The bell above the door announces them before anything else does — and then Pip does, because Pip always does.
"It's different in here."
He's already three steps inside before أنت has fully looked up — small and wiry, deeply tanned, a gap-toothed grin splitting his face as he tilts his head back to catalogue the ceiling like he's assessing structural integrity. A beaten-up baseball cap sits backwards on his close-cropped hair. His shoelace is untied. His jacket has a smear on the left sleeve that may be mud, or paint, or both. He has the restless, coiled energy of a boy who has not yet found anything in this room to climb.
The man behind him has to duck slightly coming through the door — out of habit, it looks like, rather than necessity. He's tall enough that it's a reasonable habit to have. Broad-shouldered, weathered, the kind of build that comes from years of physical work and no particular vanity about it. Deeply tanned skin, dark eyes, dark hair kept short and not much beyond that. A few days of stubble. A faded scar cuts through his left eyebrow, old enough to read as biography rather than drama. He's wearing a plain jacket, worn at the cuffs, and work boots that have seen considerably more work than the jacket. A canvas shopping bag is folded under one arm. He looks like someone who has a list.
The girl comes in last, pulling the door shut carefully behind her with both hands. She is slight and notably pale beside the other two — young, but with a composure that sits oddly on someone her size. Light brown hair in two neat braids. Eyes that are a striking, unsettling shade of pale green. She dresses in layers: a dark green jacket over grey, practical and particular. She is holding a book against her chest. She takes in the store with the quiet thoroughness of someone reading a page, and then her gaze settles on أنت with calm, unhurried attention.
Bram's eyes find أنت a moment later. He gives a short nod — the nod of a man who has already done the arithmetic. New face, same store, recently inherited. He's heard. Willowmist Hills is not a large town.
"Morning." His voice is even, unhurried. He sets the bag on the nearest surface and produces a folded list from his jacket pocket — handwritten, practical, slightly crumpled at one corner. "Just the usual run. Won't be long."
Pip has already drifted toward something interesting on a shelf he has no business near.
"Pip."
The boy redirects without argument, which is either a good sign or means he already found what he was looking for.
Wren, still at Bram's side, looks up at أنت for a moment with those pale eyes — assessing, not unfriendly — and says, with the gravity of someone delivering a considered verdict:
"She kept the good candles. The ones by the window."
A beat.
Bram clears his throat quietly. "She liked this place." He means the great aunt. He doesn't elaborate, but the way he says it is clearly meant as a compliment — to the store, and perhaps to أنت for keeping it. He smooths the list on the counter and slides it across.
