whispers of shade

The bell above the door gave its usual tired jingle, a soft chime barely loud enough to stir the air. Clara Bennett looked up from her worn ledger, pencil poised in her hand. Outside, early spring sunlight filtered through the plate-glass windows of Bennett Books, casting golden rectangles across the hardwood floor. Dust motes danced in the quiet, and the scent of aged paper, lemon oil, and fresh daffodils filled the air.

The daffodils were Clara's doing, a weekly tradition she'd started in her mother's memory. Every Monday morning, she arranged a fresh bouquet on the counter in an old ceramic pitcher painted with blue forget-me-nots. Her mother had loved daffodils. Said they reminded her that even after the cruelest winter, joy returned.

"Morning, Clara," came a familiar voice.

She turned to see Mr. Abbott, the town's retired postmaster and a loyal customer. He wore his usual cardigan and cap, a newspaper tucked under his arm and a small smile on his face. He made a beeline for the history section.

"Good morning, Mr. Abbott. Your copy of Railroads of the Northeast came in. It's behind the counter."

He tipped his cap in thanks. Clara returned to her ledger, content in the stillness. Elmridge wasn't the kind of town that changed much. It was a place of routines, quiet Sunday mornings, and familiar faces. And she liked it that way. Predictability had become a kind of comfort.

That comfort was shattered at exactly 10:17 a.m., when the bell above the door jingled again-this time sharper, like it meant something.

She didn't look up right away. Instead, she finished noting the inventory discrepancy in the poetry section and added a small star in the margin, meaning she'd look into it later. When she finally glanced toward the door, the pencil slipped from her fingers and rolled across the counter.

Julian Hart was standing in her bookstore.

He looked older, of course. Ten years would do that. His dark hair was a little longer than it used to be, swept back with an effortless mess that hinted at time spent in windier, wilder places. He had a short beard now, and his skin was tanned. He wore a charcoal gray coat over a navy sweater and jeans-simple, but tailored in that way that spoke of city living.

But it was his eyes-still the same piercing slate blue-that locked her in place.

"Clara," he said, a little breathlessly, like he wasn't sure if she was real.

She blinked. Her hands curled around the edge of the counter. "Julian."

A pause stretched between them, thick with unsaid things. Outside, a car drove past on Main Street, tires crunching over loose gravel. Inside, Mr. Abbott sneezed.

Julian's gaze swept the shop. "It looks the same."

"You're not supposed to be here," Clara said before she could stop herself.

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I could say the same to you. I thought you'd have left by now."

"Well," she said, her voice stiffening, "not all of us were dying to escape Elmridge."

"Some of us had reasons."

She looked away. The air felt thinner than it had a moment ago. She busied herself rearranging the daffodils.

"How long are you staying?" she asked, her back to him.

"That depends," he said softly.

She turned slowly. "On what?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he took a step closer, then paused. "It's good to see you. Really."