Yellowed time

The bell above the door jingled softly as Kayha pushed it open, the familiar scent of old paper and polished wood wrapping around her like a warm embrace. Uncle Dorian looked up from his desk, a rare smile softening the lines on his face.

"Back again so soon?" he teased, eyes twinkling behind his round glasses.

Kayha grinned. "You know I can't stay away. This place feels like the only corner of the world where I can breathe."

She wandered past shelves crowded with stories from every corner of the globe. Each spine held memories, escapes, and whispers of lives she longed to understand. Here, between these walls, her own past felt less sharp, softened by the lives of strangers bound in pages.

Uncle Dorian's bookshop wasn't just a business; it was a sanctuary. Kayha came here nearly every weekend, trading stories for solace. The worn armchair by the window was her throne ,where she lost herself in fantasy, far from the cold distance of her mother since marrying her stepfather.

Today, as she settled in, a peculiar book slipped from the shelf, almost like it had a secret to tell. She picked it up, flipping through pages yellowed by time. A laugh bubbled from her lips when Uncle Dorian called from behind the counter.

"Found the ghost stories again, huh?"

Kayha nodded, eyes sparkling. "They scare me, but I can't look away."

"Maybe that's the point," he said, voice low. "Sometimes the shadows help us see the light."

Outside, the city buzzed, but inside this shop, time slowed. And for a few hours, Kayha's heart felt less like a battlefield and more like a story waiting to be written.

Kayha sank deeper into the armchair, the book resting lightly on her lap. She traced the faded letters on the cover Whispers of the Forgotten. Somehow, it felt like a mirror of her own hidden thoughts.

Uncle Dorian shuffled over, handing her a steaming cup of tea, the aroma rich and comforting. "You're quiet today. What's on your mind?"

She hesitated, then sighed. "It's… complicated. My mom, she's changed since she married that man. It's like she's a stranger in her own home."

He nodded slowly, eyes thoughtful. "Sometimes, people wear masks to survive. But you? You don't have to."

Kayha looked out the window, watching the rain begin to tap against the glass. Her heart clenched at the memory of the cold silences at home, the way her mother's eyes no longer held warmth for her.

"I come here to escape that," she whispered. "To remember who I am before all this."

The door jingled again, and a voice she hadn't heard in years cut through the quiet.

"Kayha?"

She froze.

Kayha's heart skipped.

She turned slowly.

Standing near the door, dripping from the light drizzle outside, was Malik, her childhood friend. Or rather, the boy who used to be. The one she left behind when her mother married into cold silence and new money.

"Malik?" Her voice barely came out.

He smiled, a little older, a little taller but the same warm eyes. "Didn't think I would find you here. But I hoped."

Dorian excused himself with a knowing smile, disappearing into the back.

Kayha stared at Malik, memories rushing back bike rides under the sun, stolen snacks, whispered dreams in the dark.

"You cut your hair," she said.

"And you kept yours the same." He sat across from her, his presence somehow anchoring her. "I asked around. Heard this was your favourite place."

She took a slow breath. "Why now?"

"Because I never forgot you. And because… I heard what your stepfather's done." His eyes darkened. "I'm not here to pity you, Kayha. I'm here to remind you that you are not alone."

Her chest tightened, but she didn't look away. Not this time.

Just as she opened her mouth to speak, her phone buzzed a text from an unknown number.

"You think hiding in that dusty shop will keep you safe? Watch yourself, little girl."

Her blood ran cold. Malik leaned forward, eyes scanning her face.

"What is it?"

Kayha looked up, throat dry, lips parting.

"I think I'm in trouble."

********

The message kept glowing on her screen like a cruel taunt.

"You think hiding in that dusty shop will keep you safe? Watch yourself, little girl."

Kayha read it again. And again. Her breath caught in her throat.

Malik leaned closer, his voice low and steady. "Kayha… what is it?"

She swallowed, locked the screen, and forced herself to smile. A bad one. The kind of smile that cracked if someone looked too hard.

"Just some spam. Ignore it."

"Spam doesn't make you pale like that," he said gently.

She looked away, fingers curling into the sleeves of her sweater. "It's nothing."

But it wasn't nothing. It was fear,one that had long claws and no face. The kind of fear that knew your name.

Malik sat back, eyes never leaving hers. "You forget, I know you better than most."

"No, you used to," she whispered.

The air hung heavy between them.

"You gonna tell me what's going on?" he asked after a long pause.

"I… I don't know yet," she replied truthfully. "I thought coming here would give me some peace."

"Did it?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "It used to."

Malik tilted his head. "Let's bring that back, then."

Kayha almost smiled. "How?"

He stood, walked over to the bookshelves, and pulled out a familiar old journal, her mother's handwriting still scribbled on the front page. "This," he said, "was your favorite."

Her eyes softened. "You remembered."

"I never forgot."

Kayha took the journal from him carefully, like it was glass. She ran her fingers over the faded spine, her chest tightening as memories pulled her under.

The bookstore always smelled the same dust, paper, and the faintest trace of her mother's old perfume. It was the only place that hadn't changed. The world outside kept shifting, but inside here… she could breathe.

"I used to sit over there," she said, pointing at the crooked armchair near the window. "For hours. Reading. Pretending I was somewhere else."

"Still pretending?" Malik asked gently.

Kayha shrugged. "Sometimes pretending is safer than remembering."

He didn't press. He just sat across from her, letting her be.

She opened the journal. The pages crackled. On one, a poem she'd half memorized as a child:

"There are places the heart hides.

Not out of shame

but survival."

She closed the book again, her throat burning.

"Do you ever think about how people survive things they don't talk about?" she asked suddenly.

"All the time," Malik said. "I think some of us survive by pretending it didn't happen. Others turn it into armour."

"And what if you're just… tired of wearing armour?"

"Then maybe you're finally ready to live without it."

The silence after that wasn't heavy,it was freeing. Like something unspoken had been said.

They stayed there for a while, the only sounds being the ticking wall clock and soft hum of the fan. Until Malik broke it.

"You should start writing again."

Kayha blinked. "What?"

"You used to write here. Before you stopped."

She hesitated. "I stopped because the words didn't feel like mine anymore."

"Then write until they do."

Kayha didn't respond immediately. She stared at the old counter, the corners still scarred from when she'd scribbled on it as a child. She could still hear her uncle's laughter, how he'd brushed it off with a smile and said, "Maybe you'll be famous someday, and this will be priceless."

She wished she could believe that now.

"I don't know where to begin," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Malik reached into the shelf beside him and handed her a notebook. Blank. Fresh. Full of pages that didn't know her story yet.

"Begin where it hurts," he said.

Her eyes met his, and for a second, the world paused. No noise, no past, no expectations. Just the unspoken understanding between two broken people trying to find a way through.

She flipped open the book. Her pen hovered over the first page.

Then

The bell above the door jingled.

She looked up, expecting a customer.

But it wasn't just anyone.

It was him.

Jace.

Out of place in the dusty bookshop, dressed like the chaos she'd just tried to leave behind. His presence was jarring,too sharp, too rich, too everything. The last person she wanted to see in her safe space.

Their eyes met.

She froze.

Jace stood in the doorway. Silent. Still. His eyes roamed the bookshop like he belonged there, like he knew it had always meant something to her.

"I didn't plan to follow you," he said, his voice a low thunder. "But I had to see you again."

Her pulse spiked. Not here. Not now.

Malik rose slowly from his stool. "This isn't your kind of place."

But Jace didn't flinch.

His gaze was only on her.

The moment stretched too long, too unreal.

Kayha blinked.

The air shimmered.

She gasped softly. Jace was gone.

The doorway was empty. Malik was still at his desk, flipping through an old paperback. The air was still. Safe. Familiar.

It was all in her head.

She pressed a trembling hand to her forehead.

"You good?" Malik asked, glancing up.

"I...yeah," she whispered. "I thought... never mind."

She sank into the chair again, furious with herself. What was wrong with her? Why had she imagined that? Why did her mind betray her like that showing her things she wasn't ready for?

Because deep down... she wanted him to come after her.

That scared her more than anything.