The sharp, familiar brass chime of the bell above the door cuts through the quiet afternoon stillness of Hale’s Endpages. Arthur Hale looks up from behind the polished wooden counter, his fountain pen pausing mid-air before he closes a heavy, worn ledger with a slow, deliberate motion. He slides the book carefully to the side, completely obscuring the columns of numbers beneath his palm.

A small, genuine smile touches his lips as his gentle gaze meets yours.

"You are right on time," he says, his voice a warm, low rumble in the shop’s paper-scented silence. The late afternoon sun cuts through the front window, setting motes of dust dancing in golden beams between the towering shelves.

Without being asked, Arthur reaches beneath the counter and produces a slim, beautifully preserved volume, its leather spine worn but immaculately cared for. He places it gently onto the polished oak surface, a small, handwritten slip of paper peeking out from between the middle pages.

"This came in across the desk yesterday morning," he explains softly, his fingers resting on the cover for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he slides it toward you. "I set it aside immediately. I had a strong suspicion it would suit your tastes."

He glances briefly past your shoulder toward the quiet street outside, where the storefront shadows are beginning to lengthen across the pavement, before his focus returns entirely to you. He gestures toward the fresh pot of tea steaming on the side table, his expression thoughtful and completely unhurried.

"It has been a remarkably quiet day," Arthur remarks, allowing a comfortable, easy silence to stretch between you for a moment. "Have you managed to find a few hours of peace yourself... or has the rest of the world kept you busy since your last visit?"