I didn’t see the new world.

  I smelled it.

  Specifically, it smelled like someone had detonated a floral-scented warhead in the stairwell. My nose burned. My eyes watered. I already knew who was responsible.

  Angelina Butterfield.

  I had no idea what possessed Mr. Butterfield to name his daughter Angelina—maybe he sensed early on she’d be a walking perfume ad with zero concept of personal space. Or maybe it was irony. Either way, Mrs. Butterfield was one of a kind.

  You could live with most of her eccentricities. But two things made her absolutely unbearable.

  First: she believed perfume wasn’t a personal pleasure but a shared punishment. You didn’t smell Angelina. You survived her.

  Second: her demon-spawn of a dog. Leopold. A chihuahua with the fury of a pit bull and the soul of a lawnmower. And of course, he was always off-leash.

  I sighed. Today was already off to a strange start, and now I was bracing for a high-pitched bark hurricane.

  I opened the building door just in time for Leopold to rocket at me, snarling like I’d personally insulted his bloodline. He skidded to a stop, baring his fangs and making a very serious effort to eat my shoelaces.

  “Don’t mind him, Matthew,” said Angelina cheerfully. “He’s just playing.”

  She stood behind him, dressed in a faded pink suit with giant roses sewn onto the lapels, sleeves, and hat. She looked like a flowerbed had come to life and decided it needed a Yorkie.

  Angelina radiated confidence and calm. Even if Leopold latched onto someone’s femoral artery, she’d probably smile and say he was just being “spirited.”

  I was already on edge. My life was unraveling into a weird magical mess, my roommate was an imp, and my future looked like an M. Night Shyamalan plot twist. I did the only rational thing.

  “Begone,” I muttered.

  And Leopold—God bless him—obeyed.

  He turned and bolted into the bushes like a bat out of hell. The underbrush crackled and thrashed as he disappeared at full speed.

  Angelina gasped and chased after him, roses fluttering like battle flags. She didn’t even have time to scold me.

  I blinked. My brain caught up about five seconds too late.

  Wait... what?

  Did that actually work?

  I turned around, scanning for another test subject. Across the street stood a scruffy man in his fifties, chain-smoking and contemplating the universe.

  I strode up with the confidence of a game show finalist and raised my hand dramatically.

  “You no longer smoke,” I declared.

  He gave me a blank stare. Then, very deliberately, took a long drag and blew the smoke right at me.

  “Ain’t that cute,” he rasped.

  I sighed and walked away.

  Okay. So maybe it doesn’t work on everyone.

  Still... that dog ran. And that meant something.

  ———

  Still buzzing from the Leopold incident, I figured… why not test the waters?

  If I could banish a demon chihuahua with a single word, maybe my luck had finally flipped. I mean, I’d spent my whole life being the punchline of the universe. Maybe now, the joke was over.

  So I made a detour.

  The corner store looked like it had been built around the clerk, not the other way around. She barely moved when I walked in—just flicked a glance at me over the top of a gossip magazine.

  “You guys got scratch-offs?” I asked.

  She grunted. “Over there. Bottom shelf. From a buck and up.”

  I picked ten. The bright, colorful kind that promise yachts and million-dollar smiles.

  Back in the car, I scratched them one by one.

  Ticket one: nothing.

  Ticket two: nope.

  Three, four, five—same story.

  Ticket nine: congratulations! You win... 50 bucks.

  Wow. A whole fifty. I’d spent a hundred.

  I sighed, gathered the whole glittering pile, and dumped it in the trash outside.

  The clerk didn’t even blink as I passed her again.

  “No luck?” she asked, not sounding surprised.

  “Yeah, just fifty,” I muttered.

  “That’s still luck,” she said. “Most get nothin’.”

  I gave her a thumbs-up and left.

  Okay. So gambling’s off the table. Makes sense. Grimm said this wasn’t that kind of magic.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  And deep down, I already knew.

  This wasn’t about easy wins or shortcuts.

  Still… would’ve been nice to win a car.

  ———

  Pulling into the restaurant lot, I braced myself.

  This was it. The reckoning. I’d failed to collect payment on a sushi order. That meant the till didn’t balance. Which meant hellfire from the assistant manager, who hated being called that because she ran the place like a warship.

  Zoe Mercer.

  Beautiful, terrifying, smarter than everyone in the room, and absolutely ruthless when it came to schedules, receipts, or anyone daring to breathe out of turn.

  I’d prepared my speech. My apology. The cash to cover the missing order. I even rehearsed a version where I coughed twice and pretended to have the flu.

  Instead…

  “Matt?” she blinked as I walked in. “What are you doing here? You’re not even on shift today.”

  Wait. What?

  No sarcasm. No icy glare. She twirled a blonde curl around her finger and looked at me like I was… normal. Maybe even tolerable.

  I froze. My mental script dissolved like bad sushi.

  “I—uh, I was just passing by,” I stammered. “Thought I’d check in.”

  Zoe nodded, still smiling. Smiling.

  Had she been body-snatched?

  “Well, you look like crap,” she said sweetly. “Rough night?”

  “Something like that.”

  I reached into my pocket for the money, but she waved it off.

  “Oh, right,” she added casually. “The owner dropped in this morning. Gave everyone a little bonus.”

  She handed me an envelope.

  I opened it outside, expecting a gift card to a noodle place or something. Inside — three hundred dollars in cash.

  My jaw dropped.

  That was… not normal.

  Zoe hated everyone equally. She didn’t flirt. She didn’t gift. And she definitely didn’t let missed orders slide.

  Had the Hist… shifted her?

  Had I?

  Was I… influencing things?

  The idea made my stomach lurch—but not in a bad way. It felt like stepping into an alternate timeline. And honestly?

  I kinda liked it.

  ———

  The key had a red tag with a fading black number: 6.

  It looked like the kind of thing you’d use at a bus terminal locker—or maybe one of those grocery store cubbies for customers with backpacks.

  Not magical.

  But I knew it mattered.

  I pulled up my phone and checked the map. A couple of corner stores popped up near where the old woman had lived. One was a QuickMart, the other a Dollar Depot.

  I trusted the vibe and headed toward the QuickMart first.

  ?

  The air still smelled like salt and damp pine needles. Typical coastal Maine morning. Belfast was waking up slow.

  The QuickMart had that “open all night, seen some things” look—flickering sign, faded posters in the window, a snow shovel still leaning against the wall.

  Inside, the buzz of refrigerators and the low murmur of a radio wrapped around me.

  There they were. Lockers near the entrance.

  Number six.

  Already had a key in it.

  Of course it did.

  Strike one.

  ?

  I didn’t stick around. Grabbed a gum pack to avoid suspicion, nodded to the clerk, and backed out fast.

  Next stop: Dollar Depot. The kind of place that sells everything from plastic tablecloths to knockoff Pop-Tarts.

  Same layout. Same wall of lockers.

  Locker six looked promising. Locked.

  My heartbeat ticked up as I pulled out the key and slid it in.

  Didn’t fit.

  Not even close.

  A woman behind me cleared her throat.

  “You need somethin’, hon? That’s my locker.”

  I muttered something about wrong store and practically sprinted out.

  ———

  Back in the car, I sat for a moment, staring at the key in my palm.

  This wasn’t just about trying stores. It was about feeling where to go.

  I zoomed back in on the map. Another dot popped up just a little further out.

  Riverside Spirits & Wine — one of those liquor shops tucked into the base of an old mill building, the kind that still had rusted nails sticking out of the doorframe.

  Perfect.

  ———

  Inside, the place was dim and cool. It smelled like cardboard, cleaning supplies, and something vaguely herbal—maybe peppermint schnapps.

  No music. Just the hum of a freezer and a sleepy guy behind the counter flipping through a gun catalog.

  I didn’t even look at him. Just walked straight to the lockers tucked near the bathroom.

  Locker six. Locked.

  I slipped in the key.

  It turned.

  Click.

  I opened it slowly, expecting… I don’t know. Glowing light? Whispering spirits?

  Just a bag. White plastic. Tied at the top.

  I grabbed it, grabbed a tiny bottle of cheap brandy to be polite, and left.

  Outside, I sat in the car and looked at the bag in my lap.

  That old lady?

  Legend.

  ———

  Back in the car, I didn’t start the engine.

  I just sat there, bag in my lap, heart thudding like I’d stolen something ancient and sacred.

  The plastic crinkled as I opened it.

  First out: a pendant.

  Gold-plated, hanging on a silver chain, with a small engraved emblem of a closed eye. The moment it touched my skin, a strange warmth bloomed in my chest—not heat, exactly, but… calm. Like someone had pressed pause on the world.

  I didn’t put it on. Not yet. But I already knew: this was no trinket.

  Next came a cigarette case. Brass, maybe gold-plated too. Old-school, with a slim flint wheel and a tiny striker built into the side.

  I didn’t smoke. Neither, I assumed, did the old woman.

  But the moment I held it, I felt… anchored. Like it wanted to be in a hand, not a pocket.

  Okay, maybe it’s just heavy.

  The third item hit different.

  A knife.

  Not a kitchen blade, not a folding tool. This was a knife meant to be worn. Thick, heavy, ritualistic. I unsheathed it slowly. Wide blade. Simple hilt. Worn, but not rusted.

  When I gripped it, something inside me clicked.

  Not fear. Not power. Just… yes.

  I slipped it back into its sheath. There was a loop on the back. I could wear it at my waist—discreet, under a jacket. Not that I was planning on stabbing anyone. But still. It felt like I’d always owned it.

  Then came the pouch.

  Canvas. Drawstring. Inside—coins. Silver ones. No symbols. No year, no mint. Just weight and age and a faint tang of something… cold.

  Money? Maybe. If I was desperate. But part of me knew selling them would be stupid. Like pawning heirlooms from a cursed museum.

  And finally — the journal.

  Thick. Leather-bound. Empty.

  Every page was clean. Blank. But I could feel it humming. Like it was waiting to be written. Or maybe waiting to reveal.

  That was the moment it hit me.

  This wasn’t just a bunch of stuff. This was a toolkit. A starter pack for whatever life I’d just fallen into.

  My new life.

  I rewrapped everything, tucked the pouch back into the bag, and placed it gently on the passenger seat. My fingers lingered on the ignition.

  The car started on the first try.

  Of course it did.

  I smiled. Just a little.

  Time to find out what any of it meant.

  And I knew exactly who to ask.

  Well—not who.

  What.