Chapter 3: An Unlikely Bond

The man returned the next night.

And the night after that.

Always near closing time. Always with the same quiet, composed presence.

Eleanor didn't understand it.

He was wealthy—she could tell by the expensive watch on his wrist and the way he carried himself with an air of effortless power. He didn't belong in a cramped secondhand bookstore tucked away in the quieter part of the city, surrounded by forgotten stories and worn-out pages.

And yet, he kept coming back.

At first, she thought it was a coincidence. But coincidences didn't happen three nights in a row.

The first time, he had purchased *The Picture of Dorian Gray* without much reaction. The second time, he arrived just before closing again, his sharp eyes scanning the shelves before glancing at her.

"What do you recommend tonight?" he asked as if this were some unspoken ritual between them.

She hesitated, then handed him *Crime and Punishment*.

"Ah. A book about guilt," he mused, his lips curving slightly. "Do I strike you as a man with a guilty conscience?"

"I don't know you," she replied simply.

He chuckled then—low, deep, and amused. "No, you don't."

And just like that, he left again.

On the third night, she found herself waiting for him without realizing it.

The soft chime of the doorbell made her glance up, her heart giving an inexplicable flutter.

There he was.

Dressed in yet another impeccably tailored suit, dark hair neatly styled, his expression remained unreadable as ever. He moved with the same unhurried confidence as if the world could wait for him.

Eleanor leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "You do realize this isn't a library, right?"

His lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smirk. "I'm aware."

"Then why do you keep coming back?"

A pause. His dark, piercing eyes studied her.

"You have good taste in books," he said.

She snorted. "You could've just gone to a high-end bookstore. They'd have the same books—probably in better condition."

"Yes, but they wouldn't have your recommendations."

The words caught her off guard. For a moment, she didn't know what to say.

She looked away, turning toward the shelves. "Fine," she muttered, more to distract herself than anything else. "Let's see what I can find for you tonight."

She skimmed through the books, her fingers brushing over their spines. Something about him—his demeanor, his presence—made her want to choose carefully. She wanted to pick something that would challenge him.

After a moment, she pulled out *The Stranger* by Albert Camus and handed it to him.

His brow arched as he examined the book.

"A man detached from emotion," he murmured, glancing up at her. "Is that how you see me?"

Eleanor tilted her head. "I don't know. Maybe."

He let out a soft chuckle. "I see."

He paid, as he always did, with exact change. But this time, as he turned toward the door, she found herself speaking before she could stop herself.

"You never told me your name."

He hesitated. Then, after a long moment, he said, "Nathaniel."

Nathaniel.

It suited him.

"See you tomorrow, Eleanor."

And with that, he was gone.

---

The next night, he didn't come.

Eleanor told herself she wasn't disappointed. That it didn't matter.

But as she locked up the store, the empty quiet felt heavier than usual.

She pulled her hoodie tighter around herself and slipped into the storage room, where a pile of old blankets served as her makeshift bed. Hunger gnawed at her stomach again—she had only eaten a small piece of bread that morning, stretching her money as far as she could. But she was used to it.

She closed her eyes, exhaustion pulling at her limbs.

She dreamed of nothing.

---

Two days passed before Nathaniel returned.

When the doorbell chimed, she glanced up, expecting another late customer. But the moment she saw him, something unspoken eased in her chest.

She didn't let it show.

"Missed a day," she said, pretending to be indifferent.

Nathaniel stepped inside, adjusting the cuffs of his suit. "Did you notice?"

"No," she lied.

He gave her an amused look, but he didn't push. Instead, he glanced around the bookstore, as if he had never left.

"Do you have a recommendation for me tonight?"

Eleanor pursed her lips, scanning the shelves. But before she could pick something, her vision swam.

She blinked, gripping the counter.

The dizziness hit her all at once, as if the floor was shifting beneath her feet.

She barely registered Nathaniel's voice before the world tilted.

Then—darkness.

---

When Eleanor came to, she was lying on something soft.

She blinked against the dim light, her head throbbing. A warm weight pressed against her shoulder. A coat. Expensive, heavy.

She stirred, and the coat slipped off.

A low voice spoke. "You fainted."

Her heart raced.

Nathaniel.

She turned her head, realizing she was in the reading nook at the back of the store. She must have collapsed behind the counter, and somehow, he had caught her.

Her throat was dry. She swallowed hard.

"I'm fine," she murmured.

"You're not." His voice was steady, but there was something else...