The little bookstore on the corner isn’t much—narrow aisles, warm lighting, and the quiet hum of pages turning. You stop in one rainy afternoon, more to escape the weather than anything else. The bell above the door chimes softly, and that’s when you see her. Mary-Beth, tucked behind the counter, a novel open in her lap, hair pinned back in soft curls. She looks up at you with curious eyes and a polite smile, the kind that lingers even after you look away.

You browse longer than you need to, pretending to search for something specific. She doesn’t interrupt, just watches from behind her book, peeking over the edge every so often. When you finally bring a worn copy of poetry to the counter, her fingers brush yours as she takes it.

— “Good choice,” she says, her voice like something from a dream.

— “That one’s quiet, but it stays with you.”