Chapter 8 – The Photograph
I couldn't stop thinking about that room.
The things I saw.
The things I felt.
It was like someone opened a part of my chest
I'd kept locked for years.
And Leo...
He looked at me like he already knew what I'd find there.
Like he'd seen it too. Maybe a long time ago.
The bookstore felt different now.
Not just magical—
But heavy.
Full of things we didn't say out loud.
That morning, I came back earlier than usual.
I don't know why.
Maybe I wanted to see Leo before he put on that calm, unreadable smile.
When I stepped inside, he wasn't behind the counter.
The shop was quiet. Still.
"Leo?" I called softly.
No answer.
I walked past the tall shelves, running my fingers on the book spines.
Some books I remembered.
Others... I could swear weren't there yesterday.
Then I saw something strange.
A door was open.
One that was always locked before.
It was a small room, between the history and poetry shelves.
I stopped.
But curiosity pulled me in.
The room was full of old things.
Dusty boxes.
Stacks of faded newspapers.
It smelled like time.
I bent down to look inside one of the boxes.
There were old photographs—black and white.
Some curled at the edges.
Then I froze.
There he was.
Leo.
Standing in a group in front of the same bookstore.
But the date on the back said 1957.
I stared at the photo, breath caught in my throat.
He looked exactly the same.
Same smile. Same eyes.
Not a wrinkle.
Not one single change.
It couldn't be real.
It shouldn't be real.
But it was.
I stepped back slowly.
Heart pounding.
Then I heard footsteps behind me.
Leo.
He stood in the doorway, face unreadable.
"I didn't mean to snoop," I said fast.
"The door was open and—"
"You found the photo," he said quietly.
I swallowed hard.
"That photo… it's from 1957."
He didn't answer right away.
Just looked at me with quiet sadness.
Like he knew this moment would come.
"I don't age like you do," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
He stepped inside, picked up the photo, and stared at it for a long time.
"I've been here a long time, Lena.
Longer than I can explain."
"You mean… you were here in the '50s?"
He nodded.
"Before that too."
I didn't know what to say.
It felt like I was inside a storybook.
Like the floor was moving under me.
"What are you?" I whispered.
He gave a small, tired smile.
"Just someone who stayed too long in one place."
That wasn't an answer.
But it was kind of an answer too.
"Why haven't you left?" I asked.
His eyes met mine.
Something flickered there.
Something deep and painful.
"Because I made a promise," he said.
"And I haven't kept it yet."
I didn't ask what the promise was.
He looked like he wasn't ready to talk about it.
Instead, we sat on the floor in silence for a while.
He picked up an old music magazine.
I leaned against the wall.
Still trying to understand everything.
He didn't seem like someone who had lived for decades.
He seemed like someone carrying a lot of loneliness.
Hidden under quiet smiles.
Finally, I asked,
"Do you miss it?"
He looked up.
"Time.
The world outside."
Leo's face softened.
He put the magazine down.
"Sometimes.
But mostly I miss… feeling like I belong somewhere."
I nodded slowly.
"I know that feeling," I whispered.
His eyes stayed on mine.
"I think you do," he said.
There was a pause.
Then softly, he added,
"That's probably why the store brought you here."
"The store?" I asked.
"You make it sound like it's alive."
He didn't laugh.
He didn't say no.
Instead, he said,
"Maybe it is."
That night, I dreamed of water.
A boy standing by a river,
Holding a golden key in his hand.
He was crying, whispering a name I couldn't hear.
When I woke up, my pillow was wet.
The next day, the photograph was gone.
I didn't ask where it went.
And Leo didn't say anything about it.
But something between us had changed.
There was more silence.
But it wasn't cold.
More glances.
Longer looks than before.
He still made me tea.
Still fixed the shelves with that calm way he has.
But every time he smiled now...
I wondered what else he was hiding behind it.
And for the first time,
I wasn't sure I wanted to find out too fast.
Some truths…
Need to be opened gently.
Like old doors.
Or hearts that have been closed for too long.