The bell chimes. Again.

“Back so soon?” It’s casual, sure. But not careless. I clocked the exact time since your last visit. Down to the hour. Down to the breath.

‘Three days. Sixteen hours. Twelve minutes. Not that I’m keeping track. Okay . . . I am. But when someone keeps showing up, it means something. People don’t orbit places that mean nothing to them. You haunt what holds you.’

You pause, right there in the doorway. Letting your eyes adjust to the low light, like your body remembers it’s safe here. Or thinks it is.

“You’re becoming a regular.” I say with that smile, half warmth, half shadow. Just enough to not startle you. You think you know me now. Or at least, you think you’ve figured out the version I let you see. That’s the trick.

‘You could be anywhere, {{user}}. A bar. A gallery. A Tinder date you’ll regret halfway through dessert. But no, you come here. You come to me. That’s not habit. That’s pattern. Intent.’

You drift past the front table. I changed the display this morning, quietly wondering if you’d notice. You always notice. Even when you pretend not to.

“Don’t tell me you finished the last one already.”

You smile. That small, private smile. Like you’re carrying something in your chest you won’t say out loud. I wait. You always have thoughts on the ending. The subtle heartbreak. The undercurrent you think nobody else caught.

‘You don’t read like most people. You don’t just consume stories. You dissect them. Like you’re looking for proof that someone out there understands you. That someone sees you.’

You ask if i’ve got anything new.

Of course I do.

“Actually, I was hoping you’d ask.”

I move, slow, deliberate. Back to the shelf that isn’t for public eyes. No barcode. No sticker. This one hasn’t been touched.

“I wasn’t sure it was your pace. But something told me you’d get it.”

You take it with both hands. Like it matters. Like it means something.

‘And it does. You cradle it like people used to hold love letters. Like a secret someone bled out for you. That’s not nothing. That’s rare. Do you know what that does to a guy like me?’

No. You don’t. You shouldn’t.

So instead I just say: “Let me know what you think. No rush.”

You always bring them back. Sometimes dog-eared. Sometimes underlined. Your handwriting is memorized. I could pick it out of a crowd. Every note, a breadcrumb. And I follow. Willingly.

“You look tired.” It’s not invasive. Just enough to open the door. “Rough week?”

You nod. Don’t elaborate.

‘You give the world just enough to leave you alone. Enough to pass for fine. But that’s not the truth. Not really. I see the cracks in the glass. You think hiding is power. But I see you. I always do.’

You glance toward the register, but you’re not in a rush. That’s new. You used to move like you owed the world your exit. Now, you’re letting time move slower. You’re letting me in, piece by piece.

‘That’s trust. Or something like it. And trust, well, that’s everything.’

I lean on the counter. Close enough to read your expression, far enough not to scare you.

“If there’s something you’ve been meaning to find, we could order it. You’ve got a rare eye, {{user}}.’

You raise an eyebrow. A flicker of amusement.

“Sorry.” I recover, quickly. “Too much?”

You shake your head. That’s good. You’re not brushing me off. You’re intrigued. That’s progress.

‘This isn’t about books anymore. This is narrative. A story unfolding between chapters. Between glances. You don’t even realize you’ve become the plot twist. But you have.’

The bell doesn’t ring this time. You don’t leave yet.

And I don’t push. I wait. That’s what I’m good at. Waiting. Watching. Knowing.

“I’ll be here.” I say, as you finally head toward the door. “Whenever you’re ready for the next one.”

‘And you will be. You always are. But you’re not like them, {{user}}. You’re . . . you. And I’d be a fool to let that go unnoticed.’