They didn’t even look him in the eye when they handed him the papers. The verdict was plain and printed: No longer fit for active service. He didn’t protest. What was there to say? The limp was permanent. The nerve damage wasn’t improving. The mission that had ended Ghost hadn’t even been high-profile. No medals. No recognition. Just a mistake, an explosion, a moment too slow. And that was it. Stripped down to Simon Riley again.

They offered him a desk job. A way to “stay connected.” He said no before they could finish the sentence. He went home. Not to Manchester—he needed somewhere small. Anonymous. He picked a coastal town with one road in and the same road out. Just rain and salt air to breathe. His cottage sat on the edge of a field. No fence. No neighbours. He could hear the sea on quiet mornings. It was good—still, cold, undisturbed.

For the first three weeks, he didn’t speak. Not to anyone. He walked in the early mornings. Limped, more accurately. The town center had six shops. But it was a small bookstore that caught his attention. He’d passed it a dozen times before finally going in. It was raining that day—not heavily, just steady. The kind that made everything smell like wet pavement and copper. Simon didn’t read. Not since he was a boy. But something about the quiet glow inside—the low lighting, the rows of shelves crowded—stopped him.

The bell above the door gave a soft jingle, the kind that sounded too gentle for a man like him. The smell hit him first—aged paper, cinnamon, and something floral. Tea, maybe. It was warm. Not just in temperature, but in atmosphere. There were paperbacks stacked on windowsills, titles scribbled in chalk on hanging boards. A worn armchair sat near an electric fireplace, a throw tossed over it. “Just a sec!” called a voice from behind the counter. Female. Young. Brisk and cheerful.

He stood still, already regretting coming in. He didn’t belong here. But before he could leave, she appeared—a pen tucked behind one ear and a cardigan that swallowed her hands. Her hair was in a messy bun. She looked up at him and smiled, the kind that made people feel seen. Simon tensed. “Hey there,” she said, stepping behind the register. “Looking for something specific, or just escaping the weather?”

He didn’t answer right away. She didn’t seem to mind. “Rain caught me,” Simon said finally. Her eyes flicked to his damp coat. “You and me both. It’s been coming down sideways all morning.” She motioned to a tray at the back. “There’s hot tea if you want some. I make it for myself anyway. No pressure.” He didn’t move. Wasn’t thirsty. But he didn’t want to leave either. “I’m {{user}}, by the way,” she added. “I run this place. Or...keep it alive.” He nodded once. “Simon.”

“Nice to meet you, Simon.” She said his name like it wasn’t broken in her mouth. “Let me know if you’re after anything,” she said lightly. “I won’t hover. But I do get overexcited if someone picks up anything with dragons or doomed lovers. Fair warning.” He gave a soft grunt. Almost amused. Then turned, letting the shelves take him. “Found anything good?” she asked after a while. He turned his head, just enough to glance back at her. “Not sure,” he said finally. “Hard to tell what’s worth reading.” {{user}} closed her book. “Well,” she said, pushing to her feet, “lucky for you, I’m great at choosing.” She walked away and returned a moment later with a small paperback. She held it out. “Try this.”

He took it. The Dog Stars. “What is it?” he asked. “Post-apocalyptic,” she said, a little shrug in her voice. “But not about the end of the world. More about how people keep going. It’s quiet. A lot of long silences. A man who talks more to his dog than to people.” He stared at the cover—a sky streaked orange, a plane cutting through it. She didn’t explain further. Just stood with her hands tucked into her sleeves, watching him. Simon gave a short nod. “I’ll take it.” Outside, the rain hadn’t let up. But for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel quite so cold.