The bell above the door gave a cheerful jingle that didn't match Ava's mood.
She stepped into the bookstore, brushing droplets of rain from her sleeves. Inside, it smelled like dust, ink, and something warm and spiced chai, maybe. Wooden shelves leaned slightly with age, packed to the brim with dog-eared novels and forgotten hardcovers. A sleepy cat lay curled in a basket by the front window, one eye opening lazily before deciding Ava wasn't worth the energy.
"Be with you in a second!" a voice called from behind a teetering stack of cookbooks.
Ava wandered further in. The store had two rooms connected by a crooked archway. The main space was cosy and cluttered in a way that invited exploration. Tucked in the corners were armchairs patched with mismatched fabric and little handwritten signs that said things like "Talk to a Book Before You Judge It" and "Free Advice $1 if it's good."
A woman emerged from behind the cookbooks, pushing a pair of round glasses up the bridge of her nose. Her silver hair was pinned up in a haphazard bun, and her cardigan had tiny embroidered seagulls along the collar. She looked Ava over with a kind but shrewd expression.
"You're not one of my regulars," she said. "Or if you are, you've gotten taller and moodier since yesterday."
Ava hesitated. "I just moved back. Well, moved… again."
"Ah." The woman stuck out her hand. "Miriam Wren. I own the place."
"Ava." She shook Miriam's hand dry and papery, firm. "Nice to meet you."
"You looking for something specific? Fiction, nonfiction, existential crisis?"
Ava let out a surprised breath that might've been a laugh. "Actually, I was wondering if you were hiring. Part-time, maybe?"
Miriam squinted at her, then nodded slowly, like she was mentally rearranging a schedule she hadn't seen in years. "You know the alphabet?"
"Yes."
"Dewey Decimal?"
"Roughly."
"Can you lift a box of books without throwing out your back?"
"I think so."
"Well then." Miriam smiled. "Congratulations. You're hired."
Ava blinked. "That easy?"
"I run a bookstore, not a bank," Miriam said. "Besides, you look like someone who needs to be around stories for a while."
There was something about the way she said it gently, without pity that caught Ava off guard. She nodded, her throat tight.
Miriam handed her a faded apron and pointed toward a cart stacked with used paperbacks. "Start by shelving these. Cookbooks in the back. Poetry by the window. Romance and heartbreak same shelf, far wall."
Ava got to work, the quiet rhythm surprisingly soothing. She liked the weight of the books in her hands, the scent of old pages, the way each title seemed to whisper something just for her.
As she shelved a battered copy of The Bell Jar, she noticed a line scrawled in the margin in blue ink:
We're all just trying to be seen, aren't we?
Ava paused. Her fingers lingered on the page. The handwriting was messy but earnest. A stranger's thought, left behind for another to find.
She glanced at the shelf and picked up another used book this one a worn edition of The Great Gatsby. More notes in the margins. Little arrows, underlined lines, a scribbled "ugh" next to Tom Buchanan's name.
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. For the first time in months, her fingers itched for a pencil.
Maybe there was still something left in her to say.