Somewhere in the folds of dust and cracked tile, a name emerged.
It came not from memory, but from a whisper—half-formed in John's mind as he stared at the space he was rebuilding. It surfaced while he swept the last of the broken glass from under a shelving unit, his muscles sore, his breath steady.
Avalon.
Not a brand. Not a business tactic.
A sanctuary.
The name stirred something inside him—not from this life, but from books he remembered reading long ago. Arthurian myth. A hidden isle, where kings went to rest and warriors laid down their blades. A place of healing. Of silence. Of quiet magic untouched by the world's violence.
This building—rebuilt from ruin, sealed with steel and memory—was Avalon now.
Not for knights.
But for him.
For Lorna.
For anyone who needed a place to just… breathe.
The cleanup had entered its final stages.
John spent the mornings sealing cracks in the baseboards and checking the water lines with plumber's tape. Afternoons were reserved for redoing the storefront's faded paint with crisp, clean whites. He ripped out the last of the warped paneling, repaired the ceiling joints, and had the solar panels serviced again for consistent backup power.
The original name of the bodega—long since worn from the sign—was painted over.
That afternoon, he hung a fresh wooden board out front, hand-painted in clean serif lettering:
Avalon
Peace, Light, and Late-Night Snacks
He didn't ask Lorna if she liked it.
But she did. She grinned wide and gave him a thumbs up without saying a word.
Lorna had become a constant during the renovation.
She worked in bursts, helping stock shelves, rearrange bins, sweep, clean windows. She never asked for praise, and she never wasted motion. Her hair shimmered when the sunlight caught it through the storefront windows—hues of aurora shifting in lazy waves.
She added her own flare to the place, too.
Tiny illustrations tucked along the snack aisles. A doodle of a sword embedded in a popsicle drawn near the freezer. A sign in bold letters: "You've Found It: Your Quest Ends Here (Try the Takis)."
He left every one of them exactly where she put them.
The personal items—family photos, drawings, a broken music box, and yellowed notebooks—were carefully boxed and moved to the third floor.
He labeled each one by hand and stacked them in the corner of the workshop beneath a covered window.
They could wait.
Right now, the living had to come first.
The interior design of Avalon took shape fast.
Bright LED lights overhead. Clean shelves with generous spacing. Clear labels. Cold drinks lined the new double-door fridges: soda, water, energy drinks, even boxed coconut juice—Lorna's suggestion.
The floor was fresh vinyl tile—charcoal gray with a matte finish. Easy to clean. Modern. The walls were painted warm white with accents of dark green and gold trim—a quiet nod to the mythical island's rolling meadows and royal stillness.
John kept the counters low and the corners open. Nothing hidden. No towering snack piles or cramped chaos.
It wasn't just about running a business.
It was about trust.
Safety.
Avalon wasn't just a place to shop—it was a place to rest.
Sourcing the merchandise had been the trickiest part.
John refused to deal with shady distributors or street peddlers.
He spent long nights on the third floor with a borrowed laptop, connecting to bulk distributors, comparing prices, learning the ins and outs of wholesale licensing. He created accounts with clearance warehouses and reached out to small local brands, offering shelf space in exchange for starter rates.
He negotiated delivery windows. He refused anything expired. He paid in full and on time.
It wasn't about profit.
It was about doing it right.
The boxes began arriving two weeks in—snack bars, soda pallets, chip crates, chewing gum, instant ramen. Bulk orders of detergent, hand wipes, basic toiletries. Coffee pods. Even lottery machine equipment—still wrapped and waiting to be installed.
Lorna helped open them, labeling everything with her sharp handwriting.
"You gonna sell comics?" she asked one night, holding up a blank shelf by the register.
"Wasn't planning to."
"You should. Weird ones. Indie stuff. Make it nerd-friendly."
He considered it.
"Put it on the list."
She nodded, satisfied.
By the third week, Avalon was nearly ready.
The backroom was organized into cold storage and dry stock. The front counter stood gleaming and level, with a new till and card reader installed. The old security camera system had been replaced with compact, high-angle smart cams—wired directly into the server he built in the basement.
The building hummed with life now.
But it never lost its quiet.
One evening, John stood in the middle of the store, surrounded by shelves that finally looked full. Everything was labeled, sorted, priced. The place was bright, open, and clean—unlike any corner store in the neighborhood.
He could still hear the city outside. Still knew that danger existed just beyond these walls. Mutants. Superheroes. Villains. Politics.
But inside?
Inside, he had built Avalon.
Not just a store.
A sanctuary.
A safe zone hidden in plain sight.
Not for knights.
For survivors.
And maybe, just maybe, for healing.