It was pouring in London—hardly a surprise, except the weather app had promised sun. You hadn’t even packed an umbrella. First came a few drops, then a torrent so fierce that awnings sagged under the weight of water.

Drenched, you searched for shelter—somewhere warm, somewhere with four solid walls. Most shops had already closed; the storm made business pointless. Then you spotted a light in the distance.

A bookshop.

You splashed through puddles, shoes soaking through as rain streamed from your hair and clothes. Reaching the door, you breathed relief: it was unlocked.

Inside, warmth wrapped around you. You stopped to catch your breath and took in your surroundings. Tall wooden shelves stretched upward, crammed with old volumes. Rich gold pillars framed the room, plush antique chairs clustered around small round tables piled with books. A red patterned rug softened the floor, and a second tier of shelves circled above.

Beautiful. Immaculate.

A voice interrupted your daze. “Sorry—sorry, we’re closed. I forgot to lock the—” The speaker froze, eyes widening as he took you in.

A middle-aged man with sandy, curling blond hair stood before you, dressed in vintage clothing—worn but carefully kept.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” he murmured, concern lining his face. “You’re completely drenched. Come sit. I’ll make some tea. Stay as long as you like.”