A strong gust of wind pushed at the boy, making his brown hair flop from one side to the other, and sending shivers through his body. He was wearing a bulky gray coat, bundled up inside it as if there was no end to this autumn cold. His eyes were of a piercing green, almost glowing in the dusky light of the evening. To passersby he seemed nothing more than a poor boy, no older than fifteen, wandering the streets to avoid going home. In the uncaring city, this was one of many ways of life.
But the boy seemed determined as he pushed through the icy gusts of wind. Winter was coming on quick, snow threatening to split the sky, windows already laced with frost. He passed a couple walking arm in arm, laughing, with their heads close together. He pushed away the sight of it, and plodded on. He darted across a busy street, dodging cars carelessly, as if he didn’t care if they hit him.
Standing on the other side of the street, he stared up and down the row of dusty storefronts. A bakery, a hair salon, a thrift shop, a butcher. He shook his head, muttering something. Then his attention fell on the last shop on the street.
A sign swung back and forth, a plaque of lacquered wood hanging from rusty hinges. It read, in crooked lettering, “House Of The Mystic Arts”. A star, painted as if an afterthought, was its only adornment.
The boy’s eyes filled with light as he read the sign, and he was immediately running to it, as if nothing in the world could stop him from getting there. He slipped through the scattered groups of people, shouting barely-heard apologies over his shoulder as he ran.
He reached the storefront, a plain window that lacked cleaning or care. Inside, he could see a dark room, and a teenaged girl with wild chestnut-colored hair standing behind an antique desk. Her eyes were sapphire blue, and they met his as he peered into the store.
Then, the boy slipped inside, pushing the heavy oak door and stepping into the dark room beyond. He could not hide his excitement.
2006-08-15
13:23:13
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