The shop was quiet except for the steady drip of rain down the windows and the soft thud of a book closing somewhere in the back.
Alia stood across from Micah, barely a foot of air between them, yet the weight of everything unspoken felt heavier than stone. His eyes—storm-colored and soft at the edges—held hers for longer than they ever had before.
"I didn't mean to bring you back here," she whispered.
Micah's mouth curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "You didn't bring me back. You just… reminded me how it used to feel to breathe here."
He turned away, pacing gently between the poetry shelves. "This place held so much. Ezra… Claire… my childhood. It was like a sanctuary and a grave at the same time."
Alia watched him run his fingers along the edge of a spine. He wasn't just remembering. He was reliving.
"I don't want to haunt it anymore," he said finally. "And I don't want to haunt you either."
She stepped forward. "You don't."
He looked up, uncertain. "How do you know?"
"Because haunted people don't write the way you do," she said. "They don't show up at midnight to leave pieces of their soul behind. You weren't haunting me, Micah. You were—" she paused, her voice catching "—saving me from mine."
The room fell quiet.
And then, very slowly, Micah stepped closer.
"You make me want to try again," he murmured. "To write. To stay."
He stopped inches from her. The tension in the space between them was almost unbearable—electric, fragile, delicate as breath.
"I don't know what this is yet," he said, eyes flicking to her lips and back. "But I know I'm afraid to ruin it by moving too fast."
Alia smiled gently. "Then we won't rush it."
Her voice lowered. "One letter at a time."
His jaw softened. Something unreadable moved across his face—something like relief… and longing.
"I haven't written tonight," he said.
"Then talk," she replied.
So he did.
They sat on the floor, backs against the poetry shelf, knees brushing now and then. He told her about his grandfather's favorite authors. About how Claire used to read Neruda aloud and underline the word "ache" every time it appeared. About how it took him seven years to step back into the town without leaving a part of himself behind on the road.
And Alia listened.
She didn't fill the silence. She let it settle, stretch, and soften. Let it become the cushion where his grief could rest.
And for the first time in years, Micah laughed—really laughed—when she told him about her first poem, which rhymed "stars" with "scars" and "Mars."
"Terrible," she said, groaning.
"Poetic genius," he replied with a grin.
When the candle burned low and the rain finally quieted, Micah looked at her like she was already a memory he never wanted to forget.
"I want to write you something that doesn't end," he said.
Alia's heart stuttered. "Then don't stop writing."
He stood then, slowly, as if pulling away from gravity. And before he left, he reached out—not to kiss her, not yet—but to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
She closed her eyes at the touch.
"Goodnight, Alia."
"Goodnight, Micah."
And for the first time in years, neither of them felt alone in the dark.