Makadewa, Maine
Robinson's Dry-Clean and Laundromat

A series of small bells jingle as a young woman enters through the door to the laundromat. She's clutching a small ticket with golden embossing, studying the interior.

It's not a big place by any stretch. The lobby is tight and cramped and smells like an attic, and it likely hasn't seen a single interior decorator since at least the early 1980s. Some posters on the walls, and a cigarette machine near the door, all seem to be much, much older.

To her right is a single row of clunky old washers and dryers along one wall, and to her left, a few old seats along the other wall. There's also an ATM, one that she would absolutely never trust enough to use for its age. Directly ahead of her is a small set of shelves lined with toiletries and souvenirs, and beyond that is a counter with a cash register and a bell, two sets of doors, and a mostly-empty rack of plastic-covered jackets and suits.

She walks up to the counter.

You ring the bell, and... nothing. You hear someone in the back, but you're pretty sure they didn't hear you.

"HM!? OH, UH.... JUST A MOMENT, PLEASE! I'LL BE THERE IN A MOMENT!" an old man's voice shouts from the back. He adds that you should take a seat or a look around, but that part is much harder to hear.

Even if there are no customers, you guess he must be busy with something. Oh well, you can wait a few minutes.

While you're waiting, you look around at all the souvenirs. It's all pretty chintzy stuff. Little keychains and magnets and postcards with "Makadewa" printed on them. A few overpriced t-shirts that look like they may have been print-screened by hand. Some mugs that say things like "I put my troubles away in Makadewa" and other terrible attempts at branding the town.

There's also some toiletries and supplies and some snacks, all past expiration.

More interestingly, there are some old photographs on the wall near the door of a man you assume to be the business's owner posing with several other people. You could swear one of them looks familiar, but... it's an old photograph from before you were even born, so you probably have never met them.

From your angle, you don't see the door open, but you hear the bells and footsteps behind you as someone enters the building from outside. Another customer, probably.

You turn around and watch the customer.

It's another young woman, one with calculating eyes and short, choppy hair dyed ruby red, with little patches of blue visible from a previous dye job.

She looks like she's up to no good!

You mostly blow the lady off, but you can't help but notice her since she's standing right in front of you, with her back to you, facing all the souvenirs and snacks. While you're craning your neck to see if the guy who runs this place is ready for you yet, you hear the ding of a dryer.

The red-haired woman then walks over to the dryer, pulls out some clothes, then turns around and walks past you to leave, carrying her clothing in an unfolded pile under her arm.

The door opens, and the door closes, and only a second later do you realize something is off.

The bells on the door didn't jingle on her way out.
The bells on the door are gone.

Okay? Weird. That girl just stole the bells? Why would she even do that?

You roll your eyes at that distraction. Weird but okay.

You don't really care about some weird guy's bells. You're here for answers.

Luckily, answers are here, because the old man finally arrives from the back room to stand at the counter. He squints in your general direction.

"Next?" he asks.

You walk over to the counter, gold-embossed ticket in hand. As you get there, you notice some older discarded tickets in a basket on the counter. They're all plain paper with single numbers on them. None of them look anything like yours.

The old man is staring at your ticket, too, and then he stares at you with an unreadable expression before asking softly, as if the wind was just knocked out of him, "Little Emily... is that you?"

"Little Emily! Do you remember me?" He asks, but it's pretty obvious to him that you have no idea who this guy is. His face falls a bit, but it's replaced with a wise, knowing look.

"You're here for answers, aren't you?"

He nods, and opens the door to the back room, and holds it open for you.

What do you do?

You head into the back, past racks of clothing ready to be cleaned and wait as Mr. Robinson enters the room and leads you to a small office all the way at the back of the building.

The inside of the room is very old fashioned, like a room out of another era entirely. If the rest of the building was stuck in the mid-to-late 20th century, this office is something directly out of the 19th.

There are photographs all along the walls here, as well. And one of them you recognize instantly. It's Mr. Robinson and your parents... and two small children you realize are both Amber and yourself.

As he sees you looking at the picture, he gives you a sad smile.

"You know, when I heard the news, I wasn't sure I'd be seeing you, and yet I..." He trails off.

He takes the photograph from the wall and places it on his desk. He then motions to the old chair in front of him before taking a seat on the large office chair across from it.

"Please, have a seat. I'm sure you have so many questions."

Mr. Robinson nods. "Your father was one of my dearest friends. He used to work at this very store each and every summer. See, your grandparents owned a summer home a little ways outside of town, and every year they would fly in from the west coast. He was a hard worker and a loyal friend."

He starts to ramble, but catches himself. He realizes that that's not really what you're asking.

"As for you, I haven't seen you since you were barely out of diapers. Wish you folks could have visited more but..." his face darkens. "He had to keep you and your sister away."

He sighs, and starts to search through his desk drawer for something.

"Emily, do you still believe in magic?"

He smiles from ear to ear to hear you say that. It's wonderful that you haven't lost your faith.

"Emily, did your father ever tell you...? Well, I suppose it doesn't matter now. You were adopted. I can only assume he never gave you the details of how that came to be."

"I was the one that found you, and sweet little Amber. Two children, all alone in the woods... You spoke of faeries and goblins and magic and... well, I always had a bit of the Sight myself, but even I didn't believe it at first that it wasn't just things a little girl made up to explain things she couldn't understand. We couldn't find where either of you came from. You were two healthy, well-cared for children, but you came from out of the blue. It didn't make sense."

He pulls out a photo album and flips through it until he finds what he's looking for. It's a photograph of you and Amber, probably the oldest photo of yourself you've ever seen. Come to think of it, your parents never showed you any baby pictures. There were a few of Amber, but...

You look closer, and notice that the clothes you two are wearing are... strange. You've never seen outfits like those before, and yet... you remember how soft the fabric was.

"You two stayed with me for weeks while the sherriff's office tried to investigate. I almost kept you two myself, but..."

He turns around, and away from you.

"Then the visions started."

He doesn't turn back around to face you. Instead, he seems to sink even lower into his seat.

"I mentioned I had a bit of the Sight... I wouldn't quite call myself psychic or anything. Most people who want to tell you that only want to sell you something. But I've always had visions. Small things, like one of the four numbers of the lotto, or seeing a future where I miss the bus, or... one time I had a vision of an older woman who used to live in town having a heart attack, and I drove her to the local hospital right in the nick of time. But it was always small things, easily dismissed as coincidence."

He finally spins back around to face you.

"Then, you two turned up."

[...]

"I started having nightmares."

He shakes his head.

"Well, no, they weren't nightmares. Nightmares only visit you when you're sleeping. This was almost constant. I thought I was losing my mind."

[...]