The morning had been quiet—just the way Amara liked it.
Soft jazz played from the speaker behind the counter, and the smell of old pages wrapped around her like a familiar blanket.
She was arranging a new stack of novels when the bell above the door chimed.
Amara looked up.
A tall man stepped inside, dressed in a simple grey shirt and dark trousers. Not flashy. Not loud. He carried an air of calm that didn't match the usual rush of customers.
He paused at the entrance, scanning the bookstore like he wasn't sure he belonged there.
Amara offered a polite smile.
"Good morning. Let me know if you need help."
He nodded, barely, then walked to the fiction aisle.
Quiet steps. Slow movements. Almost careful.
She tried not to stare.
Minutes passed. He stood in the same spot, staring at a shelf without touching a single book.
Finally, Amara walked over.
"Is there something specific you're looking for?"
He turned to her, and for a moment, she felt like she'd stepped into the middle of someone's unfinished story. His eyes were gentle, but tired—like he hadn't slept well in weeks.
"I… I'm looking for a book about starting over," he said quietly.
"Life changes. New beginnings. Something like that."
Amara blinked. It wasn't the kind of request she heard every day.
"Fiction or non-fiction?"
"Anything," he replied softly. "Anything that feels… honest."
She led him to another aisle and handed him a book she always loved—about healing, fresh starts, and rediscovering hope.
He held the book like it meant more than its pages.
"Thank you," he murmured. "I… didn't expect to find something today."
Amara smiled again. "That's what bookstores are for. They wait for you."
He looked at her for a moment—longer than casual.
Soft interest. Soft admiration. Soft something.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Amara."
"I'm Adrian," he said, almost hesitating.
"Maybe I'll see you again."
Amara didn't reply.
But she hoped she would.