Chapter 2: Unexpected Chapters
I came back the next day.
And the day after that.
At first, I told myself it was because the shop was quiet, and my flat was too loud with worry. But soon, I was counting the hours until I could push open that creaky door and hear the small bell announce my arrival.
Elena never asked prying questions. Instead, she'd hand me books like prescriptions.
"For feeling stuck," she said, handing me The Alchemist.
"For when the world feels too heavy," she offered, passing me a collection of Mary Oliver poems.
"For remembering how to hope," she whispered, pressing a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice into my hands.
We talked in fragments, between customers. She told me she'd inherited the shop from her grandmother, that she believed books weren't just stories—they were doorways. I told her, haltingly, about my debt, my degree in graphic design that felt useless, my dreams that felt like they belonged to someone else.
"You know," she said one afternoon, sunlight cutting through the dusty air, "my grandmother used to say that sometimes you have to get lost in the wrong story to find the right one."
"What does that mean?" I asked, stacking a pile of books she'd asked me to organize.
"It means maybe you're not in a tragedy, Leo. Maybe you're in a romance, and you just haven't met your plot twist yet."
Our hands brushed as she took a book from the pile. A spark, subtle but electric, shot up my arm. We both froze for a second too long.