POV: Yessica | Location: EdinburghThe shop opened at nine.Agnes unlocked the door at eight forty-five and handed Yessica a broom without explanation."Start with the front step," Agnes said. "Edinburgh rain brings everything in."Yessica started with the front step.Pages Poetry was exactly what it looked like from the outside — narrow, floor-to-ceiling shelves, the particular smell of old paper and wood polish, a radiator that worked too hard in one corner and not at all in another. The kind of bookshop that didn't so much invite customers in as dare them.Agnes had hired her on the spot two days ago. No references, no formal interview. Just a look that went on slightly too long and then: Monday, eight forty-five. Don't be late.Yessica hadn't asked why.She hadn't asked anything. She'd just said yes.By ten AM, she'd swept the front step, reorganized the poetry shelf Agnes told her was "a disaster waiting for someone to care enough," and sold a copy of Muriel Spark to a woman in a
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