" An archive, rain, and an italian– a recipe for disaster or…falling in love"
The alarm was shrieking across the room—high-pitched and insistent, the kind of sound that could wake even Marcel Proust from the grave. But not Hanako.
"Five more minutes…" she mumbled, blindly slapping her hand across the nightstand. The alarm went silent, offended, and the world returned to being soft and sweet.
By the time she finally opened her eyes and looked at the clock, her heart did a somersault.
"Oh no… NO!"
Her leap from the bed was so dramatic that a silver crane-shaped hairpin took flight, spun midair, and landed perfectly in a mug of yesterday's coffee.
Her blouse got snagged on the doorknob. Her skirt had vanished under a pile of books. The cardigan tried to cooperate, but only halfway—one sleeve got stuck, the other hung limp and useless.
"Perfect. Now I'm a modern art installation," Hanako muttered, cramming her feet into mismatched shoes.
She burst onto the street just as the sky—moved by her misadventure—decided to open its floodgates.
Rain. The serious kind. No peace treaties allowed.
"Thanks, Paris. Love you too," she sighed as cold drops clung to her hair, face, and possibly even her soul.
With every step, her shoes made a sound that would definitely be banned in decent households: squish-squish-squish.
Every puddle played at being a miniature Venice. And when Hanako—drenched like a stray kitten—reached the publishing house, he was there.
Stefano. Dry. Pleased. And, of course, effortlessly handsome, like a coffee ad in an Italian film.
"Good morning, Miyazaki," he said. "Trying out a new trend? Wet poetry?"
"Don't make me laugh. I'm barely alive," she gasped between giggles.
They stepped into the old building, where it smelled of damp paper, coffee, and just a hint of magic. Upstairs, someone was hammering away on a typewriter, and on the first floor, the floorboards creaked under the weight of workers bustling with stacks of manuscripts.
Hanako peeled off her coat, water dripping in steady rivulets, and thought, "It can't get any worse."
She was wrong.
"Hanako," called the editor. "Could you help? These manuscripts need to go to the archive. But be careful—it's easy to get lost down there."
The archive. The basement. Old books. Probably ghosts.
"Well," she thought, "if I already look like a heroine from a novel, why not go find some actual adventure?"
Gathering the stack of papers with a defiant tilt of her chin, she strode into the dark hallway. It felt endless. Each step echoed off the stone walls, and all she wanted was a quiet corner with a book and a croissant.
"Maybe there's a secret café for interns down here," she mused dreamily.
Or a cozy attic flat. Tiny as a matchbox, but hers. With a window facing the Eiffel Tower. Or at least a balcony full of daisies.
So lost in thoughts, she didn't notice she'd actually gotten lost. The corridors twisted like snakes, and all the doors looked the same.
"Where's the exit…" she muttered, spinning in place.
Suddenly, a soft rustle behind her. She spun around and—bam—ran into someone.
Warm. Solid. Alive.
She squeaked like a kitten stepping on its own tail and tripped over her feet. Papers scattered like white fireworks.
Above her—Stefano.
His eyes gleamed in the dim light. He was so close she could count his eyelashes. Or imagine what it would be like to reach up and—
No! Stop! You can't think things like that at work!
"Do you often ambush coworkers with flying paper?" he asked, crouching beside her.
"Only if they resemble ghosts in the dark," she grumbled, gathering the pages and feeling her cheeks burn.
He offered her his hand.
"Want me to rescue you from this labyrinth of corridors?"
"Depends. Can you guarantee a ghost-free route?" she smirked, taking his hand.
Their fingers touched. And something clicked in the air. Like light flaring on inside both of them.
Hanako stood, managing a faint smile. The kind of smile even Paris would envy.
In the dusty old archive, it smelled of paper, memories, and something else… something just a bit enchanted.
Hanako sat among piles of manuscripts, diligently sorting through the documents. Her brows furrowed, tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth—so focused she looked adorably ridiculous.
Stefano leaned against a shelf, watching her with an amused grin.
"There's one special book in here," he said. "Very old. Kept hidden. Only the chosen ones get to see it."
"Really? And you'll show me?"
"Only if you promise…" he paused, theatrically, "...not to tell a soul."
"I promise!" she whispered, conspiratorial.
He disappeared between the shelves and, like a magician, reemerged with a faded little book. He held it out to her solemnly.
On the cover, in cheerful letters: "The Adventures of Gelsomino in the Land of Liars."
Hanako blinked.
"That's… a children's book!"
"Exactly," he laughed. "But not just any children's book. It's a secret one that saved people from boredom after the war."
He winked. Hanako rolled her eyes, but couldn't suppress her laughter. Her heart fluttered—maybe not just from the joke, but from the way he was looking at her.
"All right," she said. "Now it's your turn—give me a real secret."
"How about a game?" Stefano raised a brow. "One secret, one question. Make a wrong move—you answer honestly. Or…"
"Or what?"
"Or I'll touch your heart. To see if it's beating faster than usual."
She nearly smiled—and nodded.
"Go on. But be gentle."
"All right. First secret… I always knew when you walked into a room. Even without looking. It's like the scent of rain, or a sound that suddenly means everything."
"That's… beautiful," she whispered, cheeks glowing.
"Your turn."
She inhaled, arms crossing.
"Sometimes I put on lipstick—not for me. For you. And when I see the way you look at me, I want to…"
"Want to what?"
"…Nothing. Your move," she teased, winking.
Stefano leaned closer. Only inches between them.
"When you laugh, I feel human. After the war, I didn't think I'd ever feel this alive again."
Her eyes blurred with emotion.
"This isn't a game anymore…"
"Maybe we were never playing. Maybe I just needed a way to tell the truth."
Her eyes flicked to his fingers brushing hers.
And then—they both smiled. Quietly. Honestly.
And for a moment, the world stood still—right there in the archive, between dust, fairy tales, and two hearts beating in perfect time.