Six.

Raegan didn’t mean to end up at the bookstore.

She hadn’t really meant to end up anywhere at all. She’d just needed out. Out of the apartment, out of the quiet that felt too sharp lately, out of the familiar weight pressing against her ribs. She told herself it was just a walk. A short one. Something to loosen the knot in her chest she couldn’t quite explain, the one that had been tightening for months. Maybe longer, if she was honest.

The evening air was cool enough to raise goosebumps on her arms. She walked past the bakery on the corner, the smell of sugar and butter spilling onto the sidewalk. Past the park where a couple argued in low voices near the swings. Past the street musician who always played the same three songs, always slightly off-key, always with his eyes closed like he was somewhere else entirely.

She wondered, not for the first time, what it felt like to be somewhere else.

Her feet carried her forward without asking permission. When she looked up, she was already slowing down, her gaze snagged by a narrow storefront she’d passed a dozen times without ever really seeing.

Loft & Ledger Books: Est. 1971

The sign was hand-painted, the lettering a little uneven, the gold leaf dulled with age. The windows were cluttered in a way that felt intentional: stacks of books, a few handwritten quotes taped to the glass, a potted plant leaning sideways like it had given up on standing straight.

It felt… overlooked. Hidden. Like it existed just out of the main current of the street.

Maybe that was why it pulled at her.

Raegan hesitated only a second before reaching for the door.

A bell chimed softly as she stepped inside, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the hush of the space. The smell hit her first: old paper, wood polish, dust in the best possible way. It wrapped around her shoulders like a blanket, taking way too long to realize she's freezing.

The lighting was low but warm. Lamps instead of fluorescents. Tall shelves leaned slightly, as if they’d grown tired over the years. Somewhere near the back, a record player hummed quietly, the music so faint it felt more like a suggestion than a song.

She exhaled.

This was a different kind of quiet. Not the heavy, pressing kind that followed her around lately. This one made room for her. Let her breathe.

Raegan wandered without a plan, her fingers trailing along the spines as she passed. Poetry. Travel. Philosophy. Memoirs from people who’d lived lives wildly different from her own. Stories about leaving, about staying, about getting lost and finding something unexpected instead.

Pieces of lives she didn’t live, but could step into for a moment if she wanted.

She paused in front of a small sign taped crookedly to a shelf.

Stories for the Lost.

Her lips curved despite herself.

“Fitting,” she murmured.

She scanned the titles, her eyes catching on a worn paperback with a cracked spine. The cover was faded, a sunflower sketched in uneven lines across the front. It looked loved. The kind of book someone had carried with them through seasons of their life.

She reached for it at the same moment another hand did.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said automatically, pulling back as if she’d been caught doing something wrong.

“No, you go ahead.”

The voice was warm. Low. Unhurried.

She looked up.

He wasn’t stunning in a movie-scene way. No sharp angles or polished perfection. But there was something about him that felt immediately steady, like he was fully present in his own skin. Gentle brown eyes. A day’s worth of scruff that softened his jaw. A paint stain on the sleeve of his jacket that made her curious in a quiet, unassuming way.

He looked like he belonged here. Like half-finished stories were kind of his thing.

“You sure?” she asked, still holding the book.

He smiled, not big, not practiced. Just enough. “Yeah. I’ve read it three times. I was only reaching for it to see if I still agreed with the ending.”

Raegan blinked. “You… reread books just to argue with them?”

“Sometimes,” he said with a small shrug. “Isn’t that kind of the point? To feel something different each time?”

Something loosened in her chest.

She laughed before she could stop herself. The sound surprised her. It was light, genuine, unfamiliar in her own throat. She hadn’t laughed like that in weeks. Maybe longer.

He seemed pleased by it, though he didn’t linger on the moment. Instead, he shifted the book back toward her.

“Take it. Sunflower and all.”

“Thanks,” she said, meaning more than just the book.

He hesitated, then held out his hand. “I’m Bryer, by the way.”

Raegan paused. For a split second, she felt that old instinct to retreat, to keep herself folded inward. Then she slipped her hand into his.

“Raegan.”

“Nice to meet you, Raegan.” He released her hand easily, like there was no expectation attached to the gesture. “If you end up disagreeing with the ending, let me know. I’d love to compare notes.”

Her smile came without effort this time.

“I might take you up on that.”

He gave her a quick, almost playful wink before turning away, a different book tucked under his arm as he disappeared down another aisle.

Raegan stood there longer than she meant to, the sunflower book pressed against her chest. Her pulse felt louder than the room.

She stayed in the bookstore awhile after that, flipping through pages but not really reading. Her mind kept drifting, back to his smile, his voice, the way he’d said feel something different each time like it was a given, like it was allowed.

Eventually, she paid for the book and stepped back outside, the bell chiming softly behind her.

The night felt different now. Lighter. Like the air had shifted just enough to notice.

Raegan wasn’t looking for someone new. She knew that. She wasn’t ready. There were too many loose ends, too many quiet aches she hadn’t named yet.

Still… something about Bryer lingered.

Not in a loud, demanding way. Not like a spark or a collision.

More like a soft breeze after a storm. Subtle. Promising. A reminder that the air could still move.