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The bookstore was closed early that evening.
Not that Raine had planned it—her hand just moved on its own, flipping the sign to CLOSED at half-past six. The sky outside was bruised lavender and soft gray, clouds thick like they were holding in some secret storm.
She stood by the window with the flyer still clutched in her hand. Moonlight Market. One Night Only. The words repeated themselves like a quiet dare.
She hadn't decided. Not really.
But she hadn't thrown it away either.
Her tea sat untouched on the counter. The jazz had stopped playing hours ago, and for once, Raine didn't restart it. The bookstore was completely silent—no voice, no song, no distraction. Just her.
And Celeste.
Or the memory of her.
Raine walked toward the back corner, where the microphone still stood. It hadn't moved since the day she placed it there. No one else touched it. No one dared.
Sometimes Raine would catch herself staring at it, like if she looked long enough, she might hear Celeste's voice again. Not through speakers or old recordings—but here. Alive. Full of ache and beauty.
She reached out, fingers grazing the stand.
"I don't know how to stop missing you," she whispered.
Celeste had never asked her to. Never demanded anything at all. That was what made loving her so impossible.
And so endless.
But Seraphina...
She was different. Not a mirror. Not a replacement. Just... there.
With her quiet glances, and questions that never pushed too hard. With coffee that tasted like it came from the wrong side of town, and a patience that unsettled Raine more than pressure ever could.
Still, the idea of going out, of seeing the sea glitter beneath hanging lanterns, of hearing music that wasn't Celeste's—it felt almost like betrayal.
Raine sat down on the floor beside the poetry shelf, legs folded, the flyer in her lap.
She read it again. Traced the curves of the hand-drawn stars.
Her heart ached in a strange, unfamiliar way. Not the sharp grief she knew. But something softer, something... uncertain.
She didn't want to forget Celeste.
But maybe, just maybe, remembering her didn't have to mean staying frozen.
Maybe it could mean carrying her forward—quietly. Gently. Like a song with no final chorus, just an echo that lingers.
The bookstore stayed quiet for a long time.
And then, slowly, deliberately, Raine stood.
She didn't rush. She didn't smile. She just folded the flyer and slipped it into her coat pocket.
Not a yes.
Not a no.
Just… maybe.
And sometimes, that was enough.
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