Chapter Five: The Name of Things
The rain softened the shop. Everything smelled like old pages and damp cotton.
You let me behind the counter that day. No fanfare. Just a nod.
“Don’t spill anything,” you muttered, sliding me your tea.
“Or what?”
You looked at me, serious. “Or I’ll write your name in the back of the horror section. In pen.”
I grinned. “A fate worse than death.”
We worked side by side without needing much to say.
You re-shelved poetry. I alphabetized the used fiction pile.
Somewhere in the middle of rearranging a row of mismatched Austen covers, I looked over and saw you mouthing the words of a book you weren’t even reading.
I didn’t interrupt. Just watched.
And I realized then —
You didn’t just love stories.
You lived in them.
When you caught me watching, you didn’t flinch.
Just asked quietly,
“Do you remember the first time someone said your name like they meant it?”
I didn’t answer.
But later, when you handed me a receipt — blank except for the faint scribble in the corner —
It wasn’t a price.
It was my name.
Written like it mattered.