The rain had finally stopped, leaving Avalon's front window streaked with faint rivulets. Inside, the store glowed softly under the same warm LED lights that had witnessed so much lately. The shelves were fully stocked—candy bars, ramen packets, soda bottles in neat rows as usual—and the bell over the door lay silent, the day's bustle temporarily finished.
John and Lorna stood behind the counter, each with a mug in hand. It was quiet—so quiet that John could hear the hum of the back refrigerator and the distant drip of leftover rainwater.
They were sharing a simple moment, surrounded by the gentle pulse of their carefully built life.
Bob pushed open the door at the last possible second, rain jacket soaked, face tired but determined. He trudged in, removed his hat, and smiled faintly.
They seated him in the Den and poured him a drink—whiskey, neat.
He lifted the glass in a small toast.
"I've gotta break camp for a while," he said, voice low. "Lie low. Medallion's got the wrong kind of attention."
He paused and looked at John and Lorna, his gaze softening.
"Thank you—for giving me peace. For giving me a home, even for a moment. I'll be back."
He slipped a small slip of paper onto the counter. "Something you two might find… useful. My thanks."
John nodded. "Don't be a stranger."
Bob stood, adjusted his jacket, and walked out into the night.
They watched him go from the Den window until he disappeared around the corner.
Lorna exhaled, her face soft in the amber glow.
"He'll be okay."
John nodded but made no promises.
"We should close," he said. "Sleep through it."
She agreed with a shy smile, locking the front door and dimming the lights.
The next morning Avalon opened to the same trickle of customers—unchanged, unhurried, still breaking even. Nothing flashy, but everything steady.
John replaced his usual broom with a metal baseball bat, tucked behind the counter: a simple measure, a silent warning.
Lorna watched him adjust it in the stand.
"You sure?"
He held it easy. "Just in case."
She nodded and turned back to the shelf. "It's good."
That afternoon in the Den, they worked together.
Lorna spread magnetism-related articles out across a low table, sticky tabs marking paragraphs.
John sat beside her, reading over shoulders. "So you can attract metallic objects… stop blades midair."
She nodded, flipping pages. "And possibly more. I want to see what else."
John smiled. "Caution first. But dream big."
She looked at him, fear in her eyes. "I don't want you to—like, judge me."
He leaned forward. "Why would I?"
Her voice quiet, she whispered: "You build places to help people... I'm different."
He reached across and squeezed her hand. "Your magnetism's not wrong. It's you. My parents used to say: 'Protect first. Ask questions later.'"
He gently tapped the Den wall. "My mother's diary. She wrote it down. They built this place to protect, not to judge."
Lorna blinked. "I forgot that."
John nodded. "But you're part of Avalon. Your power? It's part too."
Together they set simple experiments:
A paper clip delicately suspended and controlled with Lorna's field.
A compass needle slightly deflected when she focused.
A half-metal fork that hovered above the table—slow movement, but unmistakable.
John watched, his smile growing.
"So it's not just stopping blades," he said softly. "It's potential."
Lorna nodded. "Potential."
As night settled again, they left Avalon's doors locked and lights on low.
They slept through it, the calm wrapping around them like a protective blanket.
And in their sleep, dreams flickered of what the future might hold—magnets and heroes, hidden medallions, and quiet places that could hold whole worlds.