Ned Wicker's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Ned Wicker counted six shoppers hurry past his window, and every one of them turned into the shop next door. He waved anyway. His wide smile ached. The first autumn cold had chased half the street indoors, and the cold made people want to stand and warm up and browse. His shop gave them nowhere to do it. Two narrow aisles of candles, no chair, no space to breathe. His rival's shop was wide and bright. Ned wanted those six people. He wanted all of them back. He pressed his forehead to the cold glass. His breath fogged it. Behind him, wax cooled in the molds. He had spent years building his little shop, and now he watched customers drift away like leaves. The chill was winning. He needed a reason for people to come inside and stay. That evening he climbed the stairs to his home above the shop. His terraced house was warm and snug, with neat rows of windows and a green front door. He dropped into his armchair by the fire. On the windowsill sat his fern, its arching fronds and cinnamon-colored spikes catching the firelight. Curled beside it slept his little hedgehog, round ears twitching, safe and drowsy in the heat. Ned stared at the sleepy animal. He looked at the warm room, the plant, the fire, the deep chair. He felt his shoulders drop. This was why people wanted to linger somewhere. Not for candles. For warmth. For the feeling of a home. He stood so fast the hedgehog stirred. "I'll bring this downstairs," he said aloud. "All of it." He worked past midnight. He carried the armchair down step by step. He hauled the fern and set it in the front corner. He built a small stove near the door and stacked kindling. He cleared one crowded aisle to make room. He even carried down the sleeping hedgehog in its basket and placed it where the window light would fall. Morning came gray and cold. Ned lit the stove. Heat filled the little shop. He propped the door open and stood behind the counter, waiting. The first shopper stopped at his window, rubbing her hands. She looked at the warm glow, the green fern, the small curled animal by the glass. She came inside. She sat in the armchair. She stayed. By noon, seven people crowded his shop. They warmed their fingers. They petted the hedgehog. They picked up candles while they lingered, and they bought them. For the first time in weeks, Ned did not count anyone walking into the shop next door. But as the last customer left, Ned looked at his empty rooms upstairs. His chair was gone. His fern was gone. His warm home now sat in his shop, open to the whole cold street. He had won the crowd. He had given away the only warm place he had left.