A teenage boy, about age 17, kicked a rock that lay on the gravel road he was traveling on, a glare etched on his face.

He looked terrible; a bruise was forming around his right eye, and he was sporting a split lip, not to mention the other bruises and cuts that littered his body. His dark brown hair and dark blue and black clothes were covered in some sort of chalky substance; crushed gravel, perhaps. He also winced when he walked and had an arm around his torso, as if supporting it.

"Bastards," he muttered darkly, eyes on the ground. Unfortunately for him, talking only made him wince even more, and he spit out a wad of blood. He had bitten his tongue. "Why can't they just leave me alone?"

The "they" he was talking about were not bullies from his highschool; no, instead they were a couple of drunks who assulted him almost every day on his way to his house. The only reason he didn't revolt against them was because the drunks just so happened to be powerful men with the power to fire his mother and leave them without any money but her accumulated savings. He would not be the reason his mother lost her unsteady job; instead, he just let himself become their punching bag. It was all for her and her safety.

Ever since his father had left, his mother had been working her ass off to keep them alive. She had sacrificed everything, stayed with him when it would have been so much easier to fend for herself. She could've just left him in foster care, or on someone else's doorstep. But she didn't. So, he figured that a few bruises and cuts were just a way to pay her back for everything she had done for him.

The boy frowned.

It was still so unfair. The only thing he had done to annoy the men was exist; his very being seemed to irritate them. Then again, anything irritated them and if it was alive, it was fair game.

It was ironic because his friends at school thought that all of his bruises and scabs came from fighting other boys his age. He was quite popular, actually, and they had deemed him the "bad boy" of their group.

They didn't know a single thing about him.

A sudden wave of anger washed over him and he knocked over a nearby trashcan, his breath hitching in anger.

It was so unfair!

And just as quickly as the anger had come, it receded, instead replaced with a heavy feeling of guilt.

If it wasn't for him, his mother would be okay. She wouldn't have had one extra, almost insatiable mouth to feed, and that would mean that she'd have lived better.

. . . . She still could.

He was dragging her down. She had risked everything and how had he repaid her? He couldn't. Nothing he did was good enough. He was just so useless. His life was a small sacrifice, nothing compared to what his mother had done. She'd be fine without him. A little sad at first, maybe, but. . . . she'd get over it. She might even be greatful.

With a shaky breath, he shook his head vigorously from side to side, trying to clear those pesky thoughts from his mind, but he couldn't.

Tears gathered in his eyes, and he kicked at the gravel again (and of course his method of coping was destroying things - pathetic) - with much more force this time - and it clattered against something with the harsh sound of stone against metal.

It was a welcome distraction.

When he looked up, he saw a rundown brick building with a metal garage. It looked to be a two-story house, with the bottom floor acting as some sort of store, judging by the weathered sign that hung on a piece of wood above the door. Well, a former house, anyway, because no one was taking care of it now.

Despite his injuries, he craned his neck to see the sign, his curiosity getting the best of him. It read, Shoppe of Curiosities. He snorted, the guilt fading even more.

No wonder the business had collapsed. Not only was it out in the middle of nowhere, it was an antique store. No one was out of their mind enough to go this far out to shop for antiques, and if they were, they were just plain stupid.

Still snickering to himself, he turned on his heel, spitting out more blood as he walked.

But. . . . the more he walked away, the more his curiosity grew. Again.

He groaned.

Curiosity killed the cat, he reminded himself. He'd already been beaten up once today and he didn't want it to happen again - this time for tresspassing.

So, he turned away once more, focusing on getting home. Well, at least trying to focus. His mind couldn't help going back to the shop.

But. . . . A little peek. Surely that wouldn't hurt. It would only take him a second, and then he'd be able to go back home without a second thought.

With this, he found himself sprinting the short distance that he had made between himself and the shop's entrance. With a deep breath and a quick "I hope I don't regret this" he tried the handle. Immediately he took a step back, preparing to run if some sort of alarm went off (though he probably wouldn't get very far because of his ribs). . . . but nothing happened. He was suprised, but even more suprised to discover that the door had been opened a crack. It was unlocked.

The boy lifted an eyebrow at it.

Why would someone leave their house unlocked like that? Granted, it was abandoned and probably had no value to the owner anymore - if anyone owned it, that was. Still. . . . it seemed fishy to him. What if there were people running an underground slave trade or cult in there, just waiting for some unsuspecting teenager to stumble upon them? After all, it was in the middle of nowhere. . . . no one would be able to hear the victim scream. . . .

He shook his head.

He shouldn't do this. But. . . .

He grabbed the doorknob and pushed it open, once again preparing himself to hightail it in the other direction should anyone try to grab him.

And again, nothing happened.

Instead, he was engulfed in a warm, comforting glow, and the smell of. . . . tea?

Following his nose (he was weak for any sort of tea), he stepped inside and was welcomed by the sight of what seemed to be an actually functioning shop; nothing about it looked outdated or covered with dust. In fact, it looked as though it had just been functioning yesterday, contrary to the condition of its outward appearance.

It was warm and well lit; the many shelves that stood to his right were well-stocked with knicknacks, pendants and the sort - he even saw an Ouija board. At the back right corner, he noticed a steaming teapot and a few comfy-looking tables and chairs, one of which was set up with a pair of fancy china teacups. To his left was a cash register; he checked and found that it was still full of money.

The place was actually much bigger than it had looked from the outside. But how could that be?

Confused, he looked around again. Why was there money in the cash register when the door was unlocked? Didn't the owner of the shop realize that he could've stolen it and run off already? Why were there teacups set up when there was no one here besides him? Was there someone else here, waiting to spring up on him?

"Boo."

He jumped almost a foot in the air, and in response to whoever snuck up on him, threw out his fist. Which, of course, was a mistake, because he gritted his teeth as a sharp pain shot up his ribs. He had forgotten about his injuries.

He came face-to-face with a girl, only a few years older than him, who was laughing loudly, so much so that there were tears in her bright blue eyes.

"Aaaah, you should've seen your face," she said joyfully, still clutching her sides as she recovered from her fit of laughter.

Taking her as someone who wasn't there to hurt him (other than give him a heart attack), he immediately shouted "W - what the hell?! What was that for?"

"Oh, don't try to act all tough now," she said, smirking. "You missed me with that punch, you know. And don't tell me that I didn't hear a little girly squeal when I scared you cause I know I did."

A slight blush spread across his cheeks. "Whatever. It doesn't matter." He decided to change the subject before she insulted his manhood anymore than she already had. "Is this your shop?"

"Ah, no." She paused, clearly thinking through what she wanted to say, a look of concentration on her pretty face. "Well, kind of?" This didn't help the boy's confusion whatsoever. She sighed. "It's hard to explain."

"Please try."

The girl frowned. "If I did, you wouldn't believe me."

"Try me," he said.

"What if I told you that this shop is yours?"

There was a pause followed by a confused "Huh?"

"Told you," she grinned. "And before you ask, no, I'm not explaining, because it's a long story." She let out a breath. "Now, where were we?" Suddenly she smiled and a bright look came into her eyes as she said happily, "Oh yes, I was just about to invite you for some tea!"

Before he could refuse, she ushered him over to the set of teacups, sat him down on one of the chairs and began setting things on the table.

"I was expecting you, but I wasn't really ready for you when you arrived. I had just started the tea when you came in!"

As he listened to her talk, one thing he knew for sure was that he had never been more confused in his life. How could this shop be his? There was no way! He had never heard of it before, so how could he own it?

He turned his gaze to the girl as she poured two cups of tea for them.

For some reason, she reminded him of the Mad Hatter. When he had first met her, she seemed cocky and proud, but now she was incredibly kind. Her personality changed on a dime, and that, paired with the tea and her vague, cryptic answers to his questions, gave him the impression of the man from wonderland. Well, what he would be if he was a girl.

Now that he looked at her more closely, she was actually very pretty; she had long, straight silvery-blond hair that hung at the small of her back and blue eyes that made him think of the ocean. Her movements were very graceful, and he was suprised to find that she made him think of an elf. A very strange elf.

"So, do you want cream, honey, sugar or a mix of the three?" she asked, sitting down on the chair across from him.

Somewhat startled, he said, "None, thank you."

Her smile grew. "Wow, you're acting much nicer than you were when we first met."

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

She giggled. "Nevermind. And what I mean is that saying 'thank you' is a huge step up from you trying to punch me earlier, isn't it?"

The boy frowned. "But you started that! You were the one who scared me! You deserved that!"

"Well, I just thought that you needed a pick-me-up," she said. "You were looking so down as you were walking by here. But, I don't appreciate you laughing at this place," she pouted. "It's very dear to me, and to you. Oh, right, you don't know that yet, do you?" She giggled once more.

"Wait, wait wait wait wait. Hold on. How were you expecting me? I didn't even know I was coming here! And were you watching me?" He shook his head. "This is too much." Looking up at her, he said, "I'm sorry, but I have school tomorrow. I need to leave. Thanks for the tea, though, but I can't - "

He couldn't help the hiss of pain that escaped his lips as his ribs protested the sudden movement. He once again prayed that he had only bruised them.

"Just drink, it'll make you feel better," the girl told him gently. Her soft tone suprised him, seeing as she had been giggling only a minute earlier. "I promise."

The tea swirled in front of him welcomingly, and so he took a sip, if just to appease her. He was pleasantly suprised, though, when a warm feeling radiated through him, as though he was being heated up from the inside. He enjoyed it, actually, and promptly decided to drink more. After he had drained his first cup, he felt noticably lighter, and noticed that the warm feeling was concentrated in his middle; not his stomach, but higher.

He felt. . . . good. Really good. Content, even.

Suddenly, a thought came to him. What if she was trying to take advantage of him?

There were so many red flags in this situation that he hadn't noticed, and he jumped up from his chair, exclaiming, "Did you just drug me?!"

And yet another realization hit him: he hadn't felt any pain with that movement. How was that possible?

"No," she said calmly. Then she gave a little laugh. "Well, maybe a little, but I swear it wasn't to hurt you. I healed you. Notice how nothing's hurting you anymore? Yeah, that's cause of me." She grinned. "You're welcome."

He touched the area around his right eye it wasn't swelling anymore, nor did he feel any pain from the touch. He prodded his ribs. Nothing there, either. All of the cuts, scrapes and bruises that had ailed him before were gone.

He sank back down on his chair. "Holy shit." He ran a hand through his already unruly hair as he mulled over everything that he had just witnessed.

The tea had healed him.

How?

"So. . . ." he breathed, "this is actually a. . . . magic shop?"

The girl nodded, smiling.

"But. . . . how?" He cast his eyes to the ground. The words he thought went unspoken, yet they were clear.

"You can't explain everything," she said. "It's okay to believe." Once again, her eyes lit up, and this time the boy was prepared. She had thought of something. "Here, I have something to show you, now that you're healed!" She grabbed his hand, and, beaming, led him to a window - complete with window seat - that was covered by a purple curtain. "I think you'll find this strangely comforting."

She pulled the curtain back, and he gasped.

Beyond the window, there was a beautiful landscape of stars. It stretched before him, whole galaxies of glimmering lights in all shades of purples, pinks, and blues made all the more brilliant against the dark background of space.

It was breathtaking.

The gentle glow of the stars softened the features of the girl beside him, making her even more etherial. It fell on her hair, and each strand seemed an even more beautiful silver, and her eyes became the color of the night sky.

She was breathtaking.

The sight made him strangely emotional, wiping away all of his suspicions about the girl beside him. How could someone who was willing to share something as beautiful as this with him be bad?

He swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat as all of the worries, insecurities and doubts that he had pressed down resurfaced full force, brought to light by the galaxy that lay before him.

A single tear tracked unbidden down his cheek.

He inhaled a shaky breath and said, "I'm sorry, I - "

"You don't need to apologize." He looked at her and she continued, "Seeing this is incredibly moving, and I should know, I see it every day." Her smile was soft and comforting when she looked at him, but he could see a hint of sadness in it. "I'm not going to tell you to 'have strength'. It's not as easy as that. It's okay to cry."

Gazing at her through the haze of tears, he knew everything was going to be okay. Drinking his warm tea and staring up into the galaxy, he couldn't help but feel that way.

"It's okay to believe. I'll comfort you."

When he had thought about giving up, she was there. When he had wanted to disappear forever, she had come to him. Loud, cocky, and yet. . . . sweet and comforting. She was there for him.

She was his last reason, standing at the edge of the cliff.

Live.

For her, for his mother, his friends, for himself. . . . he would do just that.