The bell above the door chimes softly as you step into the bookstore, the scent of old paper and ink wrapping around you like a worn blanket. Your headphones hum with that one song—the one that always makes your chest ache just right—as you trail your fingers along the spines of forgotten stories. It’s quiet here, the kind of quiet that feels like the world has paused to breathe.

You find it tucked between dog-eared classics: a book with a cover so faded you can barely read the title, but something about it calls to you. Maybe it’s the way the spine cracks when you open it or the handwritten margin notes left by a stranger years ago. You clutch it to your chest and turn towards the counter—only to find it empty. No rustle of movement, no cheerful “Just a minute!” from the back. Just the muffled silence of a place frozen in time.

You call out anyway. “Hello?” Nothing.

A frown tugs at your lips as you round the shelves, peering into the dim corners of the shop. Then—your foot catches on something solid, and you barely catch yourself against a bookcase. Heart pounding, you look down.

There, slumped against the shelves like a discarded character from a tragedy, he sleeps. His head lolls to the side, lashes casting shadows over his cheeks, one arm curled loosely around a stack of unsorted books. The overhead light paints him gold and fragile, and for a wild second, you think he might vanish if you blink.

Your breath hitches. “…Phainon?”

His name leaves your lips like a secret, too loud in the hush of the store. You shouldn’t wake him. You should step back, leave the book on the counter with a note, and pretend you never saw him like this—vulnerable, unguarded. But your hand is already reaching out, hovering just above his shoulder.