January 23rd, 2013
Dublin
Darren's bag felt heavier than it should've been. Probably because it was full of guilt, spirals, a crushed water bottle, and a granola wrapper he kept forgetting to bin. Again.
After the lecture, he trudged the ten minutes to the bookstore. Hoodie up. Shoulders hunched. Head down against the bitter January air. He overheard bits of chatter as he passed, snippets of superhero gossip blending casually with football scores:
"Did ya see that photo of Sentinel online? Ireland finally gets a hero, and the lad's takin' selfies."
"Better him than Captain Britain. At least Sentinel's not blowin' up half of Dublin every scrap."
He tucked his head lower and walked faster.
The shop sat quietly on a narrow street off Nassau, wedged between a vintage bike repair and a café that stubbornly only sold porridge. The hand-painted sign above the door read:
BOOKS & OTHER MIRACLES
It hung a little crooked, which Darren secretly liked.
Inside, the place smelled like old paper, wood polish, and some herbaceous candle Norah insisted kept "bad vibes and damp" away. A bell jingled overhead as he stepped in, boots creaking on the time-warped floorboards.
His lungs remembered how to breathe.
The weight peeled off him, slowly. Like dropping a wet hoodie after a storm.
He loved working here he loved being a: Part-time shelf goblin.Honorary Tolkien gremlin.Manga-rescuer. and an Ink-sniffer.
"Afternoon, trouble," came the usual greeting.
Norah didn't even look up from her book. She was perched behind the till, reading a battered Agatha Christie with half-moon glasses on and tea that had gone cold at least an hour ago.
She had exactly two moods: mildly unimpressed and still unimpressed but slightly amused by your existence.
"Heya," Darren said, tossing his bag under the counter and pulling out the creaky stool. "Anything wild today?"
Norah blinked slowly. "Sold a vegan cookbook and a haiku anthology. Practically chaos for a Wednesday."
He gave her a small, genuine smile—real, grounding, human.
The next few hours passed in cycles of calm chaos:
He restocked poetry. Alphabetized—and re-alphabetized—the fantasy shelf. Valiantly fought a leaning tower of discount romance novels. Tried not to read too much donated manga, failed gloriously. He wore gloves to look cool, mostly, but also because the heating back here never worked.
Time blurred comfortably.
He answered exactly three customer questions:
"Do ye have those Moleskine notebooks everyone's goin' on about?"
"Is this the book that's like Game of Thrones but less stabby?"
"D'ya sell beginner guides for mushroom picking, but without accidentally killin' yourself?"
He brewed peppermint tea at 4:00. Forgot about it. Reheated it in the dodgy microwave that clicked suspiciously. Burned his tongue. Immediately forgot again.
Around 5:30, an older couple brought four books to the counter, asking which one they should buy for their niece. Darren picked the sapphic pirate adventure because, quote, "If she's cool, she'll love it. If not, it might make her cool."
They laughed, bought all four. That serotonin lasted an hour, easy.
Then, around 6:00…
"I heard that Sentinel lad's viral again," said a customer browsing nonfiction, flipping through a paperback on urban survival. "Took a selfie with some girl after saving her. RTÉ won't stop talkin' about it."
Darren froze mid-shelving, hands locked around a stack of Irish folklore volumes.
Brain: red alert.
Body: pretend casual.
He chuckled awkwardly, shrugged. "Wild stuff, huh?" he mumbled, with exactly the tone of someone who cared way too much and was failing at hiding it.
The guy barely glanced his way.
Darren spent way too long pretending to adjust the "Myths & Legends" shelf, fingers twitchy, book spines suddenly too smooth, too loud against his skin.
After a deep breath, he whispered quietly to the shelves: "Ye saw nothin'."
By 8:45, the shop was empty. Just him, Norah, and the old wall clock's rhythmic click.
"Alright," Norah said, packing her bag. "Don't forget the till report. And don't lock yourself in again."
"That was one time," Darren called from the back, mid-wipe-down of the returns cart.
"Twice."
"Allegedly."
She waved without looking. "Leave the kettle plugged in. And don't alphabetize the horror section again. I know you."
When she left, the silence changed shape. No longer peaceful. It was heavy, expectant. Quiet like someone else might be listening.
Still, Darren finished the till count, logged numbers, dusted stray corners out of nervous habit.
9:12 PM. He clicked off the front lights, flipped the CLOSED sign, and stood briefly in the amber glow of the back room.
Breathing.
The shop always felt like its own world, a bubble of quiet where chaos couldn't reach.
But tonight… the air felt thinner. Quiet hiding something beneath.
He reached for the door. Hesitated.
Outside, the street was empty. Just flickering streetlamps, wet shimmer on cobbles.
Still, his eyes scanned alleyways, rooftops, shadows.
Nothing.
Just wind.
He whispered softly as his hoodie went up, stepping out into the night:
"It's fine. You're fine. They don't know."
He slipped away from "Books & Other Miracles," heading deeper into Dublin's heart.
Warm lamplight faded behind him, the scent of old pages and polish still clinging to his hoodie as he walked the familiar route down toward Charlie's.
Hidden behind a boarded-up Chinese takeaway, the gym didn't look like much: rusted sign, unreliable buzzer. Inside, though, red neon, cracked mats, and peace.
Darren shouldered open the door. The smell of sweat and rubber mats slapped him like an old mate.
"Evenin', sunshine," rasped a voice from somewhere in the back.
Charlie ambled into view, looking like an off-brand Rocky. Sixty-something, built like a brick wall stuffed into worn tracksuits, bald, scowling, holding tea in one hand and a dog-eared Playboy in the other. His glasses sat crookedly.
He didn't care.
Darren grinned, already stretching on the mat. "Ever consider readin' somethin' with actual articles, old man?"
Charlie shrugged. "This has articles. Just happens the articles got tits next to 'em."
Darren snorted. "Classy as ever."
"You're not here for class. You're here because I let ya kick things as hard as ya want."
"Fair," Darren said, dropping into a lunge. Knees popped like bubble wrap. "Also, the smell of mold and armpits is nostalgic."
Charlie ignored him, flopped onto a stool, flipping his magazine open. "Alright, gobshite. Warm up. I'll shout at ya when your form goes to shite."
He reached for the battered iPod speaker.
"Oi, put on 'Monster,' yeah?" Darren called, bouncing on his toes. "Somethin' dramatic. Y'know, for the vibes."
Charlie didn't look up. "Right, fine. Monster."
He tapped play, muttered "Warm up, don't die," and returned to Playboy.
Darren circled the bag beneath dim, flickering gym lights. Skillet thumped through he ancient speakers.
One-two. Jab, jab, hook. Thud, thud, thud.
Glove on canvas echoed through the gym like a heartbeat. Weaving around an invisible opponent, fists slicing air, red neon catching on sweat-slick skin.
Charlie didn't glance up. "Hands too low."
"They're grand," Darren muttered, clinching the bag, driving knees upward sharply. Bang. Bang. Bang.
He breathed fast, ragged, alive.
Brain a motorway at rush hour, but here, on the mat, narrowed to a single lane. Jab. Kick. Elbow. Reset.
But mind always circled back:
Did I lock the shop?
Is the kettle still on?
No, shut up.
He punched harder, threw a roundhouse, pivoted, clean cross. Still overreached occasionally, balance too heavy back-footed, but sharper than last year. Cleaner than last month.
Charlie sipped tea. "Chin down, lad. Not birdwatching."
Darren grinned. "You are."
Charlie didn't dignify that with an answer.
"Back in Black" came on; Darren surged forward. Elbow. Knee. Spin-kick. Sweating through his shirt, every muscle lit up.
Outside didn't exist. No lectures, no viral tags. Just beat in his ears, rhythm in bones, satisfying thud.
Hook-hook-cross, clinch, knee-knee-knee, teep, reset.
Breathless. Calm.
Then thoughts circled again:
Did I eat lunch?
Did I reply to Liam?
"Shut up," he said out loud, then launched into a flurry so fast the chain on the bag practically screamed.
Hook. Elbow. Knee. Spinning elbow. Pivot. Kick.
He kept going until his legs shook.
Until his heart felt like it was trying to break out of his chest.
Until there was nothing left.
Finally, he dropped to his knees on the mat, gloves resting on his thighs. His whole body buzzed. Muscles trembling. Breath ragged. Head swimming.
But it was quiet in there, finally.
He breathed deeply. Just for a moment.
Charlie was still flipping through his Playboy. "Don't let the sweat puddle. Mops are in the back."
"Cheers," Darren rasped, eyes closed.
Charlie paused. "Not bad, though. You're sharper."
Darren blinked. "Yeah?"
He grinned, wiped sweat from his jaw, and peeled off his gloves.
He smiled tiredly. "Progress."
Charlie raised Playboy. "Inflation's progress, too. You're still a pain in the arse. Don't get cocky."