Page 15 of Laced in Longing

Well, to me at least.

Which means I really am hallucinating. Or perhaps there’s something growing in my brain, pressing against the tissue, creating false images. A tumor might explain everything…I’m not sure how I should feel about a possible abnormality in my head, because I’m certainly not upset. At least a tumor would make sense. It would be something concrete, packaged with a nice little medical explanation.

The snow falls harder now, thick flakes that stick to my eyelashes and melt on the pink of my cheeks. The crowd between us grows denser as more people spill out of storefronts and office buildings. I want to push through them, to cross the distance until I’m standing right in front of him. I want to demand answers. Reach out and touch him, to prove to myself that my hand will pass straight through, that he’s nothing more than a projection of my declining mental state.

But the thought of doing so in public makes my stomach twist. What would people see? A woman talking to empty air, gesturing wildly at nothing? It would take one concerned citizen to call emergency services, and I’d find myself back in a bright as shit room with scratchy sheets and orderlies who speak to me in that special tone reserved for the unstable.

No, I can’t risk it. Not here.

A man in a hurry slams into my shoulder as he rushes past, the impact knocking me off balance. I stumble, instinctively reaching out to steady myself against a building. For the briefest moment, my eyes leave the figure down the sidewalk.

When I look back, he’s gone.

The space where he stood fills with ordinary pedestrians, none of them remarkable or the tall man with no face. I scan the street frantically, whirling to search behind me. My gaze sweeps across the road in every direction.

Nothing.

The absence burns behind my eyes, leaving me short of breath and slightly dizzy. The bitter temperature rushes back in, seeping through my clothes now that the strange fever of his presence has faded. I wrap my arms around myself, trying and failing to hold on to the remnants of that warmth.

I need to leave before I panic over whatever that was.

I force my feet to move again, shoving through people as I shuffle toward the crystal shop. My thoughts race, theories forming and dissolving with each labored step. Maybe I didn’t see him. Maybe I did. Maybe he’s real, just not in the way I understand reality. Maybe I need to stop thinking about it.

The storefront appears ahead, a small space wedged between a coffee shop and a vintage clothing store. The sign above the door features a crystal ball with Mystic Minds written in flowing script beneath it. Normally, I’d roll my eyes at such cliché imagery, but today I barely notice as I push open the door.

A bell chimes softly as I enter, the sound mellow and resonant. The warmth inside is immediate and welcome, enveloping me like a blanket just pulled from the dryer. The shop smells of sandalwood incense and chocolate—which catches my attention because what a weird thing for this place to smell like.

Unlike most crystal shops I’ve visited in other cities, this one embraces darkness, thank god. The lighting is dim, provided mainly by salt lamps that cast a rosy glow over the merchandise. Glass cases line the walls, each one illuminated from within to showcase the minerals inside.

I brush snow from my coat and stomp my boots on the mat by the door, flexing my extremities as circulation returns. The shop appears empty except for an older woman behind the counter, her silver hair piled in an intricate braid atop her head. She peers up from arranging something in the display case, her eyes finding mine immediately.

“Welcome,” she says, a smile in her distinct accent. “You look half-frozen. Come closer to the heater.”

She gestures to an old-fashioned radiator in the corner, its metal grilles glowing orange. I move toward it with a grateful sigh, holding my hands out to the warmth.

“Nasty day to be out,” she continues, watching me with an intensity that makes me a bit uncomfortable. “Must be important business to bring you through such weather.”

I shrug, avoiding her gaze. “Just browsing.”

“No one just browses in a blizzard.” Her tone carries no judgment, just a matter-of-fact certainty.

My defenses rise automatically, spine straightening as I prepare to change the subject. But I’m too cold and too tired to manufacture polite conversation.

“I wanted to see your crystals,” I remark with a flat tone. “I collect them.”

Her eyes brighten with interest. “Ah, a collector. For beauty or purpose?”

“Just…because.” I don’t elaborate. How do I explain that I collect them for their uselessness? For their perfect indifference to human concerns? Or the comfort of owning something that will outlast me by many lifetimes?

I mean, they’re also pretty to look at.

She studies me for a moment longer, then nods as if I’ve said something profound. “The new stock is in the case by the window. The rare specimens are in the locked cabinet behind the counter.”

I back away from the heater, my bones shivering as I approach the display she indicated. Inside, crystals of various sizes and colors rest on black velvet, each with a small card detailing its name and origin. My fingers trace the edge of the glass as I lean closer, examining a piece of labradorite with a vibrant blue flash.

“That one speaks to you.” I jolt, unaware the woman moved silently to stand beside me. Fucking creepy.

I yank my hand back out of instinct “It’s pretty.”