Chapter 6 – The Book That Wasn't There
The next morning, I woke up with one thought in my head:I had to go back to the bookstore.
I didn't know why.
I just felt it in my chest, like a soft pull I couldn't ignore.
There was something unfinished there—something I wasn't ready to walk away from.And maybe, if I'm being honest, it wasn't just the mystery or the magic.
It was Leo.
So I skipped breakfast, tied my hair up in a loose bun, grabbed my jacket, and left.The streets were still waking up—quiet, calm.It felt like the world was holding its breath.
When I pushed open the bookstore door, the little bell above it chimed gently.That same warm scent wrapped around me instantly—old paper, ink, dust, and something faintly sweet.It felt like home in a way nothing else had for a long time.
Leo was behind the counter.
He looked up when he heard the bell, and when he saw me, his lips curved into a small smile.
It wasn't wide. It wasn't loud.
But it felt like sunlight.
"Morning," he said.
"Hi," I replied.
He didn't say anything else, and neither did I.And still, it didn't feel awkward.
It felt… right.
I walked through the rows of books slowly, letting my fingers brush the spines.They felt warm, almost like they knew someone was there.
I wasn't looking for anything in particular.I just wanted to see what the store wanted to show me.
And then, near the poetry section, I saw it.
A book sitting by itself on a small table.
It had no title. No author.Just a plain brown cover and worn edges.
Curious, I picked it up.
When I opened it to the first page, I froze.
It was my handwriting.
Messy. Uneven. But definitely mine.
"The first time I felt invisible, I was nine.I had a fever. My mom was busy.I stayed in bed, and no one noticed for hours."
I stared at the page, heart beating faster.
How was this here?
How did the store know this?
"Leo?" I called, still holding the book in my hands.
He was already walking toward me.It was like he'd been waiting.
When he saw what I was holding, his expression changed.Not surprise. Not fear.
Something softer.
Understanding.
"What is this?" I asked.
He looked at the book and then at me.
"Sometimes," he said quietly, "the store finds things even we forgot we wrote."
"But… this was in one of my old journals," I said. "I tore it out and threw it away."
Leo nodded. "Some things don't want to be forgotten."
I sat down in a nearby armchair, the book resting on my lap.
It felt heavy—not just in weight, but in meaning.
"I don't remember writing the rest," I whispered.
"That's okay," Leo said. "Maybe it'll come back when you're ready."
"Has this happened before?" I asked.
Leo sat across from me in the other chair.
"Yes. Many times."
"To you too?"
He hesitated. Then nodded.
"Did you read yours?" I asked.
"I did."
"And?" My voice was small.
"It broke me," he said. "But it also helped me put myself back together."
I didn't say anything.
I just stared down at the pages.
Then I whispered, "It feels like the store is alive."
Leo smiled faintly. "Maybe it is. Or maybe… it's just listening."
"Listening to what?"
"To your heart," he said.
Something about the way he said it made me feel quiet inside.
Not scared. Just… still.
After a long pause, Leo stood up.
"Come with me," he said.
We walked to the back of the shop again.
Past shelves of forgotten stories and hidden poems.Past dusty corners and soft lights.
He opened a door I hadn't noticed before.
Inside was a small room, filled with candles and shelves.It smelled like cedar and paper.
On the table in the middle of the room were more books.
All plain. All nameless.
Leo walked to the table and gently touched one of them.
"These," he said softly, "belong to people who haven't come back yet."
"What do you mean?"
"They came here once. The store gave them something. But they weren't ready."
I looked around the room.
It felt quiet, like the air was waiting.
"Do you read these?"
Leo shook his head. "Only the person they belong to can open them."
"Why are you showing me this?"
"Because you came back," he said, looking at me. "And not everyone does."
I didn't know what to say.
So I asked something else.
"Do you ever want to leave this place?"
He looked thoughtful.
"Sometimes. But this place… it gives me something the world doesn't."
"Like what?"
He glanced at me. "Honesty. Stillness. A chance to see people as they really are."
I stared at him.
He always spoke so quietly, but his words carried weight.
I liked that about him.
"Did the store help you?" I asked.
He looked down at the book in his hand.
"It helped me remember," he said. "Even the parts I didn't want to."
"Is that why you stay?"
He hesitated.
Then he said, "I stay because I'm waiting."
"For what?"
He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw something raw in his eyes.
"Someone who opens the door… and doesn't run."
My chest tightened.
Because I knew what that meant.
He had seen his own room.
He had faced something hard.
And now he stayed—to help people like me face it too.
I stepped closer to him.
"Did it hurt?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "But it also healed something."
I looked down at the book still in my hands.
I hadn't opened it again.
Not yet.
But I would.
When I was ready.
And maybe… that was the point.
We stood there for a while in the soft glow of candlelight.
Then I reached out and placed my hand on his.
He didn't move.
But I felt his fingers twitch just slightly beneath mine.
Warmth passed between us.
Real. Quiet. Steady.
When he looked at me, I saw it again.
That secret smile.
Not the one that hides something.
But the one that says, I see you. All of you. And I'm still here.
And somehow, I knew:
I wasn't just another visitor anymore.
I had opened the door.
And maybe… just maybe… so had he.