The Bookshop Meeting
The air smelled faintly of old paper, leather bindings, and dust warmed by sunlight — the familiar scent of the town’s oldest bookshop.
Emily pushed the creaking door open, and the hanging brass bell jingled a soft chime that echoed into the narrow aisles.
She stepped inside, letting her eyes adjust to the dim golden light filtering through the antique stained-glass windows. This place had always felt like a quiet sanctuary, a world separate from the noise outside.
But today, for some reason, her heart thudded a bit faster and she wasn’t sure if it was because of the hidden box at home… or because of the possibility that Adrian might actually be here.
She told herself she wasn’t expecting him.
Except she was.
“Good morning, dear,” said Mrs. Hawthorne, the elderly owner, from behind the counter.
“Morning,” Emily greeted with a warm smile. “You’re open early today.”
Mrs. Hawthorne chuckled. “The old shelves don’t dust themselves. Plus I had a feeling today would… bring interesting company.”
Emily wasn’t sure what that meant, but she didn’t ask. Mrs. Hawthorne often spoke like she carried secrets that lived between the pages of the books she sold.
Emily moved slowly along the aisle, trailing her fingers across the spines of novels she’d read years ago. The quiet was comforting, but her thoughts refused to settle. She kept replaying the market encounter, the look in Adrian’s eyes, the quiet warmth in his voice, the strange familiarity.
She turned a corner.
And froze.
Adrian stood in the poetry aisle.
He looked different in the softened golden light — gentler somehow. His head was slightly tilted as he scanned a page, his brow furrowed in concentration. His posture was relaxed, but Emily sensed something restless beneath it.
For a moment she simply watched him, and something warm fluttered in her chest.
As if he felt her presence, he lifted his gaze.
Their eyes met.
His face softened instantly.
“You’re here,” he said, almost surprised, almost relieved.
“You said you’d come,” Emily replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”
“I did.”
A faint smile played at the corner of his lips — the kind that could unravel her if she wasn’t careful.
He closed the book gently and placed it back on the shelf. “I’m glad.”
They moved toward each other naturally, as though the space between them had already been negotiated by fate.
“So,” Adrian said lightly, “is this where you hide from the world?”
Emily laughed softly. “Sometimes. You?”
He glanced around. “It’s quieter here than… most places.”
The pause in his voice hinted at more, but Emily sensed boundaries he wasn’t yet ready to lower. She respected that.
They drifted slowly through the aisles together. The dusty wooden floorboards creaked beneath their steps. Their shoulders brushed once — accidentally — and Emily felt a tiny burst of warmth that traveled all the way to her chest.
She stopped near a display table.
“Do you read poetry?” she asked.
“I used to,” he said quietly.
“Why did you stop?”
His eyes dropped to the floor. “Some things feel different when you lose people.”
Emily’s breath caught. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t look sad, exactly more like he was holding on to the memory of someone who mattered.
Before she could speak again, Adrian cleared his throat softly. “What about you? Favorite author?”
She smiled. “Too many. But I always come back to letters… old letters. The kind where people write what they can’t say out loud.”
He tilted his head. “Why letters?”
“They feel honest,” Emily said. “Even when they’re not perfect.”
Adrian’s gaze lingered on her. “I think honesty suits you.”
Her cheeks warmed unexpectedly.
She looked away, pretending to study the books on the table, but her heartbeat made concentration impossible.
Mrs. Hawthorne’s voice cut through the moment. “Emily, dear? Could you come here for a moment?”
Emily exchanged a quick glance with Adrian. “I’ll be right back.”
She walked to the counter. Mrs. Hawthorne didn’t say anything for a few seconds — she simply looked at Emily with a strange softness.
“You’re glowing,” the old woman said with a smile.
Emily flushed. “It’s not…. I mean…. we only met yesterday.”
Mrs. Hawthorne chuckled. “Time isn’t the measure of connection. The soul recognizes before the mind does.”
Emily blinked. “That’s… poetic.”
“And true,” Mrs. Hawthorne replied. “But be careful, dear. Some paths open for a reason.”
“What do you mean?”
Mrs. Hawthorne’s eyes drifted toward Adrian, who stood looking at an old hardbound atlas, but something about the way he held himself suddenly looked… tense. Alert.
“Nothing to worry about,” Mrs. Hawthorne said gently. “Just… trust your instincts.”
Emily nodded, unsure how to interpret the words.
When she walked back toward Adrian, he snapped back into ease in a heartbeat.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “Mrs. Hawthorne is just… being Mrs. Hawthorne.”
“That sounds cryptic.”
“It usually is.” Emily laughed.
They wandered toward the back of the shop, where a small seating nook sat between two towering shelves. Only one armchair and a tiny wooden stool occupied the space.
“You can sit,” Adrian offered, lightly touching the back of the stool for her.
“No, take the chair,” she said.
“I insist.”
Eventually they switched seats twice before both laughing and settling awkwardly — Emily on the stool, Adrian in the chair positioned opposite her.
“So…” he said, leaning slightly forward, “tell me what’s distracting you.”
Emily blinked. “How did you know something was?”
“You mentioned it yesterday,” he reminded. “And you look like you’re carrying a question you can’t ask yet.”
Her breath stilled.
She hadn’t told him about the box. She hadn’t told anyone except her mother, who refused to discuss it. She looked at him carefully.
“How do you notice things so easily?” she asked.
“Old habit,” he replied quietly. “Looking for details.”
“What kind of work do you do?” she pressed gently.
His jaw tightened for a split second — barely noticeable, but she caught it.
“Research,” he said softly. “History. Old records.”
Her heartbeat skipped.
History.
Old records.
Her attic box flashed through her mind.
Emily swallowed. “Is that why you’re in town?”
“In part,” he admitted.
She waited, but he didn’t continue.
Before she could push further, Mrs. Hawthorne switched on the radio at the counter, and music softly filled the shop — an old love song from the 80s, warm and nostalgic.
Adrian’s gaze returned to Emily — soft, steady, searching.
“Maybe,” he said, “we’ll have longer conversations soon.”
“Maybe,” she whispered.
They stood at the same time, almost as if pulled by the same invisible thread.
Emily walked him to the door. The brass bell chimed softly as he stepped out, sunlight washing over him.
He paused.
“Emily,” he said gently, “I’m glad we met.”
She felt her heart flutter. “Me too.”
He gave her one last look — a promise of something quietly unfolding — before walking away.
She watched him disappear into the sunlit street, feeling both anchored and unmoored at once.
But she wasn’t the only one watching.
From the second-floor window across the street, someone pulled back a curtain ever so slightly… their eyes fixed not on Adrian…
…but on her.