Chapter Text
There are many things wrong with Pomni’s life at the moment.
For starters, she gets fired from her cushy white-collar job just before Christmas—which wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t also have a mountain of bills stacked on her kitchen counter and a fat, perpetually starving cat named Ravioli yowling at her every morning. Now she has to survive on cheap ramen and saltines, rationing her instant coffee like it’s liquid gold.
Secondly, she is, by most measurable standards, a certified loser. No friends. No social life. No family members who bother keeping in touch. And absolutely nobody prepared Pomni for how impossible it is to land a decent job without any useful contacts.
Point is, she's got no money. So when the creepy antique shop in town posts a handwritten “Help Wanted” sign, she doesn't think twice. Luckily, they aren’t exactly picky about qualifications. You don’t need a glowing resume to babysit a room full of haunted-looking knickknacks. Her “skills” boil down to basic math, the ability to stay conscious for eight hours, and not knocking over the century-old china dolls with her elbow. Her boss—a girl at least five years younger than her and somehow more put-together— ran her through the rules on day one: smile at the clients, work the register, and, under no circumstances, set anything on fire.
She got hired on the spot.
Things could only go up from here. Or at least, that’s what she used to think. These days, Pomni knows better. There’s always a way to dig yourself deeper, even when you’re certain you’ve already hit rock bottom.
She slouches behind the counter, holding what can barely still be called a turkey sandwich. The bread’s gone damp and the meat has a tangy flavor that's most definitely bad news, but her electric bill is overdue, and she’s not about to let perfectly good food rot in her fridge if she’s going to lose power tomorrow. So lunch it is.
Pomni takes another tentative bite and chews slowly as she scans her surroundings. The store is packed from floor to ceiling with delicate porcelain faces, glass-eyed dolls, cracked picture frames, chipped jewelry boxes, and other remnants of lives long gone. She’s been working at Lost n’ Found for about a month, and she’s still not used to the eery vibes she gets every morning from the ancient objects staring at her.
She grabs her phone from under the counter, thumbs hovering over the screen, scrolling through apps she can’t afford to use on data she’s almost out of. Her only friend from grade school is already getting married, and she didn't get invited. Figures. Somewhere, far away, other people are living actual lives. Pomni, meanwhile, is rotting slowly in a mausoleum for other people’s trash.
The bell above the door gives a tired jingle as a customer leaves. It's three o’clock, and Pomni pushes aside her sandwich—the old turkey smell was starting to make her sick. She leans forward on the counter, resting her chin on her palm. Her only coworker, Zooble, has disappeared into the back an hour ago and hasn’t returned, so she’s left to simmer alone with her thoughts of failure and the unsettling chorus of ticking clocks behind her.
It’s not a demanding job. Most of it amounts to occasionally wiping dust off porcelain faces and organizing shelves. Pomni knows she’s lucky. She knows she shouldn’t complain when this place is the only thing standing between her and sleeping under a highway overpass. Or calling her mother. In which case she’d much rather become a homeless person.
Still, that doesn’t make it any less boring. Nothing ever happens around here except for the occasional crack addict breaking in. Oh, and that one time Zooble came in drunk and flirted with their boss, which was really funny.
As if on cue, the bell jingles again. Pomni straightens her back immediately and gets ready to give the speech she's memorized a million times.
“Welcome to Lost n’ Found, how may I help you today?” she recites robotically.
“Good afternoon!”
A familiar head of fiery red curls steps inside, humming softly, carrying that eternally optimistic aura of hers that no human should be able to have at one in the afternoon. There are streaks of dried paint crusted along her fingertips and a faint smear of pink on her jaw she either forgot to wipe off or didn’t care to. Yesterday, it had been dirt. The day before that, glitter. Pomni can’t decide if Ragatha is an artist, a gardener, or a serial killer, but she’s beginning to suspect it’s all three.
“Hey,” Pomni says, dropping the pretense at once.
“Guess what I found at the flea market this morning,” Ragatha sets an arm folded on the counter and plops down a plastic bag next to it.
Pomni smiles awkwardly.“…Another doll?”
“Three,” Ragatha beams. “All cracked and chipped. You should’ve seen them. They needed at least five coats of glue each.”
She hums. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
“Ah, but it’s not. See, all you need to do is treat them with care and—here, I'll just show you.”
For the next five minutes, Ragatha will continue telling Pomni all about her newest finds at the thrift store, and then the market. Afterwards, she’ll probably mention lunch, and how she has to cook, and clean, and then go to work. It’s routine by now. Every morning, without fail, Ragatha comes in and starts yapping about her day like they’re best friends.
It should bother Pomni more than it does. It really should. But she’s a loser with no social life and an even worse backbone. Besides, saying no to a pretty girl demanding her attention feels impossible. So instead, she settles for pretending to be annoyed, hoping the act will salvage whatever scraps of dignity she has left.
Not that it helps. Ragatha is impossible to ignore.
And weird. Very, very weird.
A girl as striking as Ragatha shouldn’t be allowed to be this casually obsessive with such terrifying little things. It started innocently enough; she brought in one of her childhood rag dolls to donate, insisting she didn’t want any money for it. ‘I’m just happy it won’t get thrown out in the trash,’ she’d said. Pomni thought the sentiment was sweet, even admirable, and let it slide.
The next day, it was a porcelain doll. Ragatha casually mentions it’s an heirloom, and sure enough, there’s gold detailing on the thing. She laughed it off and gave it away for free again, even though Pomni aggressively insisted she should keep it and sell it to collectors on eBay.
After that, it’s a blur. By the end of the week, the shelves behind the counter were crammed with dolls: rag dolls with fraying seams, glossy plastic dolls with stiff smiles, porcelain dolls with glassy eyes that seem far too alive for Pomni’s liking. They sit in silent rows, their collective stare following her movements while she wastes entire afternoons with headphones in, watching true crime videos on her phone and wondering if one of these days she might become the next victim on Annabelle’s list.
Perhaps Ragatha is a murderer, she thinks. A psycho who enjoys showing her the little trinkets she steals from her victims. This seems a lot less likely to be true when the same girl snorts at her own awful pun about bartenders and penguins.
Ragatha’s laugh is contagious. She asks if Pomni finds the joke funny, and her brain draws a blank. “You come here a lot.” she blurts out.
It was meant to be an offhand observation, nothing more—but it makes Ragatha stop in her tracks. If Zooble were here, they’d be shooting Pomni a death glare by now, maybe even wringing her neck for being rude for scaring away the customers. Especially one as nice as Ragatha. Pomni silently prays for Zooble’s smoke break to end soon, or better yet, that they’ll finally stop making out with their boss behind the dumpster and put Pomni out of her misery already.
Ragatha stammers. “Oh! Has it really been that many times? I didn’t even notice," she says, fiddling with the plastic bag. “Time sure flies, doesn't it?”
Pomni fights the urge to point out that yes, it has been that many times. In fact, Ragatha has been here almost every day since Pomni started working at this rotten place. She’d know, because Ragatha, with her seemingly permanent disheveled looks, has been the only thing memorable enough to sneak into Pomni’s thoughts at midnight.
“Sorry,” she murmurs. Her fingers tap the edge of the counter. “I didn’t mean it like that. Uh… are you here to donate something today?”
Ragatha blinks. “Donate? Oh, right. Right. Just this, if that's okay.”
Pomni nods, cheeks burning, and carefully empties the bag’s contents onto the counter. After a moment of sorting through small porcelain trinkets, a chipped music box, and a pair of small rag dolls, Ragatha scratches her neck nervously. Her fingers twist in the fraying strap of her purse, and when she speaks, her usual bright cadence falters, softer than Pomni’s ever heard it. “Hey, uh…I know I’m here a lot, but I’ve never asked you your name. Silly me! You must think I'm some kind of, of—”
“Weirdo?” Pomni slaps a hand over her mouth. Why is Zooble taking so long?
Ragatha snakes a hand through her hair, scattering tiny chips of paint across her scalp. “That too,” she says. “I'm Ragatha, I live next door.”
Well, that explains some things. For example, how a person like Ragatha knows about the existence of this store—Nobody comes around anymore except old people and the local crack heads. Of course, it would be her luck that the hottest girl she’s ever met is obsessed with creepy dolls. To make matters worse, she already knows Ragatha’s name. She saw it once, written in neat block letters across a faded plastic nametag pinned to the paint-splattered overalls Ragatha wore the second week she came in.
She’s never said anything, though. Admitting that she knows Ragatha’s name without ever having asked would be stalker level weird. So instead, Pomni just nods nonchalantly, like she hasn’t been mentally filing away details about this girl every time she walks through the door.
“Name’s Pomni.” she says.
“Nice to meet you, Pomni.” Ragatha replies sweetly. Reluctantly, she extends a hand for Pomni to shake. “I’m sorry I've been such a pest lately. I’ll stay out of your hair, I swear.”
Pomni stares at her hand longer than she should. Ragatha’s nails are perfectly manicured, painted a deep wine red that stands out against her pale skin. It’s unfair, Pomni thinks, how even her hands look put-together when the rest of her is perpetually covered in smudges of paint and dirt.
She takes Ragatha’s hand—soft—before the silence can stretch too thin, giving it the faintest shake. “It’s fine,” Pomni manages. You’re the only interesting thing in my life right now. “You can keep bringing your stuff. My boss would probably appreciate it.”
At this, Ragatha smiles again. “Really? I’ll stop by tomorrow then. I have this old record player you’d probably like, and the other porcelain dolls I found. Oh, but those might take a while, there's so much glue, you know?”
Slowly, Pomni drapes herself over the counter and allows Ragatha to continue talking. Tomorrow, she decides, she’ll stop being a chicken and give her something in return—something worthy, something that counts as a proper payment for all the dolls and trinkets she’s freely left behind. Surely, there has to be at least one special item tucked away between the shelves, one that would fit a girl as kind and unique as Ragatha.
The next day, Zooble shows up early.
Normally, Pomni would be thrilled. Maybe she’d even light a candle in celebration if it meant Zooble was finally going to do their job instead of bailing halfway through the shift and coming back smelling suspiciously like sweat and cigarette smoke.
Today, Pomni would’ve appreciated a warning.
She’s crouched behind the counter, half-buried in the dusty jewelry display, humming softly as she palms every single necklace on the shelves. None of them are good enough. They’re all decades old, faintly copper-scented, and either tangled or chipped in ways that scream cheap. And she can’t just pick something from the front of the store either — Ragatha would notice instantly, given how often she's around, and then Pomni would have to admit that she's currently dirt poor, but wants to get her something nice anyway. It's a sad thought.
Either way, today’s clearly not her lucky day. After nearly an hour of digging through piles of trash, the best thing she manages to find is a thin, old ring. It’s dented along the band, the gold worn pale in spots, and there’s an empty socket where a gem used to sit. Now, it’s nothing more than a hollow shell of what it used to be.
She sighs, turning the ring over in her fingers, wondering if maybe Ragatha would still like it anyway. Maybe she'd think the missing gem gives it ‘character’. Or maybe she’d just smile politely, thank her, and secretly toss it into a garbage can somewhere, which would somehow feel worse than outright rejection.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Pomni yelps, bangs her head against the shelf, and bites back a curse.
Zooble stands over her, one eyebrow arched, holding a paper cup of coffee and a bagel. “Actually, don't tell me. I’d like to keep my sanity for today, if that's okay with you.”
Pomni scrambles to her feet, brushing dust off her apron. “I-I was organizing.”
They hum, low and skeptical, the kind of sound that makes it painfully clear they don’t believe a single word she’s saying. Zooble has always had an unsettling talent for sniffing out bullshit. It doesn’t matter if it’s some sweet old lady swearing her chipped teapot is a priceless heirloom or the guy from the trinket shop across the street claiming his knockoff shirt is authentic vintage. Zooble sees through it instantly, calls them out without hesitation, and somehow always wins the argument. It’s one of the things Pomni secretly likes best about them.
It’s also significantly less charming when it’s aimed at her.
Zooble flips their neon-pink hair with a practiced motion and strides over, all long legs and zero hesitation. Before Pomni can react, they pluck the ring straight from her hand.
They hold it up to the light, tilting it between their fingers, squinting. After a moment, they let out a low whistle.
“This thing's worth like a million bucks,” they mumble. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
Pomni snatches the ring back, cheeks heating. “Nobody!” She stammers. “It’s for myself.”
“Right,” Zooble deadpans, not without taking a bite of their bagel first. They grimace at the taste, and throw it in the nearest trash can. “Please don't steal from the store, you know how Gangle is about her inventory.”
“It’s not stealing.” Pomni insists. She silently pockets the ring while Zooble downs their coffee in record time. “I'll just take it out of my next paycheck.”
Zooble barks out a laugh, low and sharp, like they’ve just heard the funniest joke of the week. “Yeah, good luck with that. Caine would sooner sell your soul to the bargain bin than dock your pay by a cent.”
They're not wrong. The shop’s been on the dumps way before Pomni started working here. People just don't buy antiques anymore, except if they're creeps with hoarder tendencies—and Ragatha. But even she donates more than she ever takes home.
“Seriously though, at least be sneakier next time.”
Pomni sighs. She ties her apron harder than she needs to, if only because the pain on her ribs momentarily distracts her from the awkwardness of this entire interaction. At least Zooble had their coffee today. “Don't you have a job to do?”
“I'm just looking out for the shop.” Zooble smiles, uniform already on point.
Sure. If banging the manager is gonna keep this place afloat, then who’s Pomni to get in the way?
The alarm on her phone startles Pomni more than she'd like to admit. She jumps a little, while Zooble’s eyes fly open in surprise. It was supposed to be a gentle reminder to herself that she couldn't possibly afford to spend more than an hour looking for Ragatha’s present. Which she kind of just did. Now, it's opening time, and she's filled with dread the moment she realizes Ragatha could be here any second now.
She should've stuck with the DIY flower bouquet she found on YouTube the other night. Pomni pats her pocket thoughtfully. All she’s got is a stupid ring, and not even a jewel to put on it.
Zooble pats her on the back sympathetically. “Hey, I’m sure creepy doll chick will love it,” they say. On any other occasion, it would've been reassuring, but Pomni's not really in the mood for a consolation prize at the moment.
“It’s garbage,” Pomni whines. “Literal garbage.”
Zooble's eyebrows furrow. Outside, an old man with a lamp under his arm knocks on the door, and Zooble yells at him to fuck off while giving him the middle finger. Immediately after, they turn around and grab Pomni by the shoulders.
“Listen, we gotta get this place running. The ring’s not garbage. It just needs a little…bling. And I got just the thing.”
That’s how it happens—after nearly an hour of Zooble disappearing into the back with a muttered “don’t touch anything,” and Pomni left stranded at the counter, nervously tapping the register keys and praying they haven’t ditched her again. Just when she’s about ready to sulk back to her ramen lunch, Zooble finally reappears, wordlessly handing something over.
Pomni blinks down at it. The ring looks… different. Better. Cleaner. It isn’t stained anymore, though there’s still the faint tang of rust clinging to the metal. But what really makes her breath catch is the tiny ruby now fixed on top—catching the sunlight, scattering it into sharp red sparks and soft white flashes. It’s enough to make her abandon her cup noodles entirely, holding the little thing up to the light and turning it this way and that in awe.
“How?” she gasps. It glimmers brilliantly, the red glow reminding her of unruly hair tangled with streaks of paint.
Zooble, perched on a stool nearby, cracks open a can of diet coke and lights a cigarette with practiced ease. They take a long drag, exhale slow, and finally answer without looking up.
“I said I’d help, so I did. No big deal.”
Pomni stammers, caught between disbelief and gratitude. She’s pretty sure she would’ve remembered if Zooble had ever mentioned actually helping during their earlier conversation. But she’s not about to complain. If anything, she wants to hug them—which she promptly does, squeezing tight while babbling an ocean of thank you’s and you’re the best’s.
In that moment, every bad thought she’s ever had about Zooble dissolves into nothing. They’re not just tolerable; they’re an angel in heavy eyeliner and a constellation of piercings.
At least until Zooble flicks her forehead with one of their sharp nails, making her yelp.
“Save it for your girlfriend,” Zooble says drily, a quick laugh slipping out after. “And thanks, by the way, for not ratting about…you know. To Caine.”
It hadn’t even occurred to Pomni to tell Caine about Zooble's little escapades during work hours. Why would she? Gangle’s sweet, and the two of them make a surprisingly nice pair. She just flashes Zooble a warm smile, nudges them with her elbow, and turns back to her ramen, slurping happily.
She can already picture it: Ragatha will walk through the door in a few minutes, as per her schedule, and greet Pomni with a handshake. Except this time, she won't be a coward, and she’ll pull Ragatha in for a hug instead. Things are starting to look up, because Ragatha's no longer just a pretty sight that makes her days more bearable—now they know each other’s names. And in Pomni’s books, that’s more than she could've ever aimed for.
This fantasy is enough to carry her through the entirety of her break, and then her shift. It isn't until Zooble announces that they need to close up for the day that she realizes Ragatha hasn't shown up today.
Ragatha doesn’t show up for an entire week after that.