Dear Celia

I

Mᴀʏ

I hadn’t gone into town much before. Maybe it was the fact that I’d been living with Auntie Marie for five years and still had not learned to navigate myself through the friendly streets of Forge, Colorado, or that for the same five years I hardly ever left the cozy comfort and solitude of Auntie Marie’s house.

Or maybe it was because I feared the overwhelming intimidation of other people wandering around me, looking at me and thinking, “That’s Dale Anker’s son.”

Dale Anker.

“The one who moved to the city?” they’d ask.

 “The psychopath,” they’d whisper.

“Poor children…”

“I heard Marie’s got them living with her now…”

But as I stood in front of the pale brown building tucked in between a busy-looking Starbucks and a joyous-looking McDonald’s, I managed to ignore the stares people shot at me.

Masterfully tucking the batch of 12 oatmeal-raisin cookies Auntie Marie had instructed me to bring underneath my left arm, I swiftly pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper from my pocket and squinted at it. On it was a photo dated 2008 of a new-looking dark brown bookstore with freshly painted, bright orange letters spelling out the word Haven’s just above the large mahogany door entrance. Giant, clear, bay windows displayed a beautiful collection of books stacked upon each other neatly and set on smooth wooden tables.

I redirected my gaze from the photo to the building in front of me, with the gaping cracks trailing along the sides and windows splattered with mud. The yellow letters displayed above the entrance spelled out Ven.

I folded the photo back into my pocket and hastily made my way toward what appeared to be the bookstore Haven’s. I stopped at the entrance, tilting my head to peer through the windows. They were covered in too much mud to actually provide any sight, so I turned my attention back to the large mahogany door in front of me and pushed against it. The door hinges moaned with a low creeeeeak as I pushed it open.

The first thing that hit me when I entered the warm bookstore was the smell. Musky, yet soothing scents seemed to lift off the yellowing pages of old books with tearing spines. Haven’s smelled like earth, like a forest growing old with age.

I wiped my wet shoes on the welcome mat and pulled my hood off from my head, shaking the cool raindrops off as I did so. It didn’t usually rain much in Colorado, but the month of May decided to suddenly send buckets of water upon our heads after coming out of a dry, bone-chilling winter.

“Hello?” I called out warily, clutching the container in my hand. Auntie Marie hadn’t specifically said why I had to bring a batch of cookies to the bookstore in town, just that “something’s come up” and she’s “oh so very sorry for Mrs. Hawkins” and that “she can always come to me if she needs to”.

“Hello?” I repeated. When silence was the only answer that came, I made my way deeper into the bookstore, meandering my way through the towering bookshelves as I did so and staring up at them in fascination. I poked my head into the Mystery/Thriller isle. “Is anybody-“

“Sorry, but I don’t think we’re open,” a voice said, and I turned, finding myself staring at a dark-haired girl about my age. Her hair was pulled up into a messy ponytail, and the glasses resting on her nose framed her enigmatic eyes. Her skin was pale, dotted with feathery freckles, and her eyes were red and puffy. She looked like she had just run a marathon.