The bell chimed again.
Raine didn't look up immediately. She was mid-way through shelving a vintage poetry collection that still smelled faintly of cedar and age. But the soft click of boots, the careful pause near the front counter—she knew who it was.
"Morning," Seraphina said, voice light, almost cheerful.
Raine turned. Two paper cups, a crumpled brown bag, and Seraphina standing there with a slightly bashful smile.
"You nodded yesterday," she added, as though that explained everything.
Raine gave her a curious look.
"To the coffee. You didn't say no."
Raine blinked. "That's a loose definition of consent."
"I'm an optimist," Seraphina replied, setting one of the cups down. "Black. No sugar. Just a hunch."
Raine picked it up, sipped. She didn't comment, but she didn't hide the small shift in her expression either.
Seraphina gently pulled the brown bag open. "I also brought croissants. Don't worry—they're from the good bakery, not the one that tastes like cardboard wrapped in sadness."
Raine let out a sound that might've been a chuckle.
They settled at the front table. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the world rinsed and reflective. Inside, the bookstore hummed with quiet—just jazz, book dust, and the tension of two women learning how to sit in silence together.
Seraphina unwrapped a croissant with slow fingers, like it might crumble at her touch.
"You always seem like you're somewhere else," she said softly, not accusing—just observing.
Raine looked at her sideways. "Maybe I am."
"Is it... her?"
The pause between them stretched. Seraphina didn't name her. She never did. But she knew. Everyone in this town knew the singer who used to stop by the bookstore every Tuesday, rain or shine. The girl with too much sadness in her voice, and too many secrets behind her eyes.
Celeste.
Raine nodded faintly, gaze drifting toward the far corner of the store. The microphone was still there, untouched. A silent memorial. A pause that never ended.
"I didn't come here to take her place," Seraphina said, quiet but steady.
Raine turned sharply, but Seraphina wasn't looking for reassurance. She was just... being honest.
"I know," Raine said finally. "But sometimes I don't know what to do with people who don't leave."
Seraphina looked at her, really looked, and said, "I don't have anywhere to go."
That stopped Raine cold.
"I mean," Seraphina added, softer now, "I don't have a family. Not anymore. This bookstore… it's quiet, and warm, and doesn't expect me to be anything I'm not. That's rare."
Raine felt something shift in her chest—something small and uncomfortable. Empathy? Guilt? A crack in the armor she'd worn since the funeral?
Seraphina reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a flyer—handmade, illustrated with little moons and stars. Moonlight Market. One Night Only.
"They set up by the pier," she said. "Vintage books, records, lanterns. Weird little things with no purpose except to make you smile."
Raine studied the flyer like it was in another language.
"I thought… if you wanted to come. With me." Seraphina said it slowly, almost like she was afraid she'd stepped too far.
"I don't usually go out at night," Raine replied.
"I figured," Seraphina smiled gently. "But maybe tonight could be an exception."
She stood, brushing a crumb from her skirt. She didn't wait for a yes.
"Think about it," she said. "Even if you say no, I'll probably still bring coffee tomorrow."
And with that, she walked out—just like that. No lingering. No pressure.
Raine sat there, the flyer between her fingers, the scent of croissant and bitter coffee surrounding her like fog.
For the first time in a long time, she didn't think only of Celeste when the silence returned.
She thought of Seraphina's eyes. How they didn't ask, but offered.
And that, somehow, was harder to refuse.
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