Duncan didn't reply immediately to the voice outside. He stood at the threshold of the antique shop, watching the city around him gradually awaken under the pale glow of the rift-streaked sky. The early bustle of foot traffic and rising chatter washed over the cobbled street like a tide.
His eyes drifted back to the worn signage above the shop door.
"Duncan's Antiques."
The letters had always been there, embedded in the old wood as if carved decades ago, no sign of alteration, no trace of forgery or deception. Even the dust around the edges was undisturbed.
Just yesterday, it had read "Ron's Antiques." Now, even the world itself seemed to believe this was how it had always been.
Duncan felt the weight of the reality shift settle deeper in his bones.
He moved to the front window, gazing at his reflection. A middle-aged man stared back at him—unfamiliar, gaunt, with deep-set eyes and stubble on a weary face. There was no sign of the pale green fire that usually danced in his soul, no mark of the spectral captain who commanded a ship lost between the cracks of space.
Just Ron, the antique dealer. Or so the world would believe.
A bicycle bell rang nearby, and Duncan turned just as a neighbor waved at him from across the narrow street.
"Morning, Mr. Duncan! Have you seen the papers yet? Looks like the Church busted one hell of a cult den last night—real big one, down in the sewers!"
Duncan nodded, his tone perfectly calm. "Morning. I heard something about it."
"Yeah, the priest on the news said it was one of the worst outbreaks of heresy in years," the man added, clearly excited by the drama. "Thank the gods the Storm Wardens caught it early."
"Indeed," Duncan murmured, watching as the man continued on his way.
Inside the shop, he could hear Nina moving about upstairs. Her footsteps were light and quick—still young, still carefree. She was humming to herself now, likely making a mental list of the groceries she'd need to pick up later.
Duncan's gaze drifted upward. The girl had called him "Uncle Duncan" without a flicker of doubt.
Not "Ron." Not any other name.
She believed, with unwavering certainty, that he had always been Duncan.
And the sign believed it.
And the neighbors believed it.
And even the world, it seemed, had decided to rewrite itself around the will of the ghost captain.
He stepped back inside, quietly closing the door behind him. His boots echoed against the wood flooring, accompanied by the rustle of morning wind outside. From upstairs came the faint sound of a cupboard opening, followed by Nina calling down with casual cheer:
"I'll head to the market after breakfast! You want anything special?"
Duncan hesitated only a moment.
"Something fresh," he called up, a faint smile touching his lips. "Something that doesn't taste like century-old dried meat."
There was a pause.
"...Right," Nina replied, clearly confused, "I guess I'll figure something out."
Duncan turned toward the back room, passing shelves of dusty fakes and trinkets with a new sense of ownership. His fingers brushed the old counter, the warmth of the sunlight now streaming in through the windows catching on the dust motes.
The ghost of a ship captain now had a civilian name, a family, and a storefront.
It was almost... cozy.
But in the back of his mind, he still heard the whispers of fire and sea.
And somewhere beyond the walls of this quiet neighborhood, the world was turning toward something ancient, hungry, and mad.
The day had just begun.