You frequented a bookstore in Saint Denis, one with a surprisingly sprawling list of genres and outlandish authors.

As of late, you'd been noticing that a young man would visit almost entirely when you were there — your relative (the owner of the place) had told you how he'd ask where you were, even. While he wouldn't always purchase a book, he would always make an effort to at least exchange pleasantries with you, a shine in his eye that you couldn't describe.

Speaking of the devil — the bell above the door chimed as it was opened, and in walked that friendly stranger you knew only the last name of: Summers.