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 made the ten-minute walk to the bookstore. Hoodie up. Shoulders hunched. Head down, trying to keep warm in the nippy January air.
The shop sat quietly on a narrow street just off Nassau, tucked between a vintage bike repair and a café that 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. That's practically chaos for a Wednesday."
He gave her a tired smile. The real kind. Small, human, grounding.
The next few hours passed the way Darren liked best: in cycles of small, calming chaos.
He restocked the poetry section. Alphabetized (and re-alphabetized) the fantasy shelf. Fought valiantly against a leaning tower of discount romance novels. Tried not to read too much of the donated manga, but failed gloriously. He wore gloves while sorting, mostly to look cool, but also because the heating back here never worked.
Time blurred.
He answered a grand total of three customer questions:
"Do you sell Moleskines?"
"Is this the book that's like Game of Thrones but less stabby?"
"Do you have anything on mushroom foraging for beginners?"
He brewed a pot of peppermint tea at 4:00. Forgot about it. Reheated it in the dodgy microwave that made suspicious clicking sounds. Burned his tongue. Immediately forgot again.
Somewhere around 5:30, an older couple brought up four books and asked him which one they should get for their niece. He picked the sapphic pirate one because, quote, "If she's cool, she'll love it. If not, it might make her cool."
They laughed. Bought all four.
That gave him serotonin for at least an hour.
Then, around 6:00…
"I heard that vigilante lad's gone viral again," a guy near the nonfiction section muttered conversationally, flipping through a paperback on urban survival.
"The masked one. Took a selfie with a girl in an alley, apparently. It's all over the news."
Darren froze mid-shelving.
Hands locked around a stack of Irish folklore titles.
Brain: red alert.
Body: fake casual.
He forced a chuckle. Shrugged like he didn't care. Mumbled, "Wild stuff, huh?" with the exact tone of someone who absolutely cared too much but was trying not to.
The guy didn't look twice.
Still, Darren spent way too long pretending to adjust the "Myths & Legends" shelf. His fingers were twitchy. The spines felt too smooth, too loud against his skin.
After a moment, he took a deep breath and whispered to the shelves: "You didn't see anything."
By 8:45, the shop was empty. Just him, Norah, and the click of the old wall clock.
"Alright," she said, packing up 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-way through wiping down the returns cart.
"Twice."
"Allegedly."
She waved without looking. "Leave the kettle plugged in. And don't alphabetize the horror shelf again. I know you."
When she left, the silence changed shape. It wasn't peaceful anymore. It was heavy. Expectant. The kind of quiet that made you feel like someone else might be listening.
Still, he finished the till count. Logged the numbers. Dusted a few stray corners for good measure.
9:12 PM. He clicked off the front lights, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and stood there for a moment in the amber light of the back room.
Just breathing.
The shop felt like a different world. Somewhere time bent a little and the chaos outside couldn't follow him in.
But tonight… the air felt thinner. Like the quiet was hiding something.
He reached for the door. Hesitated.
Outside, the street was empty. Just flickering streetlamps and the wet shimmer of old cobbles.
But still.
His eyes scanned the alley. Rooftops. Shadows.
Nothing.
Just wind.
Still, he whispered to himself, hoodie going up as he stepped out into the night:
"It's fine. You're fine. They don't know."
He slipped away from "Books & Other Miracles," down into the heart of the city.
Warm lamplight fading behind him, the scent of old pages and floor polish clinging to his hoodie he trudged down the road and made his way down to Charlie's.
Tucked down a back alley behind a boarded-up Chinese takeaway, the place didn't look like much, a rusted sign, a buzzer that worked when it felt like it. But inside? Red neon, cracked mats, and peace.
Darren shouldered open the door, the smell of sweat and rubber mats instantly slapping him in the face like an old mate.
"Evenin', sunshine," a voice rasped from somewhere in the back.
Charlie ambled into view, looking like an off-brand Rocky. Sixty-something, Built like a brick wall wrapped in worn out tracksuits, bald, scowling, holding a mug of tea in one hand and a rolled-up Playboy in the other. His reading glasses were crooked. He didn't care.
Darren grinned, already stretching in the center of the mat. "You ever think of reading something with actual articles, old man?"
Charlie shrugged "This does have articles. Just happens the articles got tits next to 'em."
Darren snorted. "Classy as ever."
"You're not here for my class. You're here 'cause I let ya kick things and don't call the cops when you dent the heavy bag."
"Fair," Darren said, dropping into a deep lunge. His knees popped like bubble wrap. "Also, the smell of mold and armpits is nostalgic."
Charlie ignored him, flopped onto a stool with a groan, and flipped the magazine open. "Alright, gobshite. Warm up. I'll shout at you when your form goes to shite."
He reached for the Bluetooth speaker.
"Oi, put on Monster, yeah?" Darren called, already bouncing on his toes. "Need somethin' dramatic y'know get me in the zone and all that"
Charlie didn't look up. "Right, fine. Monster it is."
He tapped his phone, muttered, ""Warm up. Don't die." and went back to his Playboy
Darren bounced on the balls of his feet under the dim, flickering gym light. His shadow danced on the walls like a ghost stuck on repeat. In his ears, Skillet's "Monster" was already thumping, the beat matching the tempo of his pulse.
He circled the bag.
Then he moved.
One-two. One-two-three. Jab, jab, hook. Thud. Thud. Thud.
The sound of glove on bag echoed through the gym like a heartbeat. He weaved around an invisible opponent, fists slicing the air. The red neon caught on the sweat slicking his arms.
He feinted left. Stepped right. Threw a teep that sent the bag swinging on its chain.
Charlie didn't even look up. "Hands too low again."
"They're fine," Darren muttered, clinching the bag. His Thai grip was tight, thumbs interlaced, forehead pressed to canvas. He drove a knee up.
Bang.
Another.
Bang.
Another.
Bang.
It felt good. Felt right. Clean technique, clean lines. He was breathing now — fast, ragged, but there.
His brain was a motorway at rush hour but here in this gym, on this mat, it narrowed to one lane. Jab. Kick. Elbow. Reset.
Monster pounded in his ears. But somewhere in the back of his mind:
Did I lock the shop?
Is the kettle still on?
No stop not the time.
He punched harder.
Focus. Drill.
He threw a roundhouse, pivoted, followed up with a clean cross. His form wasn't perfect, he still overreached sometimes, his balance too heavy on the back foot, but it was sharper than last year. Cleaner than last month.
Better.
Charlie sipped his tea and flipped a page. "Chin down. You're not lookin' for birds."
Darren grinned. "You are, though."
Charlie didn't dignify that with an answer.
Back in Black came on and he surged forward again. Elbow. Knee. Spinning back kick. He was sweating through his gym shirt now, every joint lit up, every muscle singing.
The world outside didn't exist.
There were no lectures. No viral tags. Just the beat in his ears, the rhythm in his bones, and the satisfying thud of every strike.
He spun into a combo: hook, hook, cross, clinch, knee-knee-knee, step back, teep to reset.
Breathless.
Sweating buckets.
But calm. In his way.
Then the thoughts started again. ADHD always circled back.
Did I eat Lunch?
Did I reply to Liam?
Do I have class at 9AM or 10?
"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 tilted his face toward the old ceiling fan. Rain tapped the roof above, a gentle drumbeat echoing against the world's chaos.
He breathed in. Counted to five. Breathed out.
Just a moment.
Charlie wandered past, still flipping his Playboy. "Don't let the sweat puddle. Mops are in the back."
"Cheers," Darren rasped, eyes closed, trying to pretend his arms weren't made of wet noodles.
Charlie paused. "Not bad, though. You're sharper."
Darren blinked. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Charlie said. "You still move like a squirrel on Red Bull, but your clinch has stopped looking like a drunk hug. That's somethin'."
Darren grinned, wiped sweat from his jaw, and peeled off his gloves.
"Progress," he said.
Charlie raised the magazine. "So's Inflation still means you're a pain in the arse. Don't get cocky."