Abby
The small shop smells like old wood and rare spices as Karl and I step through the doors. We stop for a moment, glancing warily at one another.
“You’re sure this is the place?” I whisper.
Karl nods and checks the address that the local grocer wrote down for him on a slip of paper one last time. “This is it,” he says quietly.
We step further into the dimly lit shop and look around; there’s no shop attendant in sight, but this has to be the place. After a frantic trip to the grocery store, only to be directed here, to the local rare goods shop, this is our only other option to find black truffles for the dish that the critic demanded.
“Hello?” I call out.
“Hello!” a small voice replies. Karl and I exchange another glance as we both wonder where the voice came fr
