The crumpled note from Mrs. Henderson lay on Chloe's kitchen table, a stark white accusation against the warm wood. "A 'discovery session' for Mildred." The phrase alone sent shivers down Chloe's spine. Mildred, the antique shop owner, whose idea of a good time was probably cataloging dust bunnies. How was Chloe supposed to find a "unique, vintage item" of a human for her? Was she supposed to dig up a reanimated historical figure? The thought was absurd, yet a cold dread settled in Chloe's stomach. Mrs. Henderson was escalating. This wasn't just about finding love; it felt like a test, a twisted game.
Muffin, curled on a sunbeam, twitched an ear. He seemed to be enjoying Chloe's misery. "Easy for you to say," Chloe muttered, stirring her coffee. "You just sleep and demand food. You don't have to find a partner for someone who judges croissants on their 'historical integrity'."
Her mind raced. What did Mildred value? Authenticity. Age. A certain… patina. Chloe pictured the men in Maple Street. Mr. Abernathy, the retired postman, was certainly old, but "authentic" felt like a stretch. Mr. Peterson, the librarian, was quiet, but hardly "vintage." This was going to be impossible. Or, worse, it was going to expose Chloe to some truly bizarre individuals.
She decided to start with reconnaissance. The next morning, armed with a fresh batch of lemon poppy seed muffins (a peace offering, perhaps, or a distraction), Chloe ventured into "Curio Corner." The shop was a labyrinth of forgotten things, smelling of old wood, faint mothballs, and the ghosts of countless past lives. Every surface was crammed with porcelain dolls with vacant eyes, tarnished silver, and furniture that looked like it had seen too many secrets.
Mildred emerged from behind a towering stack of ancient books, her severe bun unyielding, her spectacles perched on her nose. Her gaze, sharp and assessing, landed on Chloe's muffins.
"Ah, the baker," Mildred stated, her voice dry as parchment. "Have you brought sustenance for the soul, or merely empty calories?"
"Lemon poppy seed," Chloe offered, holding out the bag. "Freshly baked."
Mildred took one, sniffing it suspiciously before taking a tiny, precise bite. Her expression remained unreadable. "Acceptable," she finally declared. "A fleeting pleasure, unlike the enduring beauty of a well-preserved artifact."
Chloe seized her chance. "Speaking of enduring beauty, Mrs. Henderson mentioned you might be looking for something… unique. Something with a bit of history."
Mildred's eyes narrowed. "Indeed. I seek a companion who understands the value of provenance. Someone with depth, with a story etched into their very being. Not one of these… mass-produced contemporary models." She gestured vaguely towards the street.
Chloe swallowed. "Right. So, someone… mature? Experienced?"
"More than that," Mildred said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Someone who has seen things. Who holds the echoes of the past within them. A true relic, if you will. Not just old, but ancient in spirit."
Chloe felt a chill. "Ancient in spirit?" This was veering into truly unsettling territory. Was Mildred asking for a ghost? A mummy? The comedy was quickly turning to mild horror.
Just then, the bell above the door jingled, and Liam stepped in. He looked around the dusty shop, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Well, this is certainly… atmospheric. Doing some research, Chloe?"
Chloe shot him a warning glare. "Just delivering muffins."
"And discussing 'ancient spirits,' it seems," Liam said, his gaze flicking between Chloe and Mildred. "Sounds like a fascinating piece. 'The Baker and the Relic Hunter: A Love Story for the Ages.'" He pulled out his notepad.
Mildred, surprisingly, seemed intrigued by Liam. "A writer, you say? Do you appreciate the weight of history, young man? The stories held within objects?"
"Absolutely," Liam replied smoothly, leaning against a display case filled with chipped porcelain figurines. "I believe every object, and every person, has a tale to tell. Especially those with a rich past."
Chloe watched, a knot forming in her stomach. Liam was charming Mildred, effortlessly. And his words, while seemingly innocuous, played directly into Mildred's unsettling criteria. Was he doing this on purpose? Was he part of Mrs. Henderson's scheme?
"Perhaps you could assist the baker," Mildred suggested to Liam, her gaze still fixed on him. "She seems to be struggling with the concept of a truly… aged companion."
Liam winked at Chloe. "I'd be delighted to offer my insights. I've traveled extensively, seen many 'relics' in my time."
Chloe wanted to scream. This was turning into a nightmare. She was stuck between a demanding antique dealer who wanted a historical artifact as a partner and a charming writer who seemed to find her predicament endlessly amusing.
"No, that won't be necessary," Chloe interjected quickly. "I have it under control. I'll… think of someone."
Mildred gave a slow, deliberate nod. "See that you do. My patience for the ephemeral is quite limited."
Liam, still smirking, took a small, tarnished locket from a nearby display. "This is interesting. Any story behind this, Mildred?"
As Mildred launched into a lengthy, detailed history of the locket, Chloe slipped away, her mind reeling. She had to find someone, anyone, who fit Mildred's bizarre criteria, if only to get Mrs. Henderson off her back. But who? And what would happen if she failed? The thought of Mrs. Henderson's subtle threats, her calculated moves, sent a shiver down Chloe's spine.
Later that day, as Chloe walked past the old, abandoned clock tower at the edge of town, a peculiar figure emerged from its shadows. It was a man, dressed in oddly old-fashioned clothes, with a long, unkempt beard and eyes that seemed to hold centuries of weariness. He was muttering to himself, something about "the gears of time" and "lost moments." He looked exactly like a person who had been preserved in amber.
Chloe stopped dead in her tracks. He was certainly "unique." Definitely "vintage." Possibly "ancient in spirit." He looked like he had literally walked out of a history book. And he was standing right outside the town's oldest, most neglected landmark. This was either an answer to her absurd problem or the beginning of something far, far worse. A cold wind swept through the street, carrying with it the faint, metallic scent of rust and something else she couldn't quite place – something old, something forgotten, something that hinted at secrets buried deep within Maple Street. She felt a prickle of fear. This wasn't just funny anymore. This was becoming genuinely unsettling. And this man, this living relic, was staring directly at her.