Occasionally, he’d stare at the drawer the fossil sat in, its strange pull nagging at him whenever he was awake. He felt an unnerving sensation of being watched whenever he was near it. He needed a distraction, he thought. His fever must be making him paranoid. He approached his bookshelf and pulled out his recently checked out book. 

The cover read “The Secret World of the Insects, by Professor Garrison Anderson”. It was rather morbid, holding a dead man’s final manuscript in his hands. He’d already made his way through a good chunk of the book, his bookmark sticking out a good two thirds from the end. So far, the book was much like Prof. Anderson’s usual work, in depth studies on insects and other arthropods. Though this book went into great depth about insect behavior, and particularly asked the question of how intelligent they truly were, and whether or not they were capable of complex emotion or thought.

Much of the book covered intelligent species, particularly Hymenopterans, whose social colony behaviors often allowed them to act as a sort of neural network, passing information to each other so efficiently that as a group, allowed them sophisticated problem solving skills. One chapter went into great detail about a honey bee’s ability to do very basic math. However, the book seemed to be prepared to conclude that though these species were intelligent as a group, insects themselves did not seem to be capable of the same level of cognition as us mammals. That was until Symon began to read the last few chapters of the book. From there, the book began to grow almost conspiratorial, as the professor went on tangential stories about observing insects displaying levels of intelligence that shouldn’t be possible. He recalls moments such as a time he observed a mantis mimicking his movements, or a time when a colony of fire ants seemed to purposefully create a barrier between him and the isolated part of the beach he wished to explore. He even claimed to have seen a cockroach trying to steal his silverware. Insects, with brains smaller than the tip of a pen, behaving in ways that almost seem human. He rants about how these strange encounters have a pattern, a pattern that makes a near perfect circle around the continent of Bituin. Ultimately, he ends the book declaring his goal to study the phenomena on his next research trip.

Symon closed the book, feeling a sense of unease. He respected much of the professor’s work, but it seemed that near the end of the writing of this book, the poor man was losing it. It was actually rather sad, watching the man’s mental state deteriorate over the course of the book, well researched experiments devolving into mad rambles of paranoid delusions. The idea that such a respectable, educated man could die following a wild goose chase shook him, and he decided to put the book away and return to sleep.

The next morning, he left his room in an attempt to eat breakfast. His mother placed down a dish of rice porridge for him, something simple and easy on the stomach. His stomach growled as if it was begging to eat, but the smell was off, and made his gut churn.

“Kain na tayo…” He muttered before taking a bite, immediately he was revolted by rancid taste. It wasn’t necessarily bad because it was rotten, or poorly made, he’d never accuse his mother of being a bad cook, but it was like the taste was too overwhelming, like when he ate something that normally caused him sensory issues, and it was nauseating. He pushed the dish aside in disgust.

“What’s wrong, Symon?” His mother asked.

“Nothing…” Symon answered, choking back a gag and holding his stomach which was doing flips. “The food just tastes off this morning. 

His mother let out a swift sigh, bringing her fork down into her food in irritation. “You know, you can just tell me you don't like my cooking.”

“What?” Symon blinked. “Heavens, no I don't think that at all.”

“You are so hard to please. First you won’t eat meat, then you won’t eat anything with a weird texture… it's always something.”

“I know but-” He hated this song and dance with his mother. Sure he had a tendency to be picky with food, but he was positive this wasn't pickiness. He hated rejecting her cooking like this, but he simply could not keep it down if he tried. “I’m just still unwell. I threw up a lot last night so that could be a factor.”

That seemed to be enough to change his mother's attitude as she glanced over to him with concern.

“I bet you got sick at that job of yours.” She huffed. “Running around the bad parts of town, meaning with dirty people. Pray it doesn't spread to the rest of us.” 

Symon’s stomach, though far from at rest, still panged with hunger. He stood up and sought sustenance elsewhere.

Nothing in the fridge smelled good either. Anything savory smelled rotten and unpleasant, and eating solid food was a wash. The only thing in there that smelled tolerable were the highly sugar rich juices and syrups in the fridge. With no other options he poured himself a class of pomegranate juice and drank it. Surprisingly, his stomach did not lurch in protest this time, and actually seemed to be soothed by it. A liquid only diet for me I guess. He thought to himself as he poured another glass.

“Mother! Symon's drinking my juice.” Izzah complained.

“Stop drinking her juice, dear.” His mother said without even looking up at the situation.

“I’ll buy her more.” Symon replied.

“But it's mine! That stuff is expensive.” Izzah argued.

“I know,” Symon growled. “Because I bought it… with my money.”

“Just find something else, Symon.” His mother pressed.

“There is nothing else. Everything makes me nauseous. Would you rather me drink the syrup?”

“Don't argue with me! Just drink some water or something.”

Symon balled up his fists in irritation, but was interrupted by the phone. Izzah jumped at the opportunity to answer, expecting it to be the boy she was flirting with, only for her face to drop in disappointment as she held up the receiver.

“Symon, it's for you.” She huffed.

Symon took the phone and continued the conversation. It was Raja, and judging by the cacophony of noise muffled on the other end, he was at the market in a phone booth.

“Symon, my boy, since you're going to be down there I need you to open up the shop this week.” Raja instructed.

Symon had to hold back a groan as his still unhappy stomach recoiled at the thought.

“Are you sure that's necessary? I mean you already informed customers that the shop would be closed over the week.” Symon replied.

“Yeah yeah, but with someone in town able to open the shop, time is money, you understand? And I can make more money when you get your happy arse to the shop. Plus I need someone down there to make sure no one breaks into the place.  Am I clear?”

Symon let out a sigh. “Yes sir.”

Symon reluctantly headed upstairs to prepare for his impromptu work day. His head was throbbing and he was sore all over, but he couldn't risk losing his job. He redid his bandages, which made the nerves in his limbs buzz, and he hid away the unsightly welts on his forehead with his bangs. He took a deep breath and assured himself everything would be fine.

By the time he made his usual walk to the Antique shop, his back was killing him. He tried to ignore the throbbing cramp in his muscles as he pulled out the keys and entered the shop. As soon as he entered he was hit with the usual smells of wax polish, dried flowers, and dust. The shop was dark, with the silhouettes of clutter illuminated through the windows. The lights were turned on, revealing the quaint shop and all its novelties of the past. Furnishings and decor from the Victorian to the Baroque era sat with pride on shelves and platforms, waiting for someone to take them. The room was a chorus of asynchronous ticking clocks. Symon approached a rococo style wall clock with an ornate, floral frame made of silver and fiddled with its hands to make sure it was still in working order. He had worked on restoring this specimen himself and it had a tendency to run slow even after all his repairs. 

He went about dusting off everything. It was tedious work in his condition, but he was relieved to be at least working in the quiet. With everything clean he moved to the backroom, a small office with a desk and a work table. The desk is usually where Raja would sit, counting money or working on papers while stinking the room up with cigarette smoke. The work table was his space. Various tools and chemicals laid nearly ordered along with the wall and top a rubber work mat was a pocket watch he had been working on. 

See, his job wasn’t just to procure items and sell them, but to restore them as well. Symon was fairly skilled with storing antique baubles  and gadgets. He had a special interest in them, and had a near encyclopedic knowledge of the many histories and origins of pieces. If he didn’t already know, he was more than happy to spend hours or days researching. He’d always wanted to be an archivist of some sort, but he needed a job that could guarantee him a good amount of money. And that is where he met Raja, who saw potential in him. Potential to make him money at least. 

He would have preferred being behind the scenes all day, researching and working on projects, but with the limited staff, Symon also had to take on the job of salesman. He had to work with customers, advertise the shop, and make deliveries. That was the part of his job he disliked.

He sat down and got to work on the watch while he kept an ear out for customers. This particular item was dated to the 1870's, and was encased in a brass shell etched with the design of leaves and vines. It was a beautiful piece that just needed a bit of cleaning, but after only a minute of polishing the case, the fumes made him nauseous, his eyes water,  and his brain pound against his skull. He was so much more sensitive to it than he usually was. 

The sudden ringing of the door chime clawed shrilly against his ear drums. A customer. Great. He tried to compose himself and act like he wasn’t on death's door when he exited the office. Thankfully he was a professional at masking. 

He wasn’t even out the door before he heard the counter bell being slammed repeatedly by an older woman in a pleated dress. A young girl full of energy was jumping around the room; must have been her daughter.