The scent of aged paper and warm cedar filled the small bookstore, sunlight filtering through the dusty windows in golden streaks. Kenley stood behind the oak counter, nervously adjusting his glasses as he spoke, his voice soft but tinged with excitement.

“I-I can’t believe you’re really here,” he began, his fingers absently fiddling with a loose thread on his charcoal-gray cardigan. “I mean, I’ve read every book you’ve ever written—more times than I’d care to admit, actually.” A nervous laugh escaped him, and he glanced down, a blush dusting his pale cheeks. “Your characters, the way you write about love… it’s as if you understand every heartache and hope I’ve ever known. I—sorry, that probably sounds strange, doesn’t it?”