I unlocked the shop at seven, same as always. The hinges didn't creak. I'd oiled them last month. The morning light came through the front window at an angle that made the labeled jars on the back wall glow amber and green. Calendula. Arnica. Comfrey root. Everything in its place. Everything where I could see it.
I set my keys on the counter and tied my apron. The routine was muscle memory now. Six years of the same movements in the same order. Unlock. Apron. Inventory check. Wipe down the counter even though it was already clean. I liked the repetition. It didn't ask questions.
The farmer came in around eight-thirty. Walt. Human. Mid-fifties. Sprained wrist from lifting a feed bag wrong. He sat on the stool by the window and held out his arm without being asked. I wrapped it in a compression bandage, neat and tight, and told him to ice it twice a day.
"What do I owe you?" he asked.
"Two dozen eggs," I said. "When your hens are laying again."
He nodded and left. The bell above the door chimed softly. I went back to labeling jars. My handwriting was small and precise. I'd gotten good at making things look like they belonged.
That's when the door opened again.
I looked up mid-label, brush still in my hand, and the scent hit me before I saw his face.
Pine. Leather. Something darker underneath, like turned earth.
I knew that scent.
My hand stopped moving. The brush hovered above the jar. I didn't breathe.
Thiago Larson stood in my doorway, one hand braced against the frame, blood seeping through his shirt at the shoulder. His eyes found mine and went wide. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Emma," he whispered.
I set the brush down very carefully. My fingers didn't shake. Not yet.
He looked older. Thinner in the face. There was a cut above his eyebrow that was still bleeding, and his shirt was torn at the collar. He looked like he'd been running. He looked like he'd seen a ghost.
I suppose he had.
Ember stirred in my chest. Not the faint warmth I'd grown used to. Something sharper. A low, guttural warning that made my ribs ache.
"Sit," I said. My voice came out flat. Clinical. The voice I used for patients.
He didn't move. He was staring at me like I might disappear if he blinked.
"Sit," I said again. "Or leave."
That got him moving. He crossed to the stool Walt had just vacated and sat down heavily. I could hear his breathing. Uneven. Shallow. He was favoring his left side.
I pulled the first aid kit from under the counter and set it between us. I didn't look at his face. I looked at the wound. Claw marks. Four parallel gashes across his shoulder, deep enough to need stitches but not deep enough to hit anything vital. Whoever he'd been running from hadn't been trying to kill him. Just mark him.
"Take off your shirt," I said.
He hesitated. Then he pulled it over his head, wincing. The scent got stronger. I breathed through my mouth and threaded the needle.
I worked in silence. My hands were steady. I'd done this a thousand times. Wound. Needle. Thread. Pull. Tie. Repeat. I didn't think about whose skin I was stitching. I didn't think about the last time I'd touched him. I didn't think at all.
"Emma," he said again. Softer this time. "I—"
"Don't," I said.
He stopped.
I finished the stitches and wrapped the wound in clean gauze. I taped it down, checked the edges, and stepped back. My hands still weren't shaking. I was proud of that.
"Fifty dollars," I said. "Or trade equivalent."
He blinked. "What?"
"The fee," I said. "Fifty dollars."
He stared at me. I met his eyes for the first time since he'd walked in. They were the same. Brown. Warm once. Not warm now.
"You're alive," he said. Like he needed to say it out loud to believe it.
"Fifty dollars," I repeated. "Or leave."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and set three twenties on the counter. His hand was shaking. Mine wasn't.
"Keep the change," he said quietly.
I didn't touch the bills. I just looked at him.
"You should go," I said.
He stood. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something else. I waited. He didn't.
He walked to the door, paused with his hand on the handle, and looked back.
"I thought you were dead," he said.
"I was," I said.
He flinched. Then he left.
The bell chimed. The door closed. I stood there for a long time, staring at the twenties on the counter.
Then my hands started shaking.
I locked the door. Flipped the sign to Closed. Went upstairs to the apartment above the shop and sat on the edge of my bed with my father's silver medallion in my palm.
I pressed my thumb into the hollow backing. The metal was cool. Familiar. I'd carried it every day for six years and I still didn't know why.
Ember stirred again. Not the warning growl from earlier. Something else. Older. Quieter. Like she was trying to remember something she'd forgotten.
I closed my fist around the medallion and lay down without taking off my shoes.
I didn't sleep.
