I walk in and the old bell above the door chimes like it has thousands of times before, never tiring of a friendly face. Rows upon rows of treasures line the walls and the familiar scent of the shopkeeper’s coffee winds itself through the shelves. I find my home here, within the leather-bound books that swell with stories, within each and every memento that lines miles and miles of chestnut shelves. The comfort of a simple object and the tales it can tell is worth more to me than any jewel in the world.

This well trodden path, littered with uncountable footprints just like mine is all too familiar to me. My mind lays back and begins to dance as it spins through years, centuries, of tales that speak love and melancholy, loss and greatness.

Then, eyes.

Tourmaline-coloured, stark in the midst of the familiar.

I reach out with a start towards eyes that hold centuries of longing just like mine, that plead to be SEEN.

Chestnut shelves line the walls for miles and the well trodden path beneath my feet is as familiar as it’s ever been, but the shelves do not hold the porcelain trinkets and leather-bound books they once did. Rows of glass bottles filled with teeth and locks of hair in various shades of gold are scattered on every surface. Curtains in rich shades of violet hang from the high ceilings, obscuring any chance of sunlight. A desk, plain and unassuming at first glance, sits idle in the middle of the room. The scent of coffee is gone, and in its place comes pungent formaldehyde. The familiar has opened the door to the uncanny.

Footsteps, one by one, softly, softly. Dressed in black he makes his way over to the desk with a freshly fallen fawn in his arms, its legs draped over him. The only feature I can discern is its eyes. Black. Childlike and wounded, the creature is down on the desk as he carefully, methodically, reaches for something - a glint of silver from where I’m watching, petrified. As the object comes into focus it reveals itself as a carefully crafted scalpel, designed for this purpose and this purpose alone. This terrible purpose.

The fawn cries out as a spray of crimson washes over the walls, and a startled cry escapes my mouth.

He stops, if only for a moment. Then he turns.

Eyes, black, that hold centuries of longing just like mine. As the scalpel pierces my flesh, I’m pleading with him.

But he assures me; memories should be preserved, enjoyed, collected

and SEEN.