The sun was high, filtering warm light across Avalon's shelves and illuminating dust motes floating in the air. Despite the small crowd of regulars—laborers, writers, and the occasional student—there was a new energy beneath the store's familiar hum. Something different had returned.
John stood behind the counter, arranging ramen cups with quiet precision, when the bell above the door rang. He looked up to see Bob Diamond stepping in, arms bare beneath a rolled-up sleeve, eyes sharp, a small, carefully wrapped box in his hand.
"Evening," Bob greeted, voice easy. "Caught a good streak at the track. Thought you two might like this."
Lorna appeared from the candy aisle, swiping hands clean on her apron. "What is it?" she asked, curiosity lighting her expression.
Bob set the box gently on the counter. "From me, with respect and gratitude."
John nodded. "Welcome back anytime."
"But I actually came back early," Bob added, leaning in conspiratorially. "Had a good win—real confidence booster after the—um—ninja situation."
John gave him a knowing look. "Speaking of that... I've been thinking about the moves you used during our fight. Those Tiger techniques—can you show me? Teach me?"
Bob smiled slowly. "Absolutely."
John nodded. "Then why don't we go upstairs?"
On the third floor—their hybrid gym and memory room—Bob set the wrapped box on the bench. Sunlight filtered through the high window, casting warm squares across the floor.
He removed the paper, revealing a pair of white leather gloves, stiff and pristine. Each finger ended in a cold, sharpened metal tip etched with Chinese sigils. Leather riveted over steel plates, designed for martial precision.
"These are White Tiger Gloves," Bob announced. "Made for Tiger Claw techniques—enhances grip, protects the fingers, and focuses your strikes. Perfect for someone learning."
Lorna reached out carefully. "They're incredible."
Bob nodded, eyes distant with memory. "Let me show you."
He slipped them on.
"Tiger Leaps Between the Rocks!" he called—and surged forward, driving a palm strike and elbow combination at the air, a move designed to imitate sliding through cracks in a mountain. The gloves glinted as he pivoted.
Then came "Whiskered Claw Rakes the Moon!"—a reverse strike with twisting wrist action. Bob's elbow snaked out, catching the space in front of him, tipped fingertips aimed at an imaginary enemy's throat.
Next he performed "Mountain Tiger Press"—a low, stiff-stance shoulder strike upward, the gloves smashing forward with sweeping force.
Finally, he finished with "Silent Thorn," closing quickly on a small pressure point jab that flicked his eyes closed in practiced muscle memory.
When Bob finished, he staggered—age was catching up—but stood strong.
John watched, breath shallow with respect. He'd practiced MMA: straight punches, low kicks, grappling. But the structure and precision of these moves were entirely new and refined.
"I want to learn," John said.
Bob nodded. "Step in and slip these on."
John took the gloves. For a moment they felt heavy, but the fit was natural. He stepped onto the mat, knees loosening.
"Let's begin," Bob said.
They moved through the sequence:
Tiger Leaps Between the Rocks—Elbow and palm strikes. John struck a weighted bag. First try was clumsy; the next was tighter, and on the third, his palm impacted cleanly.
Whiskered Claw Rakes the Moon—He twisted his wrist and used the fingertip metal tip to strike the bag sharply.
Mountain Tiger Press—A shoulder-thrown upward push. His stance was stable—even if not powerful, controlled.
Silent Thorn—He jabbed the glove's fingertip at a wooden dowel, hitting precisely through cardboard adhesive taped to it.
Each time, Bob quietly coached: "Front heel digs. Palm forward. Fingertips tight." John's form improved. Sweat started to darken his shirt.
Lorna watched, worry mingling with pride.
At one point, John paused and looked at her. "We're not that far apart, you know. Ten years. But in effort, not in spirit."
Lorna nodded, eyes bright. "Thank you."
They resumed training longer, the hour passing in rhythmic motion, breath, and metal glint.
When they finished, John pulled off the gloves and held them flat. "They feel like part of me."
Bob cleaned them and wrapped them back in cloth. "They're yours now. Keep training."
Lorna stepped forward. "I've got a question—about timing, movement. Can I try just one of your moves?"
Bob nodded kindly.
He demonstrated "Silent Thorn" slowly. Lorna matched him, her slender fingers mirroring the jabs. The glove tip grazed a soft point—her stance was unshakable for a moment.
She breathed out. "So... precise."
John crossed his arms, smiling. "You are."
They sat on the mat, catching their breath. The afternoon light moved across the hardwood.
Bob broke the quiet: "When I was younger—late teens—I fought in underground circuits. This is where I got the baseline. Then a teacher passed me these techniques—and these gloves—as I graduated."
John eyed him. "You saved them all these years?"
Bob reached into his pocket and pulled out a scratched, older martial arts glove, different color. "Had more fights back then. Scars, memories... but this..." He gestured to the white gloves. "These were for someone ready to carry it forward."
John nodded slowly, soaking in the weight of that trust.
Lorna laid a hand on John's shoulder: "We'll respect that."
John touched her hand. "Together."
At closing time, John placed the White Tiger Gloves carefully in a padded box on the shelf next to Lorna's magazines and his mother's diary scrap: "Home protects what lives inside."
They stood together at the doorway.
John illuminated by the streetlight. "We'll use these for training. For control. Not violence. Promise."
Lorna stepped forward. "And to protect Avalon."
Bob smiled and retrieved the duffel bag he left at the back, gathering his things.
He looked at them both. "You've done more than I could've asked. Um…"
He hesitated, then shrugged. "You'll hear from me soon."
He stepped through the door, back into the afternoon bustle.
John turned back to Lorna. "Pizza?"
Lorna grinned while closing the door.
Outside, the gloves glinted softly behind the glass—a promise shaped in leather and steel.