June turned the key in the front door and the familiar little bell over the threshold let out a tired, familiar jingle that sounded like agreement. Light pooled in the shop’s narrow front window, painting the glass birds and a row of mismatched teacups in bands of honey. Navarro Curios smelled of lemon oil and old paper and the kind of dust that meant stories. June liked that smell; it felt like a promise that something worth listening to was stored somewhere between the shelves.
She locked the door behind her because habit is a kind of prayer. The counter was cluttered with a thicket of receipts and a glass jar of safety pins, a battered ledger she never used, and a postcard rack that had once been a fortune teller’s prop. June walked the shop the way some people walk a loved one’s sleeping body—softly, checking the corners. She tapped the brass bells on a tray and nudged a wooden crate of postcards into better light. The town’s morning came in slow and polite; she could hear Mrs. Hale across the street sweeping and the low grumble of a truck delivering bread to the bakery two doors down.
Her hand paused at the back of the counter, where the drawer that had always been locked sat like a quiet, patient animal. The key for it lived in a ring at the bottom of her mother’s purse, which meant June had not opened that drawer since the day her grandmother died. Rosa Navarro kept the back room as if it were a pocket in a dress you never reached into: private, careful, flat with the weight of old regret. Sometimes June thought the drawer held resentment the way some people keep letters they never send.
She had learned how to keep small things secret; it was an inheritance as real as the shop itself. She could shelve a customer’s anxiety with a teacup or listen to the small catastrophe of a teenager’s heartbreak and hand it back a little steadier. Yet there was a hollow in her routine she couldn’t fix with dusting: the gap that Lena had left. Lena’s photograph sat in an oval frame on the mantle at home, half-hidden by a trailing spider plant. Lena had been gone five years now—gone in the unsaid way a word disappears from a language after people stop needing it. June was seventeen and had become very good at living with unfinished sentences.
This morning an itch pushed at the shell of that routine. June unlocked the small drawer with her own key, more out of a stubborn curiosity than anything else. The latch gave with a sigh she almost mistook for the shop settling. Inside were rows of tiny boxes and some wrapped bundles of fabric, everything tied with string like small, patient promises. Most of the items were labeled in her grandmother’s looping script: a button from Mrs. Dwyer’s coat, a key with a note about a lost bike, a brass thimble from an unnamed tailor. June ran her finger over the handwriting and felt a childhood that had once been a map.
At the very back, tucked under a swathe of blue cotton, was a narrow locket with no label at all. It was not the kind of locket people bought at the counter for nostalgia; it was smaller, chased with a pattern that had been worn smooth by someone’s thumb. June held it and felt the warmth of metal that had belonged to another palm. There was no grave or ceremony attached in the comments; no name. She turned it over in the light. When she opened the tiny clasp, an immediate, disorienting intimacy slid into her chest as if someone had turned on a fire behind her ribs.