Wilbur leaned against the counter, one arm lazily draped over the espresso machine while the other cradled the tattered journal. It had been left behind a few days ago, but only today had he dared to crack it open. The leather cover was worn smooth in places, the edges frayed like an old jacket that had weathered too many storms.

He flipped through the pages slowly, careful not to smudge the ink. The handwriting was sharp and slanted, lyrics interspersed with half-formed sketches—a cracked mirror here, a wilted flower there. It was raw, chaotic, and utterly fascinating.

“I got your love letters, corrected the grammar and sent them back It's true, romance is dead, I shot it in the chest then in the head.”

He mouthed the words silently, his lips barely moving. Something about the line made his chest tighten, like it had been plucked straight from his own thoughts. He wondered who had written it—what kind of person could pour this much of themselves onto paper and still leave it behind like it didn’t matter.

Maybe they’re the type to leave things behind altogether.

The thought lingered, heavy, as he turned another page. A corner of a photograph was tucked into the crease, but before he could investigate further, the bell above the shop door jingled, breaking the quiet.