The salt spray stung Elias’ face as he stepped off the ferry at Port Seraphina. It wasn’t a dramatic arrival – no crashing waves or heroic rescue – just a tired-looking dockhand unloading his battered luggage and a palpable sense of damp, clinging stillness. The town was smaller than he'd imagined, clustered around a natural harbor scarred by centuries of relentless tides. Buildings leaned at improbable angles, painted in shades of faded ochre and grey, as if weary from decades of exposure to the sea. He pulled his threadbare tweed jacket tighter, the chill already seeping into his bones.
Mr. Silas’ Antique Shop was exactly as Elias remembered – a cluttered labyrinth of forgotten treasures and dust motes dancing in shafts of sunlight. The air smelled of beeswax, aged paper, and something vaguely metallic, like old coins. Silas himself, perched behind the counter with a magnifying glass perpetually glued to his eye, barely glanced up as Elias entered.
