The next morning, Alia opened the shop early.
She propped the door open, brewed strong coffee, and wrote a sign in careful cursive:
> "Whittaker's is staying."
Community Meeting – Friday @ 5 p.m.
Help us save the bookshop.
By noon, six people had stopped in to ask what was happening. By three, Micah had returned from town with a box of flyers and a strained smile.
Alia handed him a muffin. "You okay?"
He didn't answer right away. "I called my uncle."
She looked up sharply. "And?"
"He wants to sell. Says I'm wasting time keeping the place alive. Says love for books won't pay property tax."
"And what did you say?"
Micah exhaled. "I said love doesn't have to make profit—it just has to matter."
---
That evening, they sat on the attic floor, planning.
Alia sketched out event ideas—poetry readings, used-book fundraisers, community classes. Micah reached out to local friends. She called a blogger she knew from college who owed her a favor.
They built something. Together.
Not just a plan, but a future.
And yet, beneath it all, a quiet fear crept between them like a shadow.
Because if they failed…
If the shop was sold…
What would happen to everything they'd built between those walls?
---
Three days later.
Friday.
The meeting.
The shop was full. Locals who hadn't stepped foot inside in years now stood shoulder to shoulder, holding coffee cups and memory. Ezra's old friends. Alia's new ones. Teenagers she'd tutored in writing. Even the town librarian.
Micah stood at the front.
Alia beside him, her hand quietly brushing his.
He spoke first.
"I know I haven't always been here," he began. "I ran away when this place reminded me too much of what I'd lost. But I came back because someone reminded me that grief isn't the end of a story. And now… I don't want to let go of this place—or the people I've found in it."
Someone clapped. Then someone else.
Micah looked at Alia. She stepped forward.
"I moved here to escape something," she said, voice steady. "And instead, I found a story I didn't know I needed to write. One made of coffee-stained pages, midnight letters, and this place—this town—feeling like home again."
More applause. Nods. A woman in the back wiped her eyes.
By the end of the night, donations had started to come in. Pledges for events. A local café offered to co-host a poetry brunch.
It wasn't enough.
But it was a beginning.
---
That night, back in the attic.
Micah paced by the window.
Alia sat on the bed, exhausted but hopeful.
"You were amazing," she said.
He didn't respond.
"Micah?"
He turned. His face was tense.
"I'm scared," he admitted. "Not of losing the shop. Of what it means if we don't."
She blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I've always known how to be alone," he said. "But being with you… it's different. It's not just love. It's…" He swallowed. "It's the first time I've pictured a life that doesn't scare me."
Alia rose slowly and walked toward him.
"Then stop picturing it alone."
She took his hand and placed it over her heart.
"You don't have to be brave all the time. You just have to keep choosing me."
Micah leaned his forehead against hers. "I already have."
They stood in silence, breathing each other in. No plan. No poetry.
Just them.
Real.
Raw.
And worth the fight.