The coffee was lukewarm at best, but Mr. Sallow drank it like it was holy water.
He sat stiffly on a moth-eaten armchair, his gloved hands wrapped tightly around a delicate porcelain cup. Across from him, Dorian lounged with one leg draped over the arm of his own chair, looking like a man who'd just hosted a particularly tame séance. The tiny table between them creaked with the weight of mismatched cups, and a cracked sugar bowl full of what might have been salt.
"So," Sallow said finally, after a long and oppressive silence, "you're the one they call *The Curator*."
Dorian paused mid-sip, brow arching. "Am I?"
Mr. Sallow tensed.
Dorian chuckled, shaking his head. "Right. Yes. Yes, I am. Curator. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
He sipped again, keeping his face neutral, but inside, his mind was flipping with excitement.
People call me 'The Curator'? That's cool as hell. Why didn't anyone tell me? I would've made business cards...
Sallow nodded slowly. "I've heard... stories."
Dorian leaned back, nonchalant. "Ah, yes. That's usually the first warning sign. But don't worry. most of them are wildly exaggerated. Some are even lies."
That didn't help. Sallow's fingers tightened around the cup.
"I mean, I do collect things," Dorian went on, gesturing vaguely around the room. "Strange things. Cursed things. Horrific things."
Sallow's eyes flicked to a small cabinet nearby. Inside sat what appeared to be a soup spoon with tiny claw marks etched into the bowl. It was resting on velvet. He turned back quickly.
"And the rumors," Dorian continued, "well, people do love to make things up. I sell antiques, relics, treasures and not souls. Well... Not usually."
The way he said it. so casual, so flippant. made Sallow nearly drop his cup.
He's testing me, the noble thought. Trying to see if I'll flinch. I won't give him the satisfaction.
He steadied himself. "You live here alone?"
"Mostly," Dorian said, scratching his chin. "There's a bunch of cockroach, but they don't pay rent."
Sallow laughed. short, sharp, and instantly regretted it.
Dorian grinned. "You alright, Mr. Sallow? You look a little... pale."
"I'm fine," he lied, swallowing hard. "Just… intrigued by your collection."
Dorian followed his gaze to a glass case behind him. Inside, lit by a flickering bulb, sat what looked like a music box fused to a brass hand. It was ticking softly, even though there was no visible key.
"Oh, that? Paperweight," Dorian said.
"Of course," Sallow replied weakly.
There was a long pause, the kind filled only by the sound of a grandfather clock that no longer worked, ticking anyway.
Then, as if remembering something, Dorian leaned forward and opened a small drawer in the coffee table. He pulled out a battered brass pocket watch and set it carefully on the table between them.
I finally got a buyer for you my lovely.
"Thought you might appreciate this," he said. "Rare piece. Ancient even."
Sallow eyed it with caution. The watch was dented, the glass scratched, the hands slightly off-kilter. It ticked, but the rhythm was uneven. It was almost like breathing.
"Interesting," Sallow said. "What's the story?"
Dorian smiled. "Well. It once belonged to a hunter. A man who thought he could chase the outer gods."
Sallow blinked. "Outer… gods?"
"Y'know, the big ones. Unknowable. Hungry. That sort of thing," Dorian said, waving his hand like it was trivia. "Anyway, he chased them. Too far, and you know how these stories go. The gods caught him. But wouldn't kill him, wouldn't let him go, so they trapped him inside this watch."
He tapped the case lightly.
"Now he ticks forever. Watching, waiting, unable to move on."
The watch let out a slow, rattling tick. Sallow nearly flinched again.
"But it doesn't work properly," he said. "It's broken."
Dorian panicked a bit.
Oh shit I forgot about that.. quick think of something!
"Oh, no no," Dorian said. "It's not a watch anymore. It's... a... compass."
"A… compass?"
"Of the soul," Dorian improvised boldly. "The hour hand points to the one you desire most. The minute to the one you abhor. And the second?" He leaned in. "To the one you fear."
Sallow stared at it.
He couldn't breathe.
He couldn't not believe it.
"Does it… work?"
Dorian nodded, dead serious. "Every time."
(Get it? Time? Ok.)
There was a beat.
"I'll take it," Sallow said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Dorian blinked. "Oh. Great! Good choice."
He handed it over gently, like it might explode if dropped. Sallow took it with the same reverence one might give an ancient, sacred relic wrapped in barbed wire.
Payment was exchanged. Sallow didn't even bother to haggle.
As Sallow stood to leave, Dorian gave him a cheery wave. "Thanks for stopping by! And don't worry. If it whispers to you at night, it's probably just saying hello."
Sallow turned so fast he nearly tripped over a stool.
The bell above the door gave a weak ting as he stepped outside, clutching the watch like it might try to escape.
The air outside felt less like air and more like permission to breathe.
Sallow walked quickly, glancing over his shoulder more than once. It wasn't until he'd reached the end of the block that he dared unwrap the pocket watch from the cloth he'd bundled it in.
The hands spun erratically for a momen. then slowed.
The hour hand pointed south. Toward his estate.
The minute pointed west. Toward the rival noble he loathed.
And the second hand…
It pointed straight behind him.
He turned.
The shop stood there. Quiet. Watching.
The sign above the window creaked in the breeze. The door was shut.
He wrapped the watch again and stuffed it deep in his coat. He didn't sleep that night, no he couldn't.
Back in the shop, Dorian yawned and stretched his arms over his head.
"Nice guy," he muttered. "Bit twitchy."
He wandered toward the door to lock up, but stopped short when something caught his eye. A small, hand-written sign had been pinned just behind the window. He squinted at it.
"I am always watching."
He frowned. "Who put this here?"
He pulled it down and tossed it lazily into a drawer filled with equally strange items. a rubber eyeball, a feather dipped in red wax, a single leather glove with the words "DO NOT" written across the palm.
The bell jingled behind him as the door closed.
Dorian turned off the lights and disappeared upstairs for the night, completely unaware that his newest reputation was now very much sealed. and ticking.