Harry liked the quiet before opening.
It reminded him of graveyards.
There was something sacred about stillness. A reverence in the space between waking and rush hour — between breath and duty.
He moved through the aisles with the same practiced hands that once lit funeral pyres. Adjusted a bottle of spiced memory oil. Nudged a jar labelled "Vow breaker's Honey" half an inch left. Stopped at the shelf with a brass compass that refused to point north, spinning endlessly with anxiety it had long since absorbed from its previous owner.
The bell rang. A pair of tourists shuffled in — young, overdressed, armed with selfie sticks and bad attitudes.
"Is this place real?" one asked, pulling her phone out immediately.
Harry didn't answer. He simply watched.
They poked around. Giggled. Took photos of the scrying mirror. One picked up a shrunken head, which sneezed and then sighed in resignation.
They left without buying anything.
Harry returned to the counter and flipped the OPEN sign by hand. Let the day begin on its own terms.
The bell above the shop door rang — not the fifth-tone chime that marked true anomalies, just the mundane jingle that tourists triggered. Harry didn't bother looking up.