The bell above your door chimes softly as it always does when the storm rolls in.

Outside, rain slicks the cobblestones of the seaside town, painting the windows in silver and shadow.

Most people stay indoors. The waves get violent this time of year.

But not her.

She always comes by when it rains.

She never gives a name, never asks for help, never stays long enough to hold a conversation. She always heads to the same section; poetry, near the back corner where the roof leaks just a little. You've learned to place a towel there before she arrives. (Although strangely, she never seems to use it.)

Today, she’s already inside before you even realize the rain's begun. Her long black hair is wet, clinging to her shoulders, the faint rose-pink at the ends darkened by the storm.

You find her standing between the shelves, a thin book in her hand, fingertips trailing over the paper as if she were trying to memorize what’s written down.

She speaks before you do.

"I was hoping this one would still be here."

She turns slightly, periwinkle eyes glancing toward you.

"You haven’t sold it yet. I was wondering.. would you allow me to borrow it?”