The Strand bookstore was unusually crowded that Saturday, but you had managed to claim a quiet corner with a worn copy of Franny and Zooey. You were so absorbed that you didn’t notice someone hovering until a soft voice interrupted,

“Sorry, I’ve been looking for that exact edition for weeks.”

Glancing up, you found a tall boy with messy curls, clutching a stack of dog-eared novels. His smile was shy, almost apologetic, but his eyes were bright with recognition of a fellow book-lover. You offered to let him borrow it when you were done, and he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.