The bookstore had always been my escape, but today, it felt different, almost magical. It wasn’t much of shop, more like a hovel at the end of the street. The structure was made of molded wood with a small cafe sign sitting beside the entrance with the “The Owner’s Weekly Read” written on it. This week, it was the Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie.

Walking in the store was my favorite thing about it. Hearing the bell as the door opened. The sound of boots tapping on creeking wood as you walked through the ailses of books. Classical music could be heard from the gramophone behind the counter where the owner welcomed each guest. The aroma of orange and lavender wafted straight to your nose as you passed by the burning incense. And though not much sun hit the little shop, there was always this spot near the front window where the owner hung a small floral stained glass painting that the sunset beamed through just right to see glimpses of red, yellow, blue, and purple shapes reflecting on the bookshelves. At least for a few minutes till golden hour had ended. It was like entering a grand catholic church in the peak of the day, when light peered through every window with multiple images and colors beaming brightly on the pews like the first time you hold a prism to the sun and seeing a rainbow come from the other end, and you can’t believe what God has created. It was just as silent and just as beautiful. I almost didn’t make it this time, which was as grand as the first.

However, something had changed after golden hour had passed. The place was so quiet and calm, even more-so than usual. It felt like I had stepped into my grandmother’s home but without clicking and clanging of cleaning metal. It was the atmosphere. It felt warm and welcoming, like someone’s home. There was nostalgia to it, too. It was familiar yet not. Stepping closer to the front desk, I noticed the owner was no longer there.

“That’s odd. He welcomed me only a moment ago,” I said. I looked around. Everything was where it was left. The oil lamp stay lit on the table behind the counter, dimmly glowing the small area it inhabited. The couch remained in the reading area across the fireplace. The thin aisles of books kept dark and ominous, usual to this time of night. And somehow, it seemed later than it was. I looked up at the clock hanging on the wall beside the oil lamp. The time read 8:02 pm. “That’s impossible! The sun set just a few minutes ago.” I ran outside to check the street clock, as the shop owner had a tendency to neglect winding up his clock. 8:03 pm, it read. But before I made it to the clock, the streets seemed noticably empty. Around this time, the heartbroken and lonesome would at least be standing around the entrance of the pub anticipating the first sip of relief, hearing laughter, dancing, and drunken cheers coming from inside. The only illumination would be the lights peering through the window on the cobblestoned streets and the metal street oil lamp glowing on the clock next to it. But there was nothing. Just darkness.

As I turned around to gather near the only light in town, I noticed the fireplace was put out, with the oil lamp being the only dimly lit object in the room. I examined the fireplace closer. The wood appeared as if it hadn’t been lit, let alone touched. It was like it was just for decoration, no sut on the ground or wood burnt. I decided to check the counter next noticed the backroom door was cracked, like it was waiting for me, like it was calling my name. I entered, taking the only lightsource available with me. However, nothing was down there. It was only an empty basement. Though, that seemed odd in and of itself. The owner went on and on about his projects and massive bookshelf he had in the basement, yet there was no bookshelves, books, or even a table.

“Mr. Mullens!” I shouted. I could’ve been waking him up shouting in such a small and echoed room, but it was my only chance to figure this out.

After a pause, a voice responded back from above me, “Yes? Hello?” I rushed upstairs so fast I had tripped and fallen on knee, where I had ripped a hold in my skirt. As I opened the door, I was nearly blinded by a red shape beaming on my face. You could see the sun slowly lowering through the window, smelling lavender and orange, and hearing the crackling of the fireplace. It appears nothing has changed, except me.

“Wha- How did- I don-“

“Golden hour is a magical time, wouldn’t you say?” The owner asked, standing where he once was and resting his chin on his hand as if reminiscing about a lost love. I wanted to talk. I had so many questions bouncing around in my skull, but it was like being on the top of a mountain and when you try to scream, only air releases.

“Do you wish to ask me a question, my dear?” He never once looked at me.

“How did you do that?”

I felt like I stood in front of the counter till dawn when he finally replied, “You know, they say your magic is the strongest during golden hour.” He chuckled before continuing, “That’s when my wife and I met actually. I remember I accidentally sent a vase flying at her head. It’s a good thing she never told her father.”

“Magic, Mr. Mullens? As in real magic?”

He chuckles again, “You should’ve seen it. Well, actually,” He opened his mouth in preparation, his finger pointed with eyebrows squinted as if pondering something. “I guess you already have, haven’t you?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

Mr. Mullens sat up straight with a wide smile on his face, walking to the front of the counter to face me, “Your magic has awoken, hasn’t it?” I had to lean back as to not smell his breath.

“My magic, sir?”

He waves his hands downward and looked away, “You think too much, Miss Sirona,” then he started to push me gently to the front door.

“Wait, Mr. Mullens, I-“

“It has begin, Miss Sirona, there’s no time to waste.” Stopping at the front door, I turned to look at him.

“But you’re not telling me anything, sir!” I yelled, loud enough that it ricocheted off the walls as if in a cave. I looked down from embarrassment. “Everything disappeared; everyONE disappeared,” I paused to look in his eyes. “Your basement was empty. How would you explain that?” He just smiled, putting his hands on his hips.

“Magic,” he said, “you will understand soon enough,” he gave a soft nudge on my shoulder. “Now, off you go.”

I watched as Mr. Mullens closed the door behind him and entered the backroom. I don’t quite understand what happened. The next day when I returned to the bookshop, it wasn’t there. It was as if it never was. I had more questions after that that will probably never get answered. Maybe he was a spirit guide or a guardian angel sent to help me till I came of age. Maybe what he said was true, and he was a wizard. I probably won’t ever know. But he was right about one thing: my magic did awaken that day.