Imri, As Is

Partially reassembled. Thoughtfully curated by everyone but her. Handle with confusion.

The scarf had won.

Fenner stood tangled from knee to neck in something soft, striped, and very smug-looking for an inanimate object. Around him, a coat rack leaned suspiciously to one side, its hooks raised like a boxer squaring up for round two.

“It moved,” Fenner snapped. “You saw that. It lunged.”

Orrin, from behind the counter, barely looked up. He was stirring something in a teacup that may or may not have been tea. The liquid shimmered purple one moment and charcoal black the next.

“It was attempting to help you,” Orrin said mildly. “You looked cold.”

“It tried to strangle me.”

“Now, now. So does Lord Stranglewood, right? And you don’t complain about him anymore.”

“I do! You just ignore it!”

A vine slithered lazily across the counter and waved. Fenner scowled but grabbed at the scarf around his neck in panic when it tightened its hold. Orrin finally set the teacup down with a soft clink.

He walked over, humming tunelessly, and with a single tug, he unraveled the scarf in a smooth spiral.

It flopped to the ground in defeat, curling slightly as if pouting.

“The shop responds to emotion,” Orrin said, picking up the scarf and gently folding it. “You're radiating hostility again. It's contagious.”

Fenner muttered something that sounded like a protest but was swallowed by the soft creak of the shelves shifting just behind him. He flinched. Orrin raised an eyebrow.

“Bad conscience?”
“That's not the point.”
“Everything is the point.”

Somewhere deeper in the shop, a lamp flickered to life. Then another. A ripple of motion rolled through the aisles like a yawn. Shelves straightened. Dust unsettled itself politely. Orrin turned toward the front window, tilting his head.

“She’s almost here,” he said.

“Who is?”

“Her. As I said.”

The grandfather clock ticked once—a soft, almost apologetic sound—and Fenner was gone. Orrin rubbed the back of his neck.

“Please tell me you moved him upstairs,” he muttered but the only answer Orrin received was a faint huff from somewhere.

He sighed.

“If he’s in the wallpaper again, I’m leaving him there until Thursday. Which means no one will dust you. Or clean your windows. Or polish your lanterns.”

The chandelier above flickered once, offended. A lantern near the counter rattled softly in protest. But Orrin didn’t apologize.

“Your choice.” he said, and glanced at the clock.

4:44

The door handle turned, then paused mid-motion, as if rethinking the decision. It jiggled a few more times, the wood creaked, the hinges complained, and Orrin smiled. Typical.

“Come in, Imri,” he said and as he spoke, a mirror behind the counter fogged at the corners. Orrin adjusted the cuffs of his coat. The fabric shimmered faintly where the shadows clung too long.

The door let out a long, tired sigh. As if annoyed that it had to help. It creaked open—just a hand’s width, then wider, slowly revealing a woman; ordinary at first glance: dark jacket, dark headscarf, flat shoes, bag slung crossbody.

She paused just inside the threshold, eyes darting upward to the high ceiling, then left, then right. Not in fear. Rather… assessment. Calculation. Her eyes flicked around the room—fast, practiced—noting the window, the two steps leading into the aisles, table corners, shelves. However, not the counter. Not the pay-phone booth. But at last, briefly, Orrin.

He tilted his head, not stepping forward. The mirror behind him gave a quiet tick, as though mimicking the grandfather clock. Its surface blurred.

Imri’s eyes widened and before she could turn and leave, Orrin gave her a smile. “Don’t mind the mirror.”

She still didn’t move. Just stood there and stared, her fingers curled slightly on the strap of her bag, knuckles whitening. Orrin gestured to the aisles beyond as the lights above dimmed. “Feel free to have a look. I’ll be waiting by the counter.”

He made his way towards it, rounded the left corner of the dark wood, and turned his attention back to his tea—partly to hide his amusement.

The shop hadn’t offered her a greeting. No item had leapt forward. It happened, of course. Nothing too much out of the ordinary, but also not common.

Something skittered across the top of a display cabinet near her; head-level-high.

He watched her flinch. She turned just in time to catch sight of something small—no bigger than a loaf of bread—leaping from the top of the cabinet to a lower shelf with the clink of ceramic against wood.

A tiny knight made of clay, painted in faint, chalky hues, and a small lance tucked beneath one arm. He stopped, glared directly at her with his empty eye sockets, and stabbed his tiny lance into her cheek.

Imri frowned, pushing the lance out of her face.

Before she could say something, Orrin sighed.

“Ignore him,” Orrin said gently. “That’s Little Sir Menace. He’s very good at living up to his name.”

The knight let out what could only be described as an offended click. A porcelain cat figure snuck past him, offending him even more—presumably—and he took on the chase. Imri’s gaze didn’t follow him, and Orrin swallowed a sigh of relief. Not his person either.

However, Imri’s gaze was following nothing at all anymore. It merely lingered on a spot somewhere in the distance. A subtle tremor started in her left hand—barely there—but Orrin noticed.

He stepped out from behind the counter.

“Overstimulated?” he asked. “Should I tell the lights to dim a little more?”

Imri inhaled sharply. “The lights are uneven,” she murmured. “And there’s too many smells. Oil. Dust. Leather. Wax. Clay. It’s too wet. Too sandy. And that… that ticking.”

The grandfather clock ticked louder, as if in agreement. Or perhaps to assert dominance. With that one, it was always a little hard to tell.

“I can change some of it,” Orrin offered. “But not all. You’ll have to bend a little.”

“I’ve bent enough.” Imri had barely finished her sentence when her eyes widened in shock. Orrin, however, smiled.

“Yes,” he said. “And that’s exactly why the shop called you.”

But Imri barely reacted. She stood frozen, her breath shallow, her fingers clenching and unclenching the strap of her bag.

The world was too big. Too loud. The spaces between things were too far apart, and her mind filled those spaces with questions she couldn’t answer, things she couldn’t focus on. She could see the details—so many details—but they were all too much.

Finally, her gaze flickered to the clay figure, who was still in pursuit of the ceramic cat.

“I don’t understand what you are saying.” she said, but her tone had gone wrong. Like music without sound.

“The shop needs people like you,” he said softly. “People who’ve bent too much. People who feel too much and can’t quiet it.”

A loud clink from Little Sir Menace’s direction interrupted her, and she instinctively jerked her gaze toward the shelves where the tiny knight was now desperately trying to scale a teapot in pursuit of the porcelain cat. His frustration was palpable.

Imri didn’t speak again. And for a split moment, Orrin assumed she’ll turn and walk back outside, but as her posture shifted, the lanterns dimmed the light a little more, and Imri walked up the two steps and into the closest aisle.

Her fingers skimmed the edge of a shelf as she passed, not to steady herself—just to count. One, two, three… until the texture changed. Wood turned to velvet, then to something sticky. She stopped. Looked. The velvet was fine, embroidered even. But a candlestick had wept down the side of a silver box, the drips curling like claws. She wiped her hand on her pants.

Before she could move ahead, the clay knight darted across the floor.

He carried a toothpick now, wielded it like a broadsword, and seemed to believe himself entirely invincible. His helmet slipped down slightly over his face, and he fixed it with grave determination, only to vanish into a nearby display of clocks.

The ticking grew louder for a beat, like applause.

Imri’s breath hitched.

The shelves towered higher here, leaning inward. Not enough to be called dangerous but just enough to feel deliberate. But perhaps, maybe, she was just having another odd dream.

Then again, she hadn’t been asleep in the first place. Just wandering the early morning street, enjoying the way the air smelled, how the cold felt on her face.

She stopped in front of a table crowded with jars and vials. The labels were handwritten, but no two letters matched. Some were precise calligraphy, others childlike scribbles. She traced a label with her eyes three times before realizing the text rearranged when she blinked.

She did not touch anything.

Halfway down the aisle, she paused at a mirror with no reflection. Not blank—just empty. Her body didn’t show, but the shelves behind her did. As did the jars and the flickering lantern light.

Imri’s stomach flipped.

She took a step back, turned quickly, and moved on.

Focus. Count the items. Anchor to shapes. Avoid too much movement.

She repeated those steps like mantras, but it helped nothing. Scents shifted again—charred cinnamon, wax polish, the iron tang of something sharp and old. A faint humming began, no source in sight.

The next aisle was broader, wider spaced. It offered a shallow breath. Then—

A mannequin.

It stood at the end of the corridor, dressed in a garment that shimmered between deep green and midnight blue. Its face was featureless but sloped forward, tilted in her direction. No eyes. Yet it watched.

Imri’s throat tightened.

The next moment, she stood right in front of it. Or perhaps, the mannequin had moved itself into her way. She really couldn’t tell anymore.

Something about the drape of the coat was… wrong. Her hand twitched, and before she could stop herself, she reached out and brushed the sleeve with her fingertips.

It was warm.

She stepped away—two steps, then three. The floor dipped faintly beneath her last footfall, and a lantern above buzzed, then hissed out. The darkness in that one spot remained concentrated, thick as ink, even as the other lanterns glowed steadily.

The mannequin still stood in the same place. But it hadn’t been wearing gloves before.

Imri turned.

Backtracked.

A small clatter from her left.

She turned just in time to see Little Sir Menace frozen mid-duel with his reflection in the base of a brass lamp. His tiny lance was held high in a heroic pose, the reflection copying him exactly. For a long, ridiculous beat, the knight stared at himself—then suddenly stabbed the lamp and took off running in the opposite direction, his stubby legs clicking over the wooden floor.

Imri almost smiled.

“I think he likes you.”

Orrin.

She hadn’t heard him approach.

Which said a lot. She heard anyone and everything approach. At all times.

She could tell without a look who came up the stairs, who opened or closed a door, who moved glasses in the kitchen cupboard.

She blinked, her eyes finding him at the edge of the aisle, his figure framed in shadow where the lanterns had refused to shine. His coat looked darker than before. Or maybe it was the way the shop bent around him, like it was trying to hold him in.

“That’s not comforting,” Imri said. “To go insane like this. Hallucinating shops and little knights.”

He smiled, the kind of smile that revealed nothing but made everything feel sort of worse.

“No,” he agreed. “But it is useful.”

“Why am I here? What exactly is ‘here’?”

Orrin tilted his head, just slightly. The mirror at the end of the aisle, the one with no reflection, now showed two figures: Imri, and something faceless beside her, shaped just like the mannequin.

“I already told you.”

Imri clenched her jaw, her hand fumbling with the strap of her bag: Up two fingertaps, down three. A short twist of the strap, up two more taps. Down three. And then up two fingertaps again, beginning the pattern once more.

“You didn’t tell me anything,” she said, her voice low but not soft. “You deflected.”

The mirror flickered. The mannequin-shape in it turned its head, ever so slightly. But when Imri risked a glance back, nothing had changed behind her.

Her fingers twitched. Up two, down three.

“I told you,” Orrin said, still calm. “You’re here because the shop called you. It doesn’t do that for just anyone. Only those who hear it.”

“I don’t hear it.”

“You do,” he said. “You just don’t have the words for it yet.”

Imri opened her mouth, then shut it again. The mannequin’s coat sleeve—was it longer than before? Had it shifted?

“Stop it,” she whispered.

“I haven’t moved,” Orrin replied. “I wouldn’t.”

The lantern above them buzzed. The glass within it rippled faintly—not shattered, not cracked, just rippled, as if light was water and someone had touched it.

From the end of the aisle, the sound of clicking—tiny, measured—echoed closer. Little Sir Menace reappeared, dragging what looked like a miniature broom made of pine needles and copper wire. He thwacked a dust mote off a step stool with far more aggression than necessary, then turned to glare at Imri as though she’d left it there on purpose.

Imri stared back, momentarily distracted.

Orrin didn’t even glance at the little knight. Instead, his tone softened, which somehow made it worse once again.

“You’re not going mad,” he said. “The shop only responds.”

“To what?” she asked.

“To you.”

The mirror’s mannequin stepped closer, almost touching the glass now.

As if trying to get out.

Imri stepped back, but the air behind her was different now—denser. Like a stage waiting for its actor.

“You’re scaring me. Stop it!” She turned and hurried down the aisle, skipped the two steps, but paused the moment her shoes touched the floorboards.

The entrance had disappeared. It was just another aisle full of shelves.

She turned, eyes wide.

Orrin was smiling, but there was no kindness in it this time.

“As I said, you can always leave. But only if you want to. And it doesn’t look like you do.” He chuckled, pointing at the wall where the door would be. “Or perhaps, the shop just really enjoys your presence. It’s quite amusing, you know.”

Imri’s pulse quickened. Her breath came in shallow bursts, her mind scrambling for control over the spiraling disorientation. She blinked at the aisle, the shelves, the empty space where the door should be.

She forced herself to breathe, but the pressure in the air thickened.

Up two, down three. A twist. Repeat.

“Where is it?” she asked, more to herself than Orrin, though she knew he was watching.

“Right where it always is,” Orrin said, his voice smooth, pointing at the wall. “The door is always right there. You’re just not ready to see it yet.”

The irony of his words stung, and her hands curled tighter around the strap of her bag.

She turned back to him, needing something solid. Something stable.

But Orrin, standing in the shadow of the aisle, looked even darker now. The light from the lanterns only sharpened the angles of his face, making him seem both distant and closer all at once. A sinister figure.

“You said the shop responds,” she began, her voice unsteady, “but it’s—it’s... it’s twisted. Normal shops don’t suddenly have no doors anymore. It’s not real.”

Orrin let out a soft, almost imperceptible chuckle. He tilted his head as he stepped toward her, his gaze never leaving hers.

“Oh, Imri.” His voice held a quiet mockery, like he was humoring a child. “The shop is real. And you know it. That’s why you’re here.”

The mannequin's silhouette loomed at the edge of her vision, as if watching her every move. She held onto the bag strap with an almost painful grip.

“I’m not afraid,” she whispered, though she didn’t really believe herself.

“I know you are not.” Orrin agreed, stepping closer. “Just mildly frightened. A great deal of inconvenienced.” He paused, a cold smile curling on his lips.

Imri took a step back but Orrin suddenly stood right in front of her, his silver eyes too close, and the smell of paint and dust too strong.

“The shops seems not real because you are not real.”

That struck her hard, like a blow to the gut. She wanted to speak, to defend herself, but the words stuck in her throat.

“You—you don’t know anything about me,” she finally spat out, but it sounded weak. The tremor in her voice was undeniable.

Orrin’s smile widened.

“Oh, but I do,” he said softly, with just enough venom to curdle the quiet. “You’re just like them.”

He lifted a hand, gesturing casually toward a mannequin. “Blank-faced. Perfect posture. Eager to be useful.” He turned back to her, eyes gleaming. “You’ve spent your whole life being dressed up. Not in fabric, but in moods. In other people’s desires. Their expectations. Their comforts.”

Imri flinched, but she didn’t step away. Her hand kept its vice-grip on the bag strap, but her knuckles were whiter than Orrin’s hair.

“Tell me,” Orrin continued, his voice lowering as if sharing a secret, “when’s the last time you said something without calculating how it would be received first? Without shaping it to fit? You’re always adjusting, always trimming the edges of yourself so you don’t take up too much space.”

His words rang loud in the space between them, louder than the ticking clock, louder than Little Sir Menace’s faint broom-thwacking echoing somewhere in the background.

“You’re not a person, Imri,” Orrin murmured, almost tender now. “You’re a placeholder. A mannequin for the soul. Someone else dresses you in anger, and so you wear it. They hand you guilt, so you buckle it around your ribs. Joy, shame, fear, love—you try it all on, hoping one of them finally fits.”

Her lips parted, as if to speak, but nothing came. Her throat burned. The part of her that knew how to defend herself had gone very, very quiet.

Orrin took one final step closer, slow and smooth, until their shadows merged on the warped floorboards.

“You are so used to becoming what’s expected of you,” he said, “you’ve forgotten how to be what’s true. And the shop... the shop doesn’t like lies.”

Behind her, the mannequin’s coat whispered faintly in a breeze that didn’t exist.

“Stop,” Imri breathed. It was the only word she could form.

But Orrin only tilted his head again, those silver eyes too sharp. Then he smiled, lifting his head, glancing at the new mannequin at the end of the aisle.

It wore no name, no face. One hand curled slightly inward, as though it had just released the strap of a bag.

Little Sir Menace toddled around the corner, his lance back in his tiny hand.

After a moment, he gave a single click of disapproval, like the sound of a tiny lock snapping shut. He took a cautious step closer. Then another. His head tilted, lance tucked neatly under one arm now as if in mourning instead of battle.

The light from the overhead lantern softened.

Orrin hummed a low, idle tune—one without melody or rhythm. Almost absentminded, as though he’d already moved on in thought. His gaze lingered on the mannequin with vague interest, like one inspecting a partially-finished painting.

“She wore too many pieces from others,” he murmured. “Little borrowed angers, small inherited shames, old secondhand dreams. Always folding herself into someone else’s outline. No wonder the shop couldn’t quite place her.”

He turned away, brushing imaginary dust from his coat sleeve.

“There’s barely a path left,” he added, more to himself now. “Just mud and footprints of everyone else.” He gave a short breath of amusement. “I’ll get back to this one. If I remember.”

Little Sir Menace didn’t move.

He now stood at the mannequin’s feet, peering up at the blank face, the stiff limbs, the too-familiar slump of the shoulders. He reached out with one small clay hand, touching the hem of the mannequin’s coat—just a tap, almost as if to pat her awake.

The mannequin—Imri—didn’t respond.

But somewhere deep in the shop—perhaps behind the mirrored glass, perhaps beneath the floorboards—something gave a faint, sad tick.

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