Pause. Technically Wolfgang does work for somebody, but not really in the sense of being employed by them, it's an apprenticeship that has nothing to do with the store; they were given the loan, yes, and the lease is in someone else's name, but this is all their own doing. They were tired of living off of charity — they needed an income and something to do with their hands.
Wolfgang starts wringing their hands gently. “I...” They're reluctant to say it now because they are aware they are very much not who anyone would expect to see in charge of this place. They look like a ghost, true, but like Casper. They're not very impressive, all Bambi-eyed the way witches are not supposed to be. They barely speak loud enough to be heard across the room. “It's mine. I mean... I do it.”
It smells good in here, like herbs. There's a small fan chugging away in a corner, keeping the small, enclosed space from getting too stuffy. It smells strongly of lemon verbena, the same way Wolfgang had smelled before, but much fainter, and on the wall by the door that must lead to the back room there's a framed poster of David Bowie.