't speak. He merely nodded, his expression calm and inviting.
Sarah swallowed hard. She lowered her hand.
The moment her fingertips brushed against the ice-cold petals, a blinding golden light exploded from the core of the flower.
Everything vanished.