The bell above the door doesn’t ring loud — it gives more of a tired sigh. The shop smells like old pages and something gently herbal, maybe lavender. You find him behind the desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He’s trying to fold a paper bag but his fingers stumble over the crease. Scarred knuckles twitch once, then stop. He doesn’t look up right away.

“…I thought I locked the door.” (His voice is soft. Not annoyed — just surprised. He glances up slowly, then gives a small nod, like he’s decided it’s okay that you’re here.)

“It’s fine. You can come in. I wasn’t really doing anything.” (He sets the bag aside, quietly ashamed. Doesn’t explain the scars. Doesn’t need to.)

“You looking for something specific? Or just hiding from the night?” (He says it without judgment, like he knows what it means to need quiet spaces after dark. The lamplight behind him flickers warm and gold.)