1. THE BOOKSTORE ENCOUNTER
ADITYA
I’ve always believed that every person has one place where the noise of the world softens.
For some people it’s a temple. For some it’s the ocean. For my mother, it was books. For me, it has always been this bookstore.
The little brass bell above the door chimes softly as I push it open, the familiar sound settling somewhere deep in my chest like a memory returning home. The place hasn’t changed much over the years. The wooden floors still creak under every step, the shelves still lean slightly like tired old men who have spent decades carrying stories on their backs.
And the smell—God, the smell—is the same. Paper. Dust. Ink. If comfort had a scent, it would probably smell like this.
I pause just inside the entrance for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the warm yellow light that spills down from the old lamps hanging between the shelves. It’s late afternoon, which means the place is quiet. Only a few people wander the aisles, each absorbed in their own silent worlds.
I breathe in slowly.
Sundays used to belong here.
My mother and I would come every week, sometimes right after breakfast, sometimes after lunch if she had spent the morning chasing my father around the house about work calls and meetings. She used to say this place was the only location in the city where my father couldn’t interrupt her.
He hated bookstores. Said they were bad investments. Too slow. Too sentimental.
My mother used to laugh every time he said that. “Stories build people,” she would reply. “And people build the world.”
I think that was the first time I realized my parents lived in two completely different universes. My father built companies. My mother built readers. And somehow I ended up belonging more to her world.
I move deeper into the store, my fingers brushing lightly across the edges of a shelf as I pass. The owner, Mr. Khan, sits at the counter near the entrance reading a newspaper. He glances up briefly when I walk in and gives me a small nod of recognition.
I’ve been coming here for years. Sometimes to buy books. Sometimes just to sit in the corner chair near the philosophy section and read until the sun disappears.
Today, I’m not even sure why I came.
Maybe a habit. Maybe nostalgia. Or maybe I just needed somewhere quiet after spending the entire morning arguing with lawyers about my father’s will.
I exhale slowly at the thought.
Marriage.
The word still feels absurd in my mind. Apparently my father decided that if I wasn’t married within a year of his death, the publishing house would be sold to a larger corporation. No discussion. No negotiation. Just a condition written neatly into legal documents like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.
I shake my head slightly.
Typical.
Even in death, he managed to complicate my life. I turn into the fiction aisle, running my hand along the spines of books as I walk. It’s a habit I’ve had since I was a teenager—touching books, like greeting old friends.
That’s when I notice her.
She’s standing a few shelves ahead of me, her back half turned toward my side of the aisle. One hand is braced against the wooden shelf while the other slides across a row of books as she reads the titles, her brows pulled together slightly in concentration.
There’s something restless about the way she moves. Not frantic. Just… searching. Like someone looking for something very specific and not finding it.
Her hair falls forward slightly as she leans closer to the shelf, dark strands brushing her cheek before she pushes them back absentmindedly. The movement is small, distracted. I should probably mind my own business. But something about the way she sighs softly under her breath makes me pause.
She steps back from the shelf, scanning the aisle again before moving toward another section. Still searching.
I watch her for a moment longer before realizing I’ve been standing here doing absolutely nothing like an idiot.
Great.
