Chapter 2: The Harper Curse

My name is Lillian Harper. My dad’s Charles Harper.

We’re the last of the Harper line—at least, that’s what’s scribbled in the old photo album tucked behind the register.

According to the stories pressed between those faded snapshots and recipe cards, our ancestors were spiritualists way back in colonial America. They say one was called to Salem to drive out a vengeful spirit, and whatever happened there left the Harper bloodline tangled up with forces no one could explain—powers to bend perception, to twist dreams, to see past the veil.

Over the generations, with new religions rising and old ones fading, the Harpers kept their heads down. Some wanted us as allies, some wanted us gone. Our talents—a little bit old-world mystic, a little bit dark—made us a target for anyone who believed in such things.

To avoid trouble, two hundred years ago, our matriarch, Eleanor Harper, carved the family rule in ink and blood: "Sight beyond sight is a curse. No one practices the arts. Break it, and our luck dries up. The curse never ends."

Yeah, well.

I figured it out early.

The reason we’re broke, the reason luck never changes, is nobody ever listened. They all practiced anyway—just behind locked doors and drawn curtains.

My dad included.

He runs this tired old shop, plays the part, but he’s always had one foot in the world of the strange. There are people—strangers and old friends—who show up needing help with things that don’t make sense, and Dad always finds a way to fix them, for a price or a favor.

Once upon a time, I wanted a normal life. I studied hard, landed a spot at a top college, chased the kind of job you can brag about on LinkedIn. I thought, maybe if I went straight, luck would come back to the family, just like the matriarch promised.

But then Dad vanished.

I could feel he was still out there somewhere, lost, confused, but alive. Like a radio signal faint but unbroken, coming in through the static. I didn’t know where, but I knew he wasn’t gone for good.

My dad drives me nuts, but he’s still my dad. There’s no way I was just going to walk away.

So I quit the job, put my diploma in a drawer, took over Harper’s Gem & Antique, and started chasing any thread that might lead to him—while keeping the lights on and rent paid.

It didn’t take long to realize something:

Every Harper’s got their own fate, no matter what the old rules say.

And if none of them listened, why should I?