There's a bookstore tucked into the alley behind the bakery. You wouldn't notice it unless you were lost or late or looking for something that doesn't quite exist.
I wasn't doing any of those things.
But I ended up there anyway.
It's the kind of place that smells like paper and time. The walls are lined with wooden shelves that lean ever so slightly, as if bowing under the weight of forgotten authors. There's music playing low through dusty speakers—something instrumental, probably piano. And the light from the stained glass window behind the register casts fractured color onto the floor.
It feels like a pocket of the world no one else remembers.
Which is probably why I come here when I don't want to be found.
I drag a finger along the edge of the poetry section, half-reading titles and half-waiting for something to find me first.
How To Disappear In Cities That Still Remember You
Maps of Ghosts
A Body Without a Door
Sometimes I wonder who names poetry books. If they ever laugh about it.
"Not a fan of alphabetizing?" a voice says lightly from behind me.
I turn.
She's here.
Hands in her coat pockets, scarf pulled just high enough to blur the bottom half of her face. Her dark hair's tied loosely at the nape of her neck. And her eyes—obsidian, calm—look like they belong here more than I ever will.
"It's not a protest," I say, gesturing vaguely at the shelf. "Just letting the books pick me."
A corner of her mouth lifts in a way that might be a smile or a secret.
"That's fair. Some of them have better taste than we do."
She steps beside me. Not too close. Not far either.
We read spines in silence for a while. The moment hums in the quiet. The kind of pause that doesn't need to be filled.
Eventually, she pulls a book from the shelf and holds it out.
No title on the cover. Just a cracked green spine and yellowed pages.
"I read this once," she says. "Years ago. I don't remember the plot. Just the way it made me feel like I'd been somewhere real."
I take the book carefully, like it might fall apart in my hands.
There's a name scrawled in the corner of the first page. Faded. In pencil. Just an initial and a last name.
"Didn't know you liked used bookstores," I say.
"I don't usually tell people."
I glance at her.
There's a softness in her voice that wasn't there before. Not guarded. Just… quiet. Honest in the way rare moments are.
"Well, I won't tell anyone," I say.
"You say that like it's a secret worth keeping."
"It might be."
She doesn't answer.
We keep walking the aisles.
There's something soothing about the way her fingers trail over covers—never pulling them out unless she really means to. I notice she pauses at short story collections, skips romance entirely, and lingers longer than expected in the mythology section.
I want to ask what she's thinking.
But I don't.
Instead, I watch the way her brow furrows slightly when she reads a back cover. The way she taps her thumb twice against the edge of the page before putting a book back.
It's like watching someone build a life without speaking.
After a while, we end up near the front, where the cashier is asleep behind the counter, arms crossed on a stack of outdated literary journals.
Outside, the sky has turned that dusty lavender shade it only gets for a few minutes before evening. Rain presses softly against the windows. Not urgent. Just there.
"I should go," she says, glancing at the clock like she's surprised it's moved at all.
"Me too," I reply. Though I wasn't planning to be anywhere.
She shifts the book she's holding under one arm.
It's the untitled one.
"I think I'll get this," she says. "Feels like it's meant to come home with me."
"Going to read it again?" I ask.
"Maybe. Or just let it live on my shelf like a half-memory."
I nod.
We pay in silence, exchanging soft thank yous to the barely-awake cashier.
Outside, under the awning, we stand for a beat longer than necessary.
The rain has picked up, drumming gently against the pavement. There's a single umbrella between us—mine.
"Want to share?" I offer.
She hesitates, then steps under it, close enough that I can smell the faintest trace of citrus shampoo and old paper.
We walk without talking, the bookstore receding behind us into the blur of wet light and quiet city corners.
"I looked up that author, by the way," I say suddenly, not really knowing why.
She looks over, a question in her eyes.
"The one who wrote the hallway line," I continue. "Couldn't find much. Just old posts. Not a lot of comments, but… the writing stuck with me."
She nods slowly, but says nothing.
I don't push it.
It's enough that she listens.
•
By the time we reach the next intersection, the rain has slowed.
"I turn this way," she says.
I nod and offer her the umbrella.
"Keep it."
"Won't you need it?"
"I'll be fine."
She takes it without arguing.
Just one last glance. A half-step backward.
Then she's gone, umbrella swinging softly in her hand like she's walking to music no one else hears.
•
I don't go straight home.
Instead, I walk two extra blocks and sit in the park, on a bench damp from the rain.
The book she handed me is still in my bag.
I flip it open and read the first line:
This isn't a love story. But it's something close to it.
I read it again.
And then a third time.
The words settle somewhere under my ribs, like they've been waiting for me.
Just like her.