The days in the coastal town slipped by like watercolor—soft edges, salt-tinged mornings, and the quiet hush of healing that Elena hadn't realized she needed.
The bookstore became her refuge.
It wasn't just the worn pages or the scent of aged paper—it was the stillness. The way the morning light spilled across the floor, or how the silence wasn't heavy, but comforting. Each day, she found herself less like a shadow and more like someone... becoming again.
Nathan had become a fixture, though she still didn't know what to make of him.
He always came in just after ten. Never too early, never too late. A coffee in one hand—always black—and a notebook tucked under his arm. Elena noticed the way he paused before entering, like he was taking a breath before walking into a memory.
At first, they exchanged simple nods. Then came the occasional greeting. Then—without meaning to—they fell into a kind of rhythm.
He would sit at the back corner table, where the light was softest and few people wandered. Elena would stack returns or pretend to be reorganizing a nearby shelf just a little longer than necessary. Some days, she could feel his eyes on her. Not intrusive. Just… aware.
It was one quiet Wednesday that broke the pattern.
Rain pattered gently against the windows. Nathan hadn't brought his notebook that day. Instead, he wandered the shelves like he was lost.
She watched him skim titles with an absent expression, hand running along the spines like he was trying to feel something.
Finally, Elena spoke.
"Looking for anything in particular?"
His eyes lifted slowly, like he'd forgotten where he was. There was that pause again—that beat of stillness between them.
"Honestly... no," he said, voice softer than she expected. "I'm just trying to remember why I used to love being surrounded by words."
There was something about the way he said it—like it hurt to admit.
Elena didn't answer right away. She didn't want to say something pretty just to fill the silence. Instead, she walked to the fiction section, plucked a book from the shelf, and handed it to him.
He looked at it—The Sound of Water by Claudia Reeve. She didn't explain. Just offered it with a small shrug.
"I read it after... everything. It didn't fix anything. But it made me feel like breathing was okay again."
Nathan's expression shifted—just a flicker. But she saw it. He took the book without another word and sat down in his usual corner. This time, he didn't open his notebook.
He read.
And for the first time since he'd started coming in, he didn't seem like he was waiting for something.
—
The days after that came with small, quiet shifts.
Sometimes he'd ask her for a recommendation. Sometimes he'd leave her a dog-eared page with a quote underlined. Once, he brought her a muffin she didn't ask for and said nothing about it.
It wasn't romance. Not yet. It was something gentler.
Something like understanding.
Elena didn't tell him about her sister. Not yet. But she thought maybe he already knew. People who carried grief could usually recognize it in someone else.
Nathan didn't talk about his books, and she didn't ask. But one afternoon, she found one of his older novels on the shelf—The Silence Between Us—and spent the night curled in bed with it, heart aching from the quiet beauty of his words.
The way he wrote about loss was too real to be fiction. It was like he'd folded part of his soul into every sentence.
The next morning, when he walked into the shop, Elena looked up and met his gaze.
"I read your book," she said softly.
He stilled. "Which one?"
"The one that hurt."
A breath hitched in his chest. For a moment, he looked like he might walk out. But instead, he stepped closer.
"Did it help?" he asked.
Elena gave the smallest nod. "More than I expected."
He smiled then—a real one. Small, a little uneven, but there.
It felt like a door opening.
—
The town had a way of wrapping around you without notice.
Saturday mornings brought fresh sea air, farmers with crates of fruit and flowers, and children chasing seagulls down the boardwalk. Elena started spending her breaks with a sketchbook, drawing scenes through the bookstore windows. People passing by. The curve of waves. Once, she even sketched Nathan, seated with his chin in his hand, lost in thought.
She never told him.
They weren't lovers. They weren't even really friends—not yet. But something was growing, slow and steady, like tide creeping in at dawn.
He started staying longer.
She started looking for him in the mornings.
And sometimes, she caught herself smiling at the thought of him before she could stop it.