Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 185

It’s just past noon, sunlight spilling down like it’s got nowhere better to be. The air’s warm but not heavy, the kind that makes you want to keep walking just to feel it on your skin. We’re on a quiet street, little shops lined up shoulder to shoulder.

I glance at my phone again, the map stubbornly insisting we’re standing right in front of the address Janice from the farmer's market gave me over the phone. “It’s supposed to be around here somewhere,” I say, turning a slow circle.

Jax lifts his chin, scanning the street like he’s tracking something. “What was the name of the shop again?”

I squint at my notes. “River & Root.”

He narrows his gaze instead, chin tilting slightly as he gestures toward the left. “It’s right over there.”

I follow his gesture across the street, and sure enough, there it is. A narrow storefront with an old wooden sign that’s seen better decades, the paint faded to soft gray. *River & Root, Handmade Jewelry & Stones.* The words look hand-painted, slightly uneven, which somehow makes it better.

“Good eye,” I say, a quiet laugh slipping out.

He steps up beside me as we start toward it. When we reach the curb, his arm comes around my waist, casual but firm enough that I feel it in my chest. The street’s not busy, just a couple of cars parked along the side and a cyclist rolling by in the distance. Jax glances both ways like we're crossing a highway, before guiding us across.

The bell over the door jingles when I push it open. The second I step in, I know I love this place. The air inside smells faintly of lavender and metal polish, the kind of place you could miss if you weren’t looking.

Shelves line the walls, each crowded with bracelets and pendants, rings set with cloudy stones that catch the light in strange, beautiful ways. There’s a little counter near the back, behind which an older man looks up from a magnifying glass.

“Be right with you,” he says, voice warm.

There’s jewelry, sure, but also handmade soap wrapped in paper and tied with twine, beeswax candles in glass jars, and a rack of essential oils lined up like little potions.

The man behind the counter steps out from the back. He’s got a noticeable limp but moves with practiced ease, like he’s long stopped letting it slow him down. His hair’s silver, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up.

I walk up to him right away, smiling. “You must be Albert.”

He nods, smiling back as he reaches out to shake my hand. “That’d be me.”

“I’m Xander,” I say. “Your wife, Janice, gave me your address.”

Albert’s eyes light up with amusement. He taps the back of my hand, still caught in his. “Ah, yes. She mentioned she was sending someone my way. You’ve got her charmed.”

I grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He chuckles, a warm, delighted sound. “You should. Now....what exactly are you looking for, son?”

“I saw some of Janice’s jewelry at the farmer’s market,” I say, glancing around the shop again, “....and thought I’d pick something up for my mum and sister. But now, ” I trail off, scanning the shelves. “Now I’m a little overwhelmed. You’ve got too many good things in here.”

He laughs again, the kind of laugh that fills a space. “That’s the best problem to have. Go on, look around. If you’ve got any questions, feel free to ask.”

“Will do,” I say, giving him a grateful smile before wandering off.

The light catches on something at the glass display counter....a matching set of a necklace, earrings, and two slim rings. The design’s simple but elegant, small hammered gold disks with a swirl etched through them like a quiet fingerprint. I lean down, elbows on the counter, studying the detail.

I hear the faint scrape of metal and look over. Albert’s a few steps away at his workbench, glasses perched low on his nose, shoulders hunched slightly as he works on something small. There’s an intensity to him, a kind of calm concentration that makes everything else fade out.

“Janice said you make these yourself,” I say, still watching the way his hands move.

He doesn’t look up. “I do. Every last one.”

I can’t help the low whistle that slips out. “That’s impressive.”

He chuckles under his breath, the sound barely audible over the soft ring of his tools. “It’s a good way to spend a life.”

I turn to glance at Jax....he’s over by a shelf of stones, pretending not to read the little cards describing their “healing properties.” His brow’s furrowed.

When I turn back, Albert’s holding something up....a ring, small and delicate. He’s engraving something along the inside of the band, and he catches me watching.

He tilts the ring toward me so I can see the faint shimmer of letters taking shape under his tools. “Custom order,” he says quietly. “Sometimes, people just need to keep what they love a little closer to the skin.”

I don’t say anything for a second, just nod.

“How long have you been doing this?” I ask, still half-watching the way his fingers move steadily.

He glances up, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Going on fifteen years now,” he says, leaning back a little on his stool. “Wasn’t the plan, though. Not even close.”

I tilt my head, intrigued. “No?”

He shakes his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Nah. I was a mechanic in the army. Worked mostly on transport vehicles....armored carriers, heavy rigs, the kind that rattled your bones every time they moved.” His tone’s light, but there’s something underneath it, something quieter. “Then we hit an IED outside Kandahar. Nothing fancy. Just one that went off a second too soon. Shrapnel tore through the side of the truck.”

His knuckles drum lightly against his thigh before his hand settles there. “That’s how I got this,” he says, tapping the leg with a kind of matter-of-fact grace. “Didn’t lose it, but it sure as hell stopped working like it used to. I was in a hospital bed for five weeks, staring at the same goddamn ceiling. Made a man start thinking about time.”

I don’t say anything.....just nod, listening. There’s a weight in his words that hangs between us. The kind that makes you think of how fragile everything is, how quickly it can all change.

He exhales softly, then gestures to a framed photo on the counter. It’s him, Janice, and three other people....a boy and two girls, all grown.

“So,” he says, looking at it with something between pride and peace, “...we bought a couple acres of farmland outside the city. Grew some crops, flowers, kept a few animals. Then, a few years later, I opened this place. Figured if my hands still worked, I might as well make something worth holding.”