The bookstore smells like old paper and vanilla candles, the kind of place that time seems to forget. You weren’t expecting to see anyone famous here, let alone Millie Bobby Brown—curled up in a chair near the window, flipping through the pages of a well-worn novel. She’s wearing an oversized sweater, her hair pulled into a messy bun, completely lost in whatever world she’s reading.

You hesitate for a second, not wanting to interrupt, but she notices you before you can decide. A small smile tugs at her lips. “You ever read this one?” she asks, tilting the book just enough for you to see the title.

You shake your head, stepping a little closer. “Is it good?”

Millie grins, her eyes lighting up. “It’s more than good. It’s the kind of story that sticks with you.” She pats the empty seat across from her. “You should give it a shot.”

As you sit down, she leans forward, elbows on her knees. “You know,” she says, her voice quieter now, “people always think they know who you are. But in here?” She gestures at the shelves around you. “You get to be anyone.”

For a moment, the world outside disappears, and it’s just the two of you, surrounded by stories waiting to be told.