Adom stood in front of Weird Stuff Store, hand frozen on the doorknob, reconsidering his life choices.

He'd spent the morning dodging admirers, ducking behind pillars whenever students spotted him, and once hiding behind a particularly bushy potted plant when Coach Viriam started loudly recounting "The Ghost's greatest plays" to anyone who would listen.

He'd come here seeking refuge, assuming the shop would be empty as usual.

The muffled sounds of conversation from inside suggested he'd miscalculated.

With a sigh, he pushed the door open. The familiar bell jingled overhead, announcing his arrival to a surprisingly crowded shop.

Three customers stood near the front counter, where Mr. Biggins was—shockingly—doing actual shopkeeper duties. The old man was weighing colorful candies on a small brass scale, carefully transferring them into paper bags while discussing their properties in the exaggerated manner of a carnival barker.

"And these blue ones, madam, will make your voice sound like you've inhaled a considerable quantity of helium! Excellent for surprising guests at dinner parties or terrifying neighborhood cats!"

Adom blinked. In all his visits to the store, he'd rarely seen Biggins engage in actual commerce. The old man typically spent his time eating his own merchandise, lounging dramatically in odd places, or making cryptic statements before disappearing behind curtains.

Seeing him act like a legitimate businessman was more disconcerting.

Adom slipped toward the back of the store, trying to blend in with a display of dancing teacups. He needed to speak with Biggins privately about everything, and about Thessarian.

He was examining a shelf of bottled emotions (happiness was on sale, melancholy apparently commanding premium prices this season) when someone tapped his shoulder.

A middle-aged man with an impressively groomed beard had broken away from the counter and was now staring at him with growing excitement.

"Excuse me," the man said, approaching carefully as if Adom might bolt. "Are you Adom Sylla?"

Adom glanced around. The other customers had paused their browsing to look over. Even Biggins had stopped mid-sale, a handful of purple candies suspended above a paper bag.

This was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid.

If he admitted who he was, this man would tell others, who would tell others, and within an hour half of Arkhos would be crammed into Weird Stuff Store looking for the elusive Ghost.

"No," Adom said, keeping his voice neutral. "Sorry."

The man looked crestfallen for approximately three seconds before his expression shifted to skepticism. He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded newspaper, opening it to reveal a sketch of Adom mid-game, white streak of hair clearly visible despite the artist's mediocre skills.

"I think you are, though," the man said, holding the paper up for comparison. "You look just like him."

Adom considered his options. Fleeing would only confirm his identity. Magical disguise seemed excessive.

That left only one reasonable choice: polite but firm denial.

"Adom Sylla has a white streak in his hair," he pointed out reasonably, gesturing to his now completely dark hair. "And glasses." He gestured to his face, which was notably glasses-free.

The man lowered the newspaper slightly, examining Adom more carefully. "You could be disguising yourself," he said, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "I would too, if I were suddenly famous."

"That's a reasonable assumption," Adom agreed. "If I were Adom Sylla, which I'm not."

"Of course you're not," the man said with a knowing nod that completely contradicted his words. "My mistake."

They stared at each other for a moment, locked in the most polite standoff in the history of Arkhos.

"It's just," the man continued, still speaking just quietly enough that the other customers couldn't quite hear, "my son is a huge fan. Read every match report. Even started practicing Krozball in our back garden."

"That's nice," Adom said sincerely. "Krozball is an excellent sport."

"It is," the man agreed. "Especially when played by someone who isn't you, since you're not Adom Sylla."

"Exactly."

The man reached into his pocket and produced a pen. "I don't suppose you'd consider signing this newspaper anyway? As a favor to someone who clearly isn't Adom Sylla but happens to share his handwriting?"

Adom glanced toward the door, calculating his chances of making a dignified exit. Zero. The other customers had abandoned any pretense of shopping and were now openly watching the exchange, whispering among themselves.

"I don't think that would be appropriate," Adom said carefully. "Since I'm not him." Check latest chapters at novel-fire.net

"No, of course not," the man agreed immediately. "But hypothetically, if you were him—which you're not—it would make my son incredibly happy."

Adom sighed. "And if word got out that Adom Sylla was here, everyone on this street would come running."

"They absolutely would," the man agreed, then leaned in closer. "Which is why I haven't said anything above a whisper since I approached you."

Adom had to admire the man's commitment to their shared fiction.

"You make a compelling argument."

"For a completely hypothetical scenario," the man added helpfully.

"Of course."

The man extended the newspaper and pen with the solemnity of someone handling sacred artifacts.

"Would you mind terribly?"

Adom took them, glancing once more at the other customers, who were still watching with barely concealed curiosity. Mr. Biggins had finally completed his sale and was observing the scene with undisguised amusement.

"What's your son's name?" Adom asked quietly.

"Tomas," the man replied, his face lighting up. "He's seven."

Adom nodded and quickly scribbled 'To Tomas - Work hard and trust your instincts' before signing his name with a flourish. He folded the paper and handed it back, keeping the transaction as inconspicuous as possible.

The man accepted it with a small bow that seemed both excessive and entirely appropriate.

"Thank you," he said. "The person who definitely isn't Adom Sylla was very kind today."

"Happy to help," Adom replied.

The man nodded once more, then turned and made his way to the door, managing to appear both casual and like someone carrying a priceless treasure. The bell jingled as he left.

The remaining customers watched him go, then returned to their browsing with slightly suspicious glances toward Adom. But to his relief, they seemed content to respect the unspoken agreement that had just transpired.

Over the next twenty minutes, they completed their purchases and departed one by one, until finally Adom was alone with Mr. Biggins.

"Well," the old shopkeeper said, removing his spectacles and polishing them with a handkerchief, "that was the most elaborate case of not-being-someone I've witnessed in at least a century."

"You could have helped," Adom pointed out.

"And deny myself such quality entertainment?" Biggins replaced his glasses. "I think not."

The two of them laughed.

"You're making quite a few waves lately," Biggins continued, leaning against the counter and popping one of the blue candies into his mouth. His voice immediately jumped two octaves. "Krozball champion and secret autograph dealer all in one week."

"I enjoyed it at first," Adom admitted. "The attention. But I'm not sure it's good for the long term."

"I wouldn't bet on that," Biggins squeaked, then cleared his throat as the candy's effect faded. "Fame has its uses. Opens doors. Closes others, of course, but that's the nature of doors."

Adom glanced around to ensure they were truly alone. "How's the egg?"

Biggins' face lit up like a child offered a new toy. "Oh! Follow me!"

He bustled past the counter with surprising agility for someone who typically moved with exaggerated leisure. Adom followed him toward the back of the shop, where Biggins stopped in front of what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary door.

"Is this new?" Adom asked, frowning. He was certain that section of wall had been occupied by a bookshelf last time he was here.

"This?" Biggins looked genuinely surprised. "Not at all. It's always been here."

"No, it hasn't."

"The store is never quite the same twice," Biggins said with a dismissive wave. "Surely you've noticed. Sometimes the ceiling's a bit higher. Sometimes there's a new smell. Last Tuesday the entire place was three feet wider."

"I thought that was just me," Adom muttered.

"Hardly. Buildings have moods too." Biggins pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and selected one that looked like it was made from bone. "Especially buildings that house things like me."

The door opened without a sound, revealing a small, circular room that Adom was positive couldn't fit within the dimensions of the shop. The walls were lined with shelves containing objects that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them.

In the center of the room, atop a pedestal of dark wood, sat the phoenix egg.

It was smaller than Adom remembered, about the size of a melon, but the blue flames that engulfed it burned just as brightly. They cast dancing shadows across the room without producing any heat.

"It looks good," Adom said, approaching the pedestal. "Healthy."

"Oh yes," Biggins agreed. "Very healthy indeed."

Adom reached out, hesitated, then carefully lifted the egg. The flames wrapped around his fingers like curious animals, tickling rather than burning.

"I wonder when it will hatch," he said, turning the egg slowly to examine it from all angles.

"Probably in a few years," Biggins replied casually.

"Years?" Adom nearly fumbled the egg. "It's going to be on fire for years?"

"Oh, possibly longer," Biggins said, adjusting his spectacles. "You see, young Adom,The creature inside is already conscious. It's just taking its time."

"It's conscious? Now?"

"Of course." Biggins took the egg from Adom and held it up to the light. "It's registering the outside world. Learning. Growing. When it's ready, it will emerge on its own terms. If disturbed prematurely, it will simply go back to sleep, and the egg will turn to stone."

"That's... a long time to be stuck in an egg."

"Not so different from your own development, really," Biggins said. "Just more contained."

He placed the egg back on its pedestal and sat on a stool that Adom could have sworn wasn't there a moment ago.

"I spent seventy-six years in my egg," Biggins said conversationally. "Fully conscious for most of it."

"That sounds horrific."

"Not at all. It was quite educational." His eyes took on a distant quality. "I was traded as a treasure, you know. Passed from hand to hand. I traveled more in that egg than most humans do in a lifetime."

Adom raised an eyebrow. "You remember all that? From inside an egg?"

His expression darkened momentarily before he shook it off. "I understood what I was, even then. That I was a dragon. That there were few, if any, others like me left. An interesting perspective to develop while still unhatched."

Adom tried to imagine it: decades of floating in darkness, listening, learning, unable to respond. Knowing you were possibly the last of your kind before you'd even seen the world.

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"Doesn't that make you... I don't know, resentful? Being passed around like an object for so long?"

Biggins looked genuinely confused. "Resentful? No more than a book might resent being read. It's simply what was." He gestured toward the egg. "When it emerges, it will already be fully formed mentally. That's why beings like phoenixes and dragons can speak and reason immediately after hatching. We do our growing up on the inside."

Adom considered this. It explained a few things about Biggins' oddities - if your first decades were spent as a disembodied consciousness, perhaps normal human behavior would always seem slightly foreign.

Or maybe age had just worn away his concern for other people’s opinions.

"Is there anything we should be doing for it?" Adom asked. "To help it develop?"

"Talk to it," Biggins suggested. "Read to it. Play it music. The more varied the stimulation, the more robust its development." He reached out and stroked the flaming shell with one finger. "This one already knows your voice. It recognized you the moment you entered the room."

Adom looked skeptically at the egg. "How can you tell?"

"The flames flickered differently." Biggins smiled. "They're flickering differently right now because we're discussing it. It knows."

Adom peered more closely at the egg. The blue flames did seem to be moving in patterns, almost like a visual language.

"So it can understand us? Right now?"

"To some degree," Biggins confirmed. "Not words exactly, not yet, but intentions, emotions. Tone." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Would you like to say hello?"

Feeling slightly foolish, Adom placed his hand on the egg again. "Hello," he said softly. "I'm Adom."

The flames curled around his fingers more deliberately this time, forming shapes that held for just a moment before dissolving.

"It likes you," Biggins said with certainty.

"How do you know?"

"Because," Biggins said, his expression utterly serious, "it just told me so."