A quick call to the photography store revealed that they held a three-day workshop on film development and photo printing—both bd-white and color. Excited, I signed up for the earliest avaible session and tinued my preparations.

  A quiline search yielded five pawnshops, two gaming stores, and a flea market. Over the five days, I made it my mission to visit every single oarting with a pawnshop that finally lived up to the image I had in my head.

  It was small, dimly lit, and cluttered. The air carried a musty blend of dust, aged leather, a traildew, and somethiangible—the st of time itself. Yes, time had a smell, it smelled old. Narrow aisles wouween shelves packed with an ued colle of things—from battered attaches to old amplifiers, from small appliances like blenders and food processors to scuffed musical instruments that had seeer days.

  Behind the ter, an older man with a thick white beard smiled, his eyes kling at the ers. “Hello, treasure seeker. Are you here for something special?”

  “Gold jewelry.”

  He nodded, ducked behind the ter, and reappeared with a tray full of small pieces —earrings, pendants, and, oddly enough, dozens of wedding rings. The sight of all ths gave me pause. Eae probably had a story, but now they y there, offered for cash.

  "I’ll take the lot," I said, waving at the tray. The shopkeeper’s bushy eyebrows shot up, his expression shiftiween amusement and suspi.

  “That’s a lot s,” he said, eyeing me.

  “I melt them down,” I lied. He didn’t push it.

  As I scooped the rings into a bag, one caught my eye—a simple gold band, slightly dented, with tiny engraved initials: M+K, 1987. A pang of sadness washed over me, and before I realized it, my fingers had found my own wedding ring, turning it absently. Notig the motion, I stopped.

  Mier, I left with a bag of mismatched gold—earrings, pendants, and an unreasonable number of wedding rings. And this was just the first stop. The few days were going to be iing.

  The stop on my list was the gaming store, packed with gss dispy cases showg characters in all shapes and sizes. Some were instantly reizable—Star Wars, Pixar—but most were a mystery.

  A young red-haired guy with gsses sat behind the ter reading a ic book.

  “Excuse me,” I said to catch his attention. “Do you have copper s in stock?”

  His eyes lit up with i. “Why do you need copper s?” he asked, excited.

  I smiled, trying to e up with a pusible expnation. “It’s a present for a kid that collects s.”

  His shoulders slumped, and his smile vanished. What the hell? Why would a kid’s present disappoint him?

  He showed me a pouch with copper s. Judging by its look, I suspected it was the same kind of pouch the Traveler wrote about. I bought the eo the store and did the same iher gaming store. There, at least the salesperson didn’t ask questions and didn’t get disappointed.

  My stop was the flea market, an all-out assault on my senses and worldview. Shops and stalls overflowed with things I couldn’t imagine anyone buying—or why anyone would bother selling. Old, battered furniture sat in disarray—chairs missis s, torn mattresses, and wardrobes with half their shelves gone.

  A taxidermied squirrel in a top hat stood o a pile of por dolls. A VHS copy of Titanic sat on top of a stack of ‘90s sit box sets, and beside it, a bowl of marbles reflected the light like tiny Christmas lights. And then there were the used shoes—row after row of them, ces kogether in pairs. I did a double-take. Yes, someone was selling used shoes.

  Who buys used shoes?

  But there were also many more iing items. There were stalls with gssware aalware, some used and some he gssware included beautiful pieces that must have e from heirlooms—the craftsmanship was exquisite. Others were selling cutlery sets, and I found a stand brand-new linens from the factory in a huge mixed pile. The seller expihey were new but cked packaging, so they ended up at the flea market.

  Stalls overflowed with used aoys, figurines, sed-hand books, vinyl records, and everything iween. Food stalls filled the market, most selling beer and German sausages, filling the air with delicious smells. The various stores bsted loud music, each trying to outdo the other. It was chaotic, loud, and overwhelming, yet somehow charming.

  By the end of my shopping spree, my haul included cookware, lots of gssware, linens and bs, carpets, toys, baskets and chests, giant rolls of cloth, figurines, and a myriad of other items I could buy for cheap and sell where they didn’t have those things.

  Each purchase lifted me a little. At first, it wasn’t quite excitement—more like surfag from a deep well of gloom. I still grieved and missed Sophie like crazy, but getting ready for my journey pushed back the clouds of paiing hope in like sun rays. Maybe it didn’t shine directly on me, but at least its warmth reached me. I was doing it. Actually doing it. And that gave me hope, something to tto, and a sense of pride in myself.

  When I returo the hotel and checked my Ste after all the shopping, it was a chaotic mess. Looking inside was a strange experience—I didn’t move my head, but my vision shifted, like staring past everything to a distant horizon with an unfocused gaze. I saw the entire space as a general mass, the individual items blurring together. It wasn’t sight with my physical eyes but my mental eyes.

  Despite the disorientation, I kly what was inside and where each item was. The duality of seeing and knowing was uling at first, but gradually, I adjusted. It wasn’t natural, but it was manageable. The outside world vanished while I looked into my Ste. I could focus on one or the other—never both.

  The space was a massive 8x8x8 meter cube, with everything piled at the bottom. I figured things would stack up as I added more. The whole setup cshed with my Earthly sensibilities—the messy piles felt off, and the high ceiling seemed unnatural. The ability descriptioioned nothing about reshaping the space, but I tried it anyway.

  I tried willing it to ge shape—nothing. So I reached out with my mind, trag the edges of the spatil I fully grasped it as a space or object. Then I “pulled” one end while “pressing” oop. The shift happeirely through mental i, not physical force. Slowly, the space stretched ahened as its height shrank. It took an incredible amount of tration. My mental faculties trembled from the strain, and my head pounded, but I didn’t give up until I had a long hall with a 2.5-3 meter high ceiling.

  Much better and worth the headache

  I went to Ikea to buy some cheap shelving units. Wheered the store, there were so many families and couples that it was hard to navigate, and harder to deal with the noise. I found the shelves ie area, all ft-packed and ready to assemble. I also found a barrel—the idea of a barrel full of s was too cool to pass up. The barrel was massive and sturdy, held together by metal bands, and had a cool rustic vibe that I thought would fit perfectly in a fantasy world.

  I anized all my purchases on the shelves, pg the jewelry in a nice pirate chest I found at the flea market. The barrel, nearly overflowing, erfect for st the copper s. Some ued finds made it into the colle, like a manual coffee grinder and an old-school ice cream , things that wouldn't have even crossed my mind.

  The first day of the workshop arrived, and I went to attend. As soon as I walked into the store, the smell of photographic chemicals hit me. I saw a few shelves with vintage cameras and couldn’t help but admire them. A blond clerk with big blue eyes said something in German.

  “I don’t speak German,” I said. “I’m here for the workshop.”

  She waved me toward the back, where the workshop was being held. I joined a small group gathered around a long table covered with equipment whose purpose I couldn’t guess.

  Ansel, a stocky man in his sixties—maybe pushiy—with a ly trimmed gray beard, led the workshop. Despite his age, he radiated energy, his passion for photography evident in every gesture. Before even toug on film development, he unched into ahusiastic discussion about the art, his thick German at making some words tricky to follow, but the topic was captivating enough that it hardly mattered.

  "Ah, ja, now ve talk about somesing fual—ze Law of Thirds," he said. "Never pce ze subje ze middle, nein! To. Imagine a grid—dree parts vertically und horizontally. Your subject should fall along zese lines or interses. See?" He gestured. "If ze horizon is at ze top dird, it creates band draws ze eye to ze most important part."

  He expined how position shaped the photo, including the Golden Ratio, Leading Lines, and other teiques to guide the eye.

  "Each type of shot," he said, "tells a different story, ja? You must choose vhat fits ze mood und ze message you vant to vey."

  , he gave us a general expnation of film development, emphasizing the importance of patiend precision. The theory was fasating, and then we moved on to the practical stage. He showed us how to load film into the camera in total darkness—it’s much harder than it sounds! At first, I couldn’t do it, but Ansel atient and guided me until I got it right.

  In another se of the space stood a table with a pte of fruits and some pitchers and vases on it. Around the table were some other items.

  He gestured toward it. "Zis table—ja, you see? You vill photograph zis exactly as I haf expined. Follow ze rules, ja? Precision is everything!"

  When I fihe roll, my red light started blinking. I turned my back to the group and checked it.

  You have learhe Skill [Photography]

  For a moment, a pang of sadness hit me. If I had discovered this art form earlier, I could have taken so many pictures of Sophie. Her ughter, the way the sun caught her hair, how she looked at me—I could have saved all of it, kept it with me. Now, all I had were memories slipping through my fingers. I shook my head, rubbed my eyes to stop the rears, aurned my attention to the css.

  , he took us to the darkroom to develop our images. The process was nerve-wrag but fasating—watg the images appear on the ives was its own kind of magic.

  We moved on to printing, where Ansel expined how the enrger projected the image onto photographic paper. He had us experiment with exposure times, trast, and teiques like dodging and burning to add depth. My first prints were rough, but I got the hang of it with practid even e.

  Color film was trickier, requiring precise temperature trol, but the results were worth it. By day three, I wasn’t a pro but no longer intimidated. We tested different papers and toning teiques, and Ansel pushed us to think beyond just capturing images—using photography to tell stories.

  By the end of the workshop, I felt like I’d learned a lot about the teical side of photography and developed a deeper appreciation for the art form. And the best part?

  You have learhe Skill [Develop ive]

  You have learhe Skill [Print Photograph]

  After the workshop, I went on a bit of a shopping spree, clearing out their eock—chemicals, photography paper, film, and everything needed for wet printing. The staff tried to talk me out of it, warning me about expiration dates, but I wasn’t worried. My Ste would keep everything fresh for years. Hanna (acc to her ag), a young woman with a pixie cut, looked especially ed, her brows knitting as she rang up the total. Beside her, an older man with a ponytail and gsses watched but didn’t ent.

  “Are you sure you need all this? These chemicals won’t st forever,” she said.

  I just smiled. “I’m sure.”

  She didn’t look vinced but didn’t push it.

  I also searched for more cameras like mine, which turned out to be more challenging than expected. Most vintage cameras I found could work without a battery but had the option for one, which I wasn’t too sure about. My phone had died in the first Gate, and I didn’t want the cameras to fail, too. But I found five that worked. The cameras were beautiful, eae with its quirks aures. I hit up other photography stores and bought all their chemicals, paper, and film, plus ahree sets of equipment. At oore, I even found a portable darkroom tent—a pact, lightweight setup perfect for developing photos outside.

  The tent got me thinking about camping gear. Practicalities had to be sidered—where would I sleep? How would I cook? What kind of clothes would I hinking through these details made my future journey feel more solid, more real.

  The first outdoor store I visited was an adventurer’s dream—a massive warehouse packed with gear. They had tents in all sizes for aher, with or without opies. I bought several—a small, lightweight tent for quick setup, a rger one for exteays, and a massive gmpi. At first, I wasn’t sure about that one. Why would I his monstrosity? But then I told myself, You have the spad money. Live a little. The thought was almost fn. For so long, I’d been drowning in pain, from Sophie’s illo her death. The idea of living agai inceivable. Still, I made myself do it. I had to.

  I picked up fire starter kits with flint and steel, roof matches, and a pact, folding stove that used coals. up were hammocks and mattresses. I found a double-sized hammock made of durable, weather-resistant fabrid a self-infting mattress that promised a good night’s sleep even on rocky ground. Lightweight pots, pans, and various utensils entered my Ste. The store also had all kinds of gadgets for sh in the wild. Folding chairs and tables were anreat find, making it easy to set up a fortable campsite. Buying all those everyday ies kept me grounded and pulled me back whenever my thoughts started drifting to pces I didn’t want to go

  Backpacks were a must. I found a rugged leather oh an Indiana Jones vibe—something that wouldn’t look out of p a fantasy world or oh. I bought five, figuring I’d still want to carry a backpack even with my Ste. Every adventurer needed one, and it would look less suspicious.

  I also checked out t bikes, picked a model, and bought five with plenty of spare parts to keep them in good shape. The bikes were sleek and sturdy, built for long-distaravel over rough terrain. I picked up spare tires, s, and a preheoolkit to make sure I could keep them running smoothly on the road.

  The seller insisted I needed a bike trailer to carry all the gear. At first, I dismissed it—Ste made it unnecessary. After some thought, I did buy one. Sometimes, a secluded spot to store things wouldn’t be an option, and a trailer might solve that problem.

  The store carried a wide variety of clothing—shoes, hats, vests, jackets, socks, and more. I picked up a few pairs of durable hiking boots, some moisture-wig shirts and pants, a weather-resistant coat, and a wide-brimmed hat for sun prote. I also stocked up on warm socks and thermal underwear for colder climates.

  After the insurance cleared, I had over 350K in my at. Knowing I wasn’t ing back, I went all out and bought multiples of almost everything. My at baook a hit, and my Ste was almost full.

  I need more Ste spad more ability points.

  Two days before my flight home, I checked the ate to see where it led. I drove there and stopped at three more pawn shops and a gaming store on the way. The pawn shops yielded more jewelry, and the gaming store more copper s. Almost all the pawn shops had musical instruments, so I bought a guitar—or three—ara strings, just in case. The guitars were a mix of styles: two different cssical acoustic guitars and a steel-string acoustic. I noticed skills for pying instruments—again, I needed more ability points.

  For a brief moment, the thought of actually learning to py the guitar crossed my mind instead of just buying the skill. But then I remembered the frustrating piano lessons a foster parent once fore. That was enough to shut the idea down.

  When I got to the Gate, I checked the destination:

  Travelers Gate #468217258 Destination: Shimoor Status: Ied Mana level: 17 Threat level: Very low.

  That was ued. I’d assumed it would lead somewhere else, but evee number was secutive. Raising the binocurs, I sed the area—no houses, no smoke, no signs of people. Just mountains, derees, and a river snaking through the valley below. I paced the mountaintop, searg for a way down. The slope wasn’t a sheer drop, but it was steep, littered with jagged boulders and loose rock. Climbing gear might be necessary, just in case, though my pn was still to cross over near Frankfurt. Or maybe one of the ates I po visit for leveling would also lead to Shimoor.

  A few test shots with the camera firmed it worked, and I hoped the pictures would e out. Satisfied, I drove to the rental agency, returhe car, and headed to the airport. It was time to go home and handle my affairs.