The very next morning, I found myself once again trudging back to the grand old City Hall, its towering spires casting long shadows over the cobbled streets. The notice board stood just where it had the day before, a patchwork of parchment and pinned-up scraps fluttering in the breeze. But as I scanned every listing with hopeful eyes, no job seemed quite right—nothing that I could truly manage, not with my particular... talents.

  I searched and searched, but the notices were as unyielding as a locked vault. Perhaps, I thought, I was going about this all wrong. Instead of waiting for opportunity to knock, why not create my own? A business, yes—that was the answer. But what sort of business?

  There was already a place dedicated to healing, where weary folk sought comfort and cure. Maybe, just maybe, I could offer something different—something a little more extraordinary. Like the time I altered that poor fellow’s eyes, turning them a vivid green with but a flick of my skill. A business of modification, then. A chance to change the ordinary into something remarkable.

  But where, exactly, was I to begin this venture? The question nagged at me as I made my way back to the receptionist’s desk, where a young woman looked up with a polite smile.

  “Do you need something?” she asked, her tone warm but business-like.

  “I need to know how to start a business,” I said, trying to sound confident.

  She arched an eyebrow. “Well, what kind of business are you planning?”

  I hesitated, then answered, “I want to do… modifications.”

  “Modifications?” she repeated, clearly intrigued. “What sort of modifications are you thinking of?”

  “Modifying people,” I said simply.

  Her eyes widened just a little. “Do you mean like healing?”

  “Not exactly,” I replied, choosing my words carefully, “though healing might be a side effect.”

  “Are you planning on going door-to-door, or do you want a single location?” she asked, her pen poised over a neat ledger.

  “A single location, please,” I replied, hoping my voice didn’t waver too much.

  She nodded and reached beneath the desk, pulling out a hefty, worn book. The pages rustled as she flipped through it methodically. “What’s your budget?”

  I paused, weighing my gold coins in my mind. “Eighty gold.”

  Her eyes flicked down the page. “That budget rules out anything on the main road.” She kept turning the pages, slowing as she neared the end. “I do have a place for seventy-five gold. It’s a bit far from the main street, and it’s slightly dilapidated—that’s why it’s so cheap.”

  “Is there anything else?” I asked, my hope flickering.

  “Not within your budget,” she said with a small shrug.

  “Tell me more about it,” I pressed.

  She looked up. “It’s a mixed-use property.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “There’s a room to live in above the shop.”

  That was perfect. “Then I’ll take it.”

  With a practiced flourish, she produced a contract. I signed it without hesitation, and she handed me the keys with a knowing smile. My new venture was about to begin.

  When I arrived at the location to inspect my new shop, it quickly became clear that “slightly dilapidated” was a generous understatement. The entrance was nothing short of a disaster—a battered doorway with the sign hanging by a single, creaking nail, swaying in the breeze. The door itself was split cleanly in two, as if someone had tried very hard to break in and failed.

  Steeling myself, I stepped inside. To my surprise, the shop wasn’t as dreadful as the front suggested. Sure, everything was thickly coated in dust, and patches of mold clung stubbornly to the corners—but those were problems that good, honest cleaning could fix.

  I climbed the stairs to the living quarters and found a familiar scene, much like the inn I’d known. One bed, a small table, a single chair, and an empty chest. A closet stood open, holding nothing but a broom, mop, and bucket—ready for the work ahead.

  Stepping back outside, I took a deep breath and made a mental list. First, I’d need a new door and a fresh sign. Both, I reckoned, could be procured from a carpenter. It was a start—one step closer to turning this ramshackle place into something truly mine.

  I set off in search of a carpenter and soon found his workshop not far from my new shop. Pushing open the creaking door, I stepped inside, the scent of freshly cut wood filling the air. The carpenter looked up from his workbench, wiping his hands on a worn cloth.

  “Excuse me,” I began, “do you sell doors?”

  “Aye,” he replied with a nod. “What sort are you after?”

  I hesitated. “What kinds do you have?”

  He gestured to a row of samples hanging on the wall. “Plank doors, reinforced doors, decorative ones, or I can make something custom if you like.”

  Remembering the sorry state of my broken door, I said, “I’ll take… a reinforced door.”

  “Good choice,” he said with a grin. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” I added quickly. “Two chairs and a table, please. And a sign—one that says ‘Flesh Weaver’ painted right across it.”

  He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “That’ll be fifty silver for the door, ten silver for the chairs and table, and fifty copper for the sign.”

  I handed over the coins without hesitation, then gave him my shop’s address. “If you could deliver everything there when it’s ready, that would be perfect.”

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  He gave a satisfied nod, already making notes on a scrap of parchment. My little dream was beginning to take shape.

  With nothing else pressing, I returned to my shop and set about the task of cleaning. First, I pried the broken door from its hinges and, with a few determined strikes, broke it into smaller pieces—just in case I might need kindling for a fire. The faded sign above the entrance caught my eye next; it read “Potions & Parchments.” Without hesitation, I tossed it onto the growing pile of wood and debris.

  Inside, I opened the closet and pulled out the broom, sweeping away thick layers of dust that had settled like a heavy blanket. Afterward, I fetched the mop and bucket, ready to tackle the grimy floors. But as I prepared to fill the bucket, a sudden realization dawned—I had no idea where to find water. There were no pipes, no sink, nothing to draw from.

  I needed a well. But where?

  Stepping outside, I scanned the street, hoping to spot one nearby. When none appeared, I sighed and called after a passerby. “Excuse me, do you know where the nearest well is?”

  The stranger pointed down the road. “It’s at the end of the street, just past the market.”

  “Thank you,” I said, grateful for the direction. With a new task before me, I set off toward the well, determined to bring my shop back to life.

  With bucket in hand, I followed the directions given and soon found the well nestled at the end of the street. To my relief, it had a sturdy pump, its iron handle worn smooth from years of use. I filled my bucket to the brim and hurried back to the shop.

  Once inside, I set to work, mopping the floors until they gleamed faintly beneath the fading light. When I finished, I stepped outside for a brief respite and bought some kind of roasted meat from a nearby food stall, the savory aroma a welcome comfort.

  Returning to the shop, I was pleased to find the carpenter already there. “Here’s what you ordered,” he said, setting down the door and sign with a proud smile. The door was thick and solid—thicker than my arm—and the sign bore the words “Flesh Weaver” in bold, expertly painted letters. It was worth every coin.

  I thanked him and began moving the chairs and table inside, while he set to work installing the door. After some careful adjustments, the door clicked perfectly into place—thankfully, the carpenter had the measurements from the previous tenant.

  I hung the sign outside, and with a nod and a smile, the carpenter took his leave. I sank into one of the chairs, the weight of the day settling on my shoulders. Now, all there was to do was wait.

  Waiting.

  Waiting some more.

  Waiting unbearably long.

  It was a dreadful kind of waiting—especially without any magical devices to pass the time. I would have given anything for a phone or a computer at that moment. The silence was almost maddening.

  As the light outside began to fade and dusk settled over the street, I decided it was time to close up for the day. Just as I started to pull the door shut, a sudden interruption stopped me—a small foot wedged firmly in the way.

  “Wait!” came a timid voice.

  I pulled the door open to see a little girl standing there, half her face hidden beneath a scarf. She looked up at me with wide, curious eyes.

  “Are you the god everyone’s been talking about?” she asked.

  My advertisement had clearly worked, then. I just hoped they didn’t expect me to hand out my services for free.

  “Yes,” I said carefully. “What do you need?”

  “I need something removed,” she said softly, hesitating before sliding back the scarf that shrouded half her face. Beneath it, a large, grotesque tumor stretched across her left cheek, twisting her features beyond recognition.

  “Just to be clear,” I said, my voice steady though my heart quickened, “you want me to remove this growth from your face?”

  She nodded, eyes steady with quiet resolve. “Yes.”

  Curiosity nudged at me, and I asked, “If you don’t mind me asking, why didn’t you go to the sanctum for healing?”

  She sighed, a flicker of pain crossing her face. “I did, at first. But the remedies did nothing, and the healing magic… it only made the growth grow larger.”

  “So,” I said slowly, “I’m your last hope, then?”

  She nodded again. “Yes. I heard about you at the inn. Many said you’re a god who has healed their wounds.”

  I gave a small, confident smile. “It’s true—I did. And now, I’m going to cure you.”

  Her eyes searched mine. “Can you really cure me?”

  “Yes, yes,” I assured her. “Now come in and sit on this chair.” I gestured toward the wooden seat, then took my place opposite her. The moment had come.

  She sat down hesitantly, then pulled back her covering completely, revealing the full extent of her tumor. It was far worse than I had imagined. The growth not only engulfed the entire left side of her face but also stretched around to the back of her head, grotesque and unnatural.

  “I’m ugly, aren’t I?” she said in a voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

  “Yes, very ugly,” I replied honestly, though without malice. “Now hold still.”

  Placing my hand gently on the top of her head, I closed my eyes and focused all my will on removing the tumor. Slowly but surely, the grotesque mass began to slough away, pieces of it falling to the floor with a sickening sound.

  “I can see,” she gasped suddenly, her voice trembling with a mix of disbelief and joy. “I can finally see again with my left eye! But… why does it sting?”

  I opened my eyes to see the last of the tumor gone, leaving her head riddled with raw, open wounds. “The stinging is the air reacting with your exposed flesh,” I explained calmly. “Wait a bit longer.”

  This time, I focused on repairing what was left—on smoothing her skin and sealing the wounds. Slowly but steadily, the exposed flesh began to knit itself back together, the openings shrinking and fading away. I worked carefully, ensuring every detail was right, even regrowing her hair over the affected area. After a while, I was done.

  “Okay,” I said, sitting back with a small smile. “You’re done.”

  “Is it really done?” she asked, her hand trembling as it rose to her face. Her fingers brushed the smooth, unblemished skin where the tumor had once been. Her eyes filled with tears, and before I knew it, she was weeping openly. “Thank you,” she sobbed. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said softly, though her gratitude lingered heavily in the air. As I glanced around the room, my gaze landed on the pile of discarded tumor on the floor. I made a mental note. I should probably buy a mirror.

  After a good, long cry—one that seemed to stretch on far longer than either of us expected—she finally wiped her eyes and asked quietly, “What do you want for this? Just name your price.”

  I shook my head with a smile. “No, I’m not going to charge you. Besides, it wouldn’t feel right to charge a kid.”

  She frowned, crossing her arms. “But I’m not a kid.”

  “Sure,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “How old are you then? Ten? Twelve?”

  She huffed. “Thirty-seven.”

  I blinked, taken aback. “...Then why the heck are you so short?”

  “Actually, I’m pretty tall for my species,” she said, standing a little straighter.

  “Well then, what exactly are you?”

  “I’m a gnome. What, are you a short goliath or something?”

  I laughed softly. “No, I’m human.”

  She blinked in surprise. “Human? Aren’t you lot extinct?”

  I straightened up, meeting her gaze steadily. “Considering I’m standing right here in front of you, I’m going to say… no.”

  “Okay, but seriously—what are you charging for this? I’ll do anything,” she insisted, desperation creeping into her voice.

  I shrugged, thinking for a moment. “I don’t know… maybe go spread the word about my divine identity to the world, or something like that.”

  She brightened immediately. “You can count on me. I’ll make sure everyone knows.”

  “Good,” I said, waving her toward the door. “Now off you go.”

  “Bye—wait! No, what’s your name?” she called out, pausing just before disappearing into the distance.

  Someone actually wanted to know my name?

  “My name’s Dim,” I answered quietly.

  “Dim,” she murmured to herself, her voice fading as she became a tiny speck on the horizon. “My god is Dim.”

  Okay, it was closing time, and the witching hour was fast approaching. Knowing this world as I did, that meant there were probably witches lurking about somewhere in the shadows. But that was a worry for later. First, I had to clean up the mess I’d made.

  I knelt down and picked up the chunks of flesh, grimacing as I dropped them into the bucket. Then I grabbed the mop and set to work, wiping away the dark stains of blood that marred the floor. The task was grim, but necessary.

  When at last the shop was clean, I climbed the stairs to my small bed, the weight of the day pulling me under. Finally, I let sleep claim me—deep and welcome, like a balm after a long, strange day.