Chapter Seven – The Smell of Stories and Something Else

Why does he feel like a promise I forgot to keep?

Aaralyn blinked, the thought lingering like the last note of a song that made her chest ache.

She shook her head gently, brushing the feeling away as she stepped deeper into the bookstore.

The familiar scent wrapped around her like a blanket—old pages, soft vanilla, and just a hint of cedarwood.

She exhaled slowly.

This was her favorite place in the city. Her secret place. It didn't ask questions. It let her be.

The wooden floors creaked under her boots as she walked further inside, dragging her fingertips across the weathered spines of books, each whispering a world of its own.

Here, between rows of forgotten stories, she felt most alive. And yet today… it felt different.

Not bad. Not unwelcome. Just... different.

She turned a corner and headed toward her usual spot—a quiet little nook tucked away beneath a stained-glass skylight.

A vintage armchair waited there like it always did, curved and worn and impossibly soft. Beside it, a low bookshelf lined with poetry collections and folktales.

She slipped into the chair, curling her legs beneath her. The sunlight filtered down in lazy golden strands, pooling across the floor. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the peace.

And then—

A soft creak echoed from the far side of the shop.

Not the kind you ignore.

The kind that makes your heart pause for half a beat.

She opened her eyes, leaning slightly forward to peer past the shelves. She couldn't see anyone. But the energy had shifted. Subtle. Like the room was holding its breath.

She reached for a book nearby—something to ground her. But her fingers brushed a folded slip of paper tucked beneath it.

Frowning, she unfolded it.

Only five words, scrawled in a sharp, precise hand:

"You're not as alone here."

Her pulse quickened.

She looked around again.

Still no one. Just shelves and books and golden dust.

And then she saw him.

Only for a moment.

Tall. Still. Standing halfway down the aisle by the classics section. His head bowed, like he was reading—but something in the tilt of his posture said otherwise. Watching. Waiting.

Before she could speak, move, or even fully register what she was feeling—

He was gone.

Like smoke into shadows.

Like a secret you almost remembered.