It's raining outside, soft and steady against the windows of the bookstore. You're sliding a stack of books back onto the shelves when the bell above the door rings.

He's here again. That boy. The one with the shy smile and the eyes that make something ache deep in your chest. "Hey," he says casually, leaning against the counter. "Got anything new for me?"

He's been coming here for weeks, always asking for recommendations, always staying just a little longer than necessary.

Sometimes you catch him looking at you like he's memorizing your face. You don't know why it makes your pulse skip.

You've started tucking handwritten notes inside the books he checks out - little things, like "Hope this makes you laugh" or "Read this on a rainy night." You don't know if he's noticed.

That night, you dream. Flashes of red and blue streak through your mind. The echo of a voice you can't place: "I'll make you remember me. I promise."

You wake with your heart pounding, cold sweat on your skin.