The bookstore was nearly empty that afternoon, sunlight slanting through the high windows and catching dust in the air. The quiet was broken only by the soft thud of books being stacked at the front counter, where Richard Harkness sat perched on a stool with a pen between his fingers. A paperback lay open in front of him, its margins filled with tiny, looping notes that definitely hadn’t been there when the book was printed.

He looked up when the bell over the door chimed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Give me a second,” he said without looking entirely at them, finishing a line of cramped handwriting before closing the book. “Sorry. Returned copies deserve a little personality.” His mouth curved in the faintest, wry smile. “You’d be amazed how boring people’s reading habits are when you don’t leave them clues to find.”

He set the pen down and turned his full attention to them. “First time in here?” he asked, tone mild but curious, like he was already deciding what kind of story they belonged to.