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I also knew what would occupy my next work lunch hour. I needed to visit Arcane Tomes, the mystical bookstore recommended by her.
It was less than ten miles away. Coincidence? Probably not. It was more like destiny.
* * *
The bookstore was everything I had hoped for. It was an anachronistic shop that steadfastly clung to the present, filled with the aroma of aged paper and leather. Dust motes floated lazily in the shafts of light streaming from the antiquated fixtures hanging from the ceiling.
It looked like every nook and cranny held the universe's secrets written across the pages of ancient books.
The proprietor looked up from behind the counter as I entered. He had silver hair that flowed gracefully down to his shoulders and keen eyes that seemed to see right through me.
"Ah, you’re a seeker," he said as he greeted me.
"You could say that," I admitted.
He immediately began to take me through aisles of groaning bookshelves, guiding me through sections labeled "Alchemy," "Hermetic Philosophy," and "Astral Projection." I was journeying deeper into a world I’d always dismissed in my role as a confirmed skeptic.
Finally, he stopped in front of a shelf marked "Spectral Relations." His long, nimble fingers danced across the spines before selecting a book that looked centuries old.
"This may be what you're looking for," he said, handing me the book.
Embossed on the worn leather cover were mysterious symbols, some resembling arcane runes, others like fantastical glyphs. I opened the book carefully, as if the pages were made of butterfly wings, delicate and irreplaceable.
And there it was—a ritual that promised to turn a spirit back into a human, if only for a single night.
"Looks like you found your treasure," the proprietor said, his voice tinged with a curious blend of skepticism and encouragement.
"It seems so," I replied, my eyes still riveted to the text. "How much is this?"
The man scratched his chin thoughtfully. "For you? Consider it an investment. Fifty dollars."
I blinked. "That's it? For a book like this?"
He smiled. "Some things have a value that transcends money. But for the purposes of capitalism, fifty dollars will suffice."
Handing him my credit card, I marveled at the turn my life had taken. From normal—well, almost normal—to the guy looking for ritual instructions to connect with his spectral love.
The proprietor handed me my card back along with a receipt. He carefully wrapped the book in brown paper and tied it with a piece of twine.
"May your search bring you the answers you seek," he said, handing me the package.
"And may your shop continue to serve as a gateway for seekers," I replied, feeling that such a place deserved a fittingly poetic farewell.
* * *
The items the ritual demanded were daunting:
•A moonstone from a witch's altar
•The feather of a crow born under a new moon
•The ash of a burnt love letter
Each item seemed like a quest on its own.
But the more complex they were to find, the more obsessed I became. Every Craigslist meetup and esoteric shop visit was another piece of a cosmic puzzle.
I couldn't tell Ben about my plan. Not yet. But my days took on a new rhythm, a drumbeat of determination echoing each step. The first item on the list was a moonstone from a witch’s altar.
