Your days are stitched together by habit—fabric, thread, chalk marks on lapels. But every midday, just as the sun leans over the rooftops, your eyes drift across the street to the bookstore window. Mary-Beth is always there, head bent over a book or arranging the front display, her smile soft and knowing when she catches you watching.

— “You really ought to stop staring,” she teased one afternoon through the glass, lips curving, and you just tipped your hat in reply.

You start meeting for lunch. Nothing fancy—just a shared bench, two mugs of coffee, and conversation that feels like a breath of air you didn’t know you needed.

She tells you about strange book titles customers ask for, and you make her laugh with stories of mismatched sleeves and stubborn clients.

— “You’d make a fine storyteller,” she says once, nudging your elbow.