Rain poured over the Hyrule City metropolis. Water ran in torrents down the gutters of the empty streets, and the older buildings were starting to experience flooding damage. It was late afternoon, and the citizens of Hyrule City unanimously decided to call it an early night. Shops closed early, and everyone went home and dug out the dusty games from under their beds to pretend to amuse themselves until the real night fell.
There were those however, who decided not to brave the horrible weather and opted to stay at their workplace. One such a person was Miles Otten, though he would have stayed after hours even if it was a perfectly sunny day. He was the son of a minor aristocrat, and the sole contributor, curator, and proprietor of the Otten Cultural History Museum. Despite being the largest, that is to say, only such museum in the whole of Hyrule, it was largely unknown. It was based in one of the richer merchant districts near the castle, where it was sneered at by those who lived and worked nearby for its crude concrete architecture and stuffy contents. The people who weren't bothered by its appearance didn't often go to this pricy district, so customers were few and far between.
He was sitting in the back room this evening cleaning up his latest find: a Kokirian knife estimated to be 500 years old at least. By now you could see his reflection in the blade, though anyone who wanted to discern his features could have just looked at him instead of the reflection and not wasted time. He was mostly unremarkable, with light brown hair that was practically the norm and grey eyes that weren't unusual in any way. Since he was handling irreplaceable artifacts he made it a point to wear a smock, even a second hand one, over his street clothes.
The front door opened, ringing a little bell that announced the arrival of a visitor.
Miles paused in his work and thought, "Who would be out in weather like this?"
He wiped the polishing oil from his hands, stood, and went to the open doorway of the curating room where he could look past several rows of exhibits and display cases to the single entrance. Standing next to the front desk was a drenched figure in a grey cloak. The cloak was fastened to provide maximum protection against the elements and thus revealed only its wearer's two innocent blue eyes.
"May I help you?" he asked from across the room.
"Can I stay here until the storm passes?" asked the young lady who wore the cloak. There was some hesitation in her voice, and perhaps a touch of surprise, but even the short phrase was clear and melodic.
"Of course," he said in what he hoped was a welcoming tone. Even if both the weather and his financial situation were perfect he wouldn't have been so arrogant to deny someone entry. He almost considered asking her to pay admittance, but decided that he would waive the fee this time.
He ducked back inside the back room long enough to wrap the dagger in wax paper and pop it into a drawer. As an afterthought he also unfastened his smock and left it draped across the back of the chair. Then he crossed to the front desk which was positioned perpendicular to the entrance so that he could see most of what happened in the museum and hear most of what he couldn't. He took a seat and pulled out a ledger and fountain pen. Finishing this week's finances would give him something to do for a while; business had been slow so there was little enough to enter.
His visitor silently browsed the contents of some glass display cases and read the accompanying cards that told what they were. When she moved to another display, Miles noticed that she moved with such grace that she seemed to glide. Her footsteps were nearly inaudible. There was no scrape or scuff of shoe against carpet, just the sound of the pressure of her shoes to the ground.
For a while the scratching of a pen on parchment sounded like an alarm in the silence as sums and differences were totaled in the name of commerce. Every now and again he would glance up at his visitor before steeling himself to the next column. This cycle went on for some time until he finally confronted the net profit at the bottom of the page.
He was, as a general rule, not a greedy man. Nevertheless, he would have been a great deal more satisfied if the total did not have a small horizontal line in front of it.
He released a great sigh and leaned back in his chair. There were times when he wondered why he even bothered opening the place. Now was such a time. He had a grand total of six customers in the past month, and one of them walked away with an artifact that could only be described as priceless.
He noticed that the visitor was looking at him quizzically. He sat up then sighed again, inward this time.
"Would you like some drinking chocolate?" he asked, "Or some tea perhaps?"
"No thank you," she told him after a moment's hesitation, "I'm not very thirsty."
"Fine, fine. Just thought I'd ask."
Silence reigned supreme for a time, rivaled only by the dampening roar of the rain against the roof. After a while the visitor spoke.
"Where did you find all these things?"
"Hmm?" he replied. He was busy studying what features of hers he could see.
"All this." She made an encompassing gesture with one hand, revealing a white silk glove that covered a hand as slender and graceful as her movements. She indicated various exhibits as she continued. "You claim to have found shards of the mirror of twilight, the hilt of the white sword, Zora scales, and so on. All parts of the old legends."
"Well, all legends have at least some basis in fact," He said as he rested his arms on the desk. "When I was younger, I believed all the old legends. Even the one where the moon almost fell from the sky. As I grew older, I started looking around for clues, parts of the old stories. One day, by sheer stroke of luck," he grinned inwardly at the memory, "I found the Hero of Time's hat."
The visitor's eyes widened with astonishment. "Really? Where is it?"
Miles hung his head slightly and shook it sadly. "It's…gone. Shortly after I opened this place I nearly went bankrupt. An old collector offered to by it from me in exchange for footing that month's bill, which mind you was not an insignificant amount. Since then it's been the only way I've stayed in business."
"You have to sell these artifacts or go bankrupt?" she asked clearly shocked.
"Yeah. I'm afraid that's the way it is."
She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then ducked behind one of the display cases. He heard the click as the switches turned and the squeak as the cabinet door opened. She returned a moment later holding something small and silver in her gloved hands.
"May I buy this?" she asked.
It was a bracelet made from a silver chain and three pendants made from what he suspected was platinum. Each pendant housed a gemstone: one ruby, one sapphire, one emerald. It was about 400 years old, and made with a craftsmanship that rivaled that of modern master-silversmiths.
"Does 200 rupees sound fair?" he asked offering her a cut-rate deal of two weeks of an average Hylian salary.
Wordlessly she reached into the recesses of her cloak and produced a single silver rupee the size of her palm. She held it out to him, and when he recovered from the surprise he accepted it. When he held it in his hands he couldn't help but stare at it. Only the filthy rich ever carried the rare silver rupee with them. Commoners were usually paid in reds, purples if they had a good job. He stared at her, partly in shock, partly in wonder.
"I should get going," she said as she started edging towards the door, "They'll start to worry about me soon."
"Can I see you again?"
It took Miles a moment to comprehend what his mouth just said.
The girl merely asked, "Are you going to the royal ball tomorrow night?"
"Uh, yes. Yes I am."
"I'll definitely see you then. Goodbye." Without another word she swung open the door and stepped out into the rain, leaving Miles alone with the bell on the door as it rang itself to sleep.
After a moment of silence, Miles reminded himself to breathe.