Of course—here's a longer, richer versi
Raine had started noticing the small things.
Like how Seraphina always paused for a second before stepping through the door, as if bracing herself for something unknown. Or how she gravitated toward the poetry and music shelves every time—never in a rush, as though she were looking for something without knowing exactly what it was.
The visits weren't daily, but they were frequent enough that Raine started expecting them. The bookstore bell would chime in the late afternoon, usually when the rain softened or the light turned gold through the front window, and Seraphina would arrive without a word about the previous visit—as if she hadn't left at all.
That day, she brought tea again.
"I figured you forgot to eat," Seraphina said, setting two paper cups on the counter like offerings. "Jasmine. It seemed like a bookstore kind of tea."
Raine raised an eyebrow but accepted it. "I didn't forget. I just didn't get to it yet."
"Mmm," Seraphina hummed, a sound somewhere between agreement and disbelief. "Sounds like forgetting with extra steps."
There was something about her presence—light, unbothered, as though she was part of the store now. Like the old radio that didn't always work or the faint smell of cedar from the poetry shelves. Raine didn't quite know when that started happening, and she didn't want to admit she'd grown used to it.
Seraphina walked to the back, her fingers trailing along the edge of the bookshelves like she was drawing invisible notes from the grain of the wood. She moved with a softness Raine recognized all too well.
Celeste used to do the same.
Raine tried not to stare.
Instead, she busied herself with restocking a box of new arrivals: old songbooks, tattered biographies of forgotten composers, and a rare, out-of-print volume titled Ink Between Pages. She didn't remember ordering it. But it felt right to place it on the table near the music section, where Seraphina had stopped.
Seraphina picked it up before Raine even finished arranging the display.
"I've read this before," she said quietly, flipping through it like one might sift through a memory. "Years ago, back when I still thought I could write music."
"You don't anymore?" Raine asked.
"I... hum. That's about it." Seraphina smiled, but her voice dimmed near the edges. "Some melodies only exist in the body. They don't survive the pen."
That struck something in Raine—hard enough to pause her hands mid-motion.
Celeste had once said something like that too.
Seraphina flipped the book open to a page marked with faded ink and read aloud softly:
"I don't write to remember. I write because I'm afraid I'll forget."
Raine didn't reply. She just folded the paper bag that came with the tea and kept her gaze fixed on a spot on the counter.
Silence filled the space between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was something else. Something close to shared grief. Or maybe shared recognition.
"I'm not trying to pry," Seraphina said after a while, gently placing the book back. "You seem like someone who's holding a thousand stories behind her eyes. I guess I'm just curious about one."
Raine didn't respond right away. She looked at the back of Seraphina's head instead—the way her hair curled slightly at the ends, the slope of her shoulder as she leaned on the shelf.
Then, almost absently, Raine said, "She sang like the world was ending, and she was okay with it."
Seraphina turned to her slowly. She didn't ask who.
Raine didn't offer the name either.
But Seraphina nodded, like she understood the shape of the absence anyway.
They spent the next hour in near silence. Seraphina thumbing through books, Raine pretending to reorganize already-alphabetized stacks. The weight in the air wasn't heavy—it was thick with something unnamed, like waiting for a note to resolve.
When Seraphina finally left, she left behind a folded piece of paper on the counter. Raine didn't notice it right away. But when she did, she unfolded it carefully, expecting maybe a poem or a line from the book.
Instead, it read in soft handwriting:
"Some melodies stay in the room long after the voice is gone."
No name. No signature.
Raine held the paper in both hands, standing in the warm hush of the store long after the door had closed.
Outside, the sky was turning lilac, and the rain had finally stopped.
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