The Softest Kind of Ruin

pture the attention of passersby. The vibrant covers were like a painter's palette, and Nicole was the artist, carefully crafting her masterpiece. Sh

But today, she wanted the store itself to feel like one of those worlds: warm, magnetic, impossible

yes watched from across the roo

ioned, but it offered a comforting simplicity. The scent of paper, the rustle of turning pages, the quiet shuffle of feet on worn wooden floor

rs came like clockwork for their Saturday morning browse, their familiar faces a soothing presence. Most days, N

es as much

herself more aware of the people around her. A couple near the back caught her attention, speaking in hushed tones. Nicole wasn't one for go

n the alley on Colonel Street. They think it might be Vane-the assassin. Sa

d lingering on a book's spine. Vane. A

ves a goodstory. Probably just a serial killer

e Vane wasn't new-she'd heard whispers. An assassin who moved like a ghost, killin

unease. The conversation faded, the tension lingering like fog. Nobody wa

Still, her hands moved slower than before. She was brought back to the present by the sound of approaching footst

g so freely. Nicole responded w

prickling crawled up the back of her neck.

ng near the romance section. She hadn't se

ng. Cold

felt invasive, like he saw something no one else did. She quickly looked away, her pulse quickening. There was something in

ane echoed aga

door jingled. The

last. Even with him gone, she felt as

ng. Wa

er hands trembling slightly. Then she saw it. Tucked i

lt slowly, pulling it free. The paper was

scrawled in jag

n't trust anyone who talks about