Two weeks.
That was the count. Fourteen days of the same rhythmic opening of the shutters, the same dust motes dancing in the same shafts of afternoon light, and the same customers asking for the same bestsellers. Selena could navigate the aisles of Ashton Park with her eyes closed, yet lately, her eyes were wider than usual, snapping toward the front door every time the brass bell chimed.
Not that she was waiting. She told herself that at least a dozen times a day. People didn't just "come back." They drifted into the shop, snagged a piece of a world that wasn't theirs, offered a polite nod, and vanished back into the city's gray pulse. That was the script.
But every now and then, she'd catch herself mid-shelf, a book clutched in her hand, staring at the entrance just a second too long.
"Selena."
The voice snapped the thread of her thoughts. She blinked, the living room upstairs coming back into focus.
"What?"
Emilia was perched on the edge of the armchair, a potato chip paused halfway to her mouth, studying Selena with narrowed, predatory eyes. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?" Selena asked, trying to sound bored.
"That thing where you ghost your own life. You've been staring at that spot on the rug for three minutes. Is there a message from the beyond written in the fibers?"
"I'm right here, Em," Selena said, leaning back into the cushions. The soft amber glow of the apartment usually made her feel grounded, but tonight it felt like it was highlighting her restlessness. The TV hummed in the background—some sitcom she wasn't following—and Julia was sprawled on the floor with her geometry, though her ears were clearly turned toward the couch.
Emilia didn't budge. "Physically? Sure. Mentally? You're somewhere in the basement of your own head."
"I was just thinking."
"Exactly. That's the dangerous part." Emilia leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "So. Are you going to tell me about him, or do I have to start guessing names?"
Selena's stomach performed a traitorous little flip. "Who?"
Emilia let out a dry, theatrical laugh. "Oh, stop. The 'who.' The guy. The one who walked into the shop and apparently broke your internal processor."
Julia's head snapped up so fast her pencil skittered across the floor. "Selena met a man?!"
"Lower your voice!" Selena hissed, feeling the heat creep up her neck.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Julia demanded, abandoning her triangles to crawl closer to the couch. "Is he a prince? A fugitive? Does he have a motorcycle?"
"He's none of those things because there's nothing to tell," Selena insisted, though even to her own ears, her voice sounded thin.
Emilia smirked, enjoying the chaos. "Oh, there's definitely something. You held the same book in your hand for twenty seconds while he stood there. I timed it."
"That is a lie. It was ten seconds, at most," Selena countered.
"Aha!" Emilia pointed a finger. "So there was a timeframe. And a man."
Julia gasped, looking between them like she was watching a high-stakes tennis match. "What did he look like? Give me details. Eye color? Jawline? Does he look like he'd save you from a tower or lock you in one?"
Selena hesitated. The image came back with annoying clarity—the way his coat sat on his shoulders, the quiet intensity in his expression. "He looked... normal," she said finally.
The room went dead silent. Emilia blinked. Julia frowned.
"Normal?" Julia repeated, disgusted. "That's your description? 'Normal' is for bread, Selena. Not for mysterious bookstore men."
"He was just a customer," Selena argued, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it to her chest.
"You are officially the worst at this," Emilia said, leaning back with a groan. "You're not even trying to give us a narrative."
"I'm not trying to tell a story because there isn't one."
"Clearly," Julia muttered, though she didn't move an inch. "Was he tall?"
"Yes."
"Nice?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." Julia nudged her sister's knee. "So he's attractive."
"I didn't say that either!"
"You're really bad at denying things when your face is that shade of pink, Sel," Emilia added with a wicked grin.
Selena opened her mouth to snap back, but the words died. She didn't have a defense. She grabbed a cushion and tossed it at Emilia's face. "You're both impossible."
"And you're deflecting," Emilia said, catching the pillow easily.
"I'm not—"
"You are," Julia chimed in, nodding like a judge. "It's classic deflection. I saw it on a crime show."
Selena stared at them, a mix of exasperation and genuine affection bubbling up. "This is a betrayal of the highest order."
"This is an intervention," Emilia corrected, her voice softening just a fraction. "You never talk about anyone, Selena. Like, ever. You live in those books downstairs, and suddenly a character walks off the page and you're acting like you've forgotten how to breathe."
That slowed Selena down. She looked away, her gaze drifting toward the window. "It's not like that. It wasn't some grand romantic moment."
"Then what was it?"
Selena stayed quiet for a moment, trying to pin down the feeling. "He was just... different. He didn't rush. Most people are in such a hurry to get back to their real lives, but he acted like the shop was the only place he needed to be. And when he talked..." She trailed off, remembering the way he'd looked at the book. "It felt like he actually meant what he was saying. Like he wasn't just filling the silence."
The room stayed quiet. The teasing edge vanished from Emilia's expression, replaced by something more grounded. "And he hasn't come back?"
Selena shook her head. "No."
"That's rude," Julia whispered, genuinely offended on Selena's behalf.
Selena huffed a small, self-deprecating laugh. "It's normal, Jules. That's how the world works."
But as she said it, she felt the lie in it. Emilia watched her carefully. "You thought he would."
It wasn't a question, and Selena didn't bother treating it like one. She just shrugged. She didn't expect a fairy tale, but she had expected... something. A period at the end of the sentence. Instead, she just had an ellipsis.
"Well," Emilia said, breaking the tension as she reached for another chip. "If he doesn't come back, he's an idiot. And we don't date idiots."
"We aren't dating anyone!" Selena cried, but she was smiling now.
The conversation drifted into safer waters after that—school, the neighborhood gossip. But later, after the lights were dimmed and the apartment had settled into its midnight bones, Selena stood by the kitchen window.
The street below was a ribbon of wet asphalt and yellow lamplight. Everything was as it should be. Predictable. Safe. Quiet. She rested her forehead against the cool glass. He was a stranger. A ghost from a Tuesday afternoon.
She exhaled, her breath fogging the pane. Tomorrow would be the same. The bell would ring, she would smile, and she would sell books. It was a good life. It was a simple story.
She turned off the light, not realizing that the most important chapters usually start exactly when you think the book is about to end.