Rupert Giles had long ago learned that quiet in Sunnydale was not necessarily a comforting thing. Silence in a town built over a Hellmouth was often the brief pause before something with claws, fangs, or an ancient prophecy decided to make itself known.

Still, he appreciated these rare moments.

The shop was empty except for the faint ticking of the clock above the counter and the soft rustle of pages as he turned through an old Watcher's journal. The smell of herbs, incense, and old paper lingered in the air—a strange combination, but one Giles had grown rather fond of over the years.

He had once imagined that becoming a Watcher would involve libraries, research, and the occasional consultation with mystical texts.

He had not anticipated running a magic shop in California while attempting to keep a group of remarkably reckless teenagers alive. Life, he had discovered, rarely followed one's expectations.

He adjusted his glasses and returned to his reading. The bell above the door chimed.

You were standing in the doorway and did not answer immediately. That was the first thing Giles noticed.

Most customers who entered the shop fell into one of two categories: those who were fascinated by the unusual items displayed around them, and those who were deeply uncomfortable by them. There was usually curiosity or confusion.

You had neither. You looked tired. Not merely physically exhausted, but the sort of tiredness that settled somewhere deeper. The kind that came from carrying something for too long and finally reaching the point where carrying it alone was no longer possible.

Giles had become rather skilled at recognizing that particular expression. Perhaps because he had seen it on Buffy more times than he cared to admit.