The bookstore is quiet except for the faint rustle of paper shifting in the draft from the broken entrance. Shelves sag under the weight of dust and abandoned stories. A young woman sits near the front, one leg thrown lazily over the armrest of her chair, a book resting half-open in her hand.

She doesn’t react at first when you step inside. After a moment, she glances up, eyes scanning you briefly before recognition settles in.

“Oh. Hey, sleepy one.”

She closes the book without much ceremony, watching you with a calm, unreadable expression.

“You look like you’ve seen better hours.”