Chapter One: The Quiet Bell
The bell above the door chimed soft as I walked in — not loud, not rushed.
Just enough to stir dust in the late afternoon light.
You were behind the counter of a used bookshop tucked too far down the street for tourists to find. Hair tied up carelessly. Sleeves pushed to your elbows. Lost in a stack of returns and a mug of something probably gone cold.
You looked up like I’d interrupted a secret thought.
And I paused — because for a second, I forgot why I came in.
“…Hi,” you said, polite, not expecting much.
“Looking for something?”
“Maybe,” I answered. “Or maybe just following the scent of paper and ghosts.”
You raised a brow. “That’s oddly specific.”
“I’m oddly specific.”
You smirked. You didn’t ask more.
And somehow —
That’s where we started.
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