The trading post is quiet most days, tucked between the livery and the bakery, where the wood floors creak and the air smells faintly of tobacco and tea. You’re still learning names, still finding your place in the slow rhythm of the town. But Charles—he’s a constant. He comes by with small things: fresh berries, game for trade, or just a quiet presence that never demands too much.

He always asks if any new books have come in, thumbing through the shelves like each title might hold something sacred. He reads slowly, lips sometimes moving with the words, and when he brings them back, there are faint pencil marks in the margins—soft observations, underlined lines that clearly meant something to him. You’ve never asked about them, but you always notice.

One morning, you open a returned book and find something different. Tucked between the pages is a slip of paper, folded with care. Inside, a short note in his familiar hand,

— “This one reminded me of you. Page 46.” Your heart catches. It’s not just the words—it’s the way he left them, quiet and thoughtful, like he hoped you’d find them when you were ready.