A Drift of Unspoken Words

The bell above the door tinkled, a thin, reedy sound that barely cut through the distant rumble of the number 16 bus. Beatrix didn't look up. Not immediately. It was late afternoon, the kind of late afternoon in January where the light was already giving up, draining the colour from everything outside. Most people had already done their damage, or rather, not done it. The shop had seen maybe three customers since lunch. Three. And two of them had just been looking for directions to the Exchange District. She ran a thumb over the rim of a ceramic mug – 'World's Okayest Boss' – feeling the faint grit of its glaze.

A gust rattled the windowpanes. From the corner of her eye, she saw a figure, hunched against the wind, hesitate outside, their breath blooming in white puffs. Young. A dark, slightly too-thin parka, hood up, shielding most of a face. Celeste. That was the name on the credit card slip from two days ago. A small, handcrafted bookmark, painted with a delicate prairie crocus. Beatrix had remembered the name because it was so… grand. Celeste, for a simple bookmark. It felt a little like casting pearls. She’d always found the contrast interesting, the small, quiet purchases that belied a larger narrative.

Celeste stepped inside, bringing with her a faint smell of cold and something else, something undefinable – road dust? Old coffee? The bell sang its little tune again. Beatrix still didn’t look directly, not wanting to make eye contact too soon. It felt intrusive, a breach of the unspoken code between a shopkeeper and a browser. Let them browse. Let them find their own way. She polished the mug, then set it back on the shelf with a sigh that was more air than sound.

The shop was a tight, warm pocket against the city's bitter embrace. Shelves packed with artisanal soaps, intricately carved wooden birds, locally made jewellery. Everything carefully curated, a lifetime of searching for the perfect little thing, the perfect unique story to sell. But stories weren’t selling much these days. People wanted convenience, not craft. They wanted cheap plastic, not hand-blown glass. Beatrix thought of the gas bill that had arrived yesterday, a stark reminder of the losing battle she was fighting. It was like trying to stop the tide with a teacup. Her hands, rough from years of handling delicate objects and harsh cleaning solutions, tightened around an invisible something.

She heard the soft scuff of boots on the polished concrete floor, then a pause by the display of local photography prints. Celeste was taking her time. Good. Beatrix risked a glance. Celeste had pulled her hood down, revealing a curtain of dark hair, slightly matted from the cold. She wore a tired expression, like someone who’d been awake for a long time, watching the wrong kind of stars. Her fingers, long and thin, traced the edge of a print depicting the Golden Boy atop the Legislative Building, framed against a surprisingly vibrant summer sky. A contrast to the grey outside.

"Cold enough for ya?" Beatrix heard herself say, the words escaping before she could filter them. Standard Winnipeg small talk. But it felt clumsy, forced. She immediately regretted it, wishing she'd just stayed silent, let the quiet be. Celeste flinched, a subtle shift of her shoulders, as if she hadn’t realised Beatrix was there, despite the small space. Or perhaps she hadn't expected the voice.

Celeste turned, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips. "Definitely. Feels like it wants to peel the skin right off your bones." Her voice was low, slightly raspy, as if she hadn't used it much recently. A hint of an accent Beatrix couldn't quite place – not local, definitely not local. She looked tired, those circles under her eyes deepening the sense of her solitude. It was the same look Beatrix saw in her own mirror sometimes, late at night, when the numbers wouldn't balance.

"That it does," Beatrix agreed, a little too quickly. She moved from behind the counter, ostensibly to straighten a shelf of hand-knitted scarves, but really, to create a sense of shared space, less transactional. "Are you, ah… in town for long?"

Celeste shrugged, her shoulders dipping slightly. "Don't know. Long enough to thaw, maybe. Or until the next bus leaves." She turned back to the photographs, then moved to the shelf of hand-bound journals. Her fingers ran over the rough texture of the paper, the delicate stitching on the spine. There was a quiet intensity to her movements, a deliberate slowness that spoke of someone trying to stretch time.

"There's a good coffee shop down the street," Beatrix offered, gesturing vaguely with her chin. "They do a proper chai latte. Better than the stuff I've got brewing in the back." She paused, then added, "Though if you'd like some, I can put the kettle on. It's just instant, but it's hot."

Celeste hesitated. Her gaze flickered to Beatrix, a flicker of surprise in her eyes, then down to her worn boots. The invitation, small as it was, hung in the air, a fragile offering. "Really? That would be… really kind. Thank you." The words seemed to cost her something, as if gratitude was a muscle she hadn't flexed in a while.

A Fragile Warmth

The kettle hissed, a cheerful, domestic sound that seemed alien in the quiet of the back room. It was more storage than anything – boxes stacked high, the faint smell of old paper and dust, a single rickety table with two mismatched chairs. Beatrix had pulled down an old tin of shortbread cookies, a Christmas leftover. "Only the fancy stuff for special occasions," she'd joked, but the humour fell flat, landing somewhere between them like a dropped plate.

Celeste sat, wrapped tightly in her parka, even indoors. Her hands cupped the warm mug of instant coffee, steam rising to kiss her chin. She hadn't said much, just small affirmations, quiet thanks. Beatrix found herself talking more than usual, rambling about the challenges of running a small business, the changing face of the neighbourhood, the stubbornness of frost heaves on the pavement. She found herself telling Celeste about the time a stray cat had gotten into the shop and knocked over an entire display of artisanal candles, the wax melting into colourful puddles on the floor.

Celeste listened, a faint, genuine smile sometimes touching her lips. She wasn't offering advice, or platitudes, or the usual polite but distracted nods. She just listened, her dark eyes holding Beatrix's gaze with an unnerving steadiness. It was a rare kind of listening, one that made Beatrix feel seen, not just heard. The hum of the ancient fluorescent light above them was the only other sound.

"You… you travel a lot?" Beatrix asked, trying to keep her tone casual, but the question felt intrusive the moment it left her mouth. She immediately wanted to snatch it back, stuff it back down her throat with the half-eaten shortbread.

Celeste took a slow sip of her coffee, then set the mug down with a soft click. "Most of my life, lately. No fixed address. Just… moving." She looked around the cluttered storage room, her gaze lingering on a dusty box labelled 'Grandma's Trinkets.' "It's… easier sometimes. Not having roots. Less to worry about when the ground shifts."

Beatrix felt a pang. Not of pity, but of understanding. She knew about shifting ground. Hadn't her entire life felt like that since her partner had died five years ago? The shop, their dream, now hers alone, was a constant struggle to keep from sinking. "But you must… miss something? Home? People?" She felt bold, almost reckless, for asking.

Celeste fiddled with the sleeve of her parka, pulling at a loose thread. Her eyes, when they met Beatrix's again, were shadowed. "Sometimes. But home is… tricky. It's not always a place, is it? More like… a feeling. And that feeling, it can be hard to find. Or keep."

The admission hung in the air, raw and honest. Beatrix found herself nodding slowly. "No," she murmured, "no, it's not always a place. This shop, for me… it was meant to be. Our anchor. But sometimes I think the anchor is just dragging me down, you know? Keeping me stuck."

Celeste finally took off her parka, draped it over the back of the chair. Underneath, she wore a thick, faded woollen jumper. She still looked cold, but a little less rigid. "Maybe anchors aren't meant to hold you still forever," she said quietly, her gaze fixed on the steam rising from her mug. "Maybe they're just… a pause. A chance to gather your bearings before the next current."

The words, simple as they were, resonated with Beatrix. A pause. Not a prison. Not a failure. Just a pause. The idea, so obvious, had never occurred to her with such clarity. Her own anchor, this shop, felt less like a chain and more like… a waypoint. A temporary harbour in a storm. She looked at Celeste, really looked at her, seeing not just a tired young woman, but someone carrying a similar weight, albeit in a different kind of journey.

"Thank you," Beatrix said, the words coming out soft, heartfelt. "For the perspective. And for not just buying a bookmark and leaving."

Celeste smiled, a wider, more genuine smile this time. It transformed her face, chasing away some of the weariness. "Thank you for the coffee. And for… the company. It's been a while since I had proper company that wasn't just my own thoughts rattling around in my head."

They sat for a few more minutes, sipping their now-cooling drinks, the quiet no longer awkward but comfortable. Beatrix found herself looking at her own shop through Celeste’s eyes, seeing the whimsical charm, the defiant warmth against the cold. It wasn't just a burden; it was a sanctuary, however small. And maybe, just maybe, it still had a story to tell, even if it wasn't the one she'd originally planned.

The Unveiling of Memory

The afternoon was fading fast when Celeste finally stood. "I should get going. I appreciate this, truly." She zipped up her parka, the synthetic fabric rustling. The cold smell returned, but now it was tinged with a faint warmth, a residue of shared humanity.

"Safe travels," Beatrix said, walking her back to the front of the shop. She watched as Celeste pulled her hood up, the scarf around her neck almost completely obscuring her face, turning her back into a silhouette against the fading light. The bell tinkled its farewell. The street outside was now a blur of muted colours, the snow falling heavier, thicker, clinging to everything.

Beatrix stood by the door, watching until Celeste disappeared into the swirling white curtain of snow. The city felt vast and empty again, but not quite. Something had shifted, a small, almost imperceptible change in the atmosphere of the shop, and within Beatrix herself. She returned to the counter, but instead of checking inventory, her hand strayed to an old cardboard box tucked beneath the counter, forgotten for months. It contained old photographs, mementoes from a life that felt impossibly distant now. Her fingers brushed against the smooth, cold surface of an old photograph, pulling it out.

It was a picture of her and her partner, years ago, standing outside the shop, the 'Curiosities & Keepsakes' sign newly painted above them. They were younger, laughing, a golden autumn light bathing their faces. He had his arm around her, a protective, loving gesture, and she remembered the feel of his wool coat against her cheek. She remembered the sheer, unbridled hope they’d felt, the certainty that this little shop was their beginning. The photograph was creased in the corner, a faint smudge marring her partner's smile, but the joy, the absolute certainty, radiated from it like warmth.

The shop was quiet again, just the distant hum of the streetlights flickering on. But Beatrix wasn’t alone anymore, not in the same way. The image in her hand, the memory of that autumn afternoon, suddenly felt less like a ghost and more like… a promise. A whisper of possibility from the past, echoing in the winter chill.

But then, she noticed something else in the photograph, something she hadn't seen before, or perhaps had simply forgotten. In the background, partially obscured by a utility pole, a figure stood watching them from across the street. A lone, dark figure, barely visible against the brick wall, their face indistinct in the shadows. And they were holding something, small and reflective, pointed vaguely in their direction.

A shiver, colder than the Winnipeg winter, traced its way down Beatrix's spine.