Now I’m the creepy guy staring at strangers in bookstores. I clear my throat lightly and take a step forward.
“Looking for something?”
She turns immediately.
For a second we just stare at each other. Her eyes are the first thing I notice. Not their color. The expression in them. There’s a sharp intelligence there, but underneath it something else—something tired. The kind of tiredness that doesn’t come from lack of sleep but from carrying too many responsibilities for too long.
I recognize that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror. She blinks once before answering. “I’m looking for a book.” Her voice is soft but steady.
“What book?”
She hesitates. “That’s the problem,” she says with a small, embarrassed laugh. “I don’t remember the name.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s… a difficult starting point.”
“I know.”
She gestures vaguely toward the shelves. “My father used to read it all the time when I was younger.”
Something in her expression shifts slightly when she mentions him. “He passed away a few years ago,” she adds quietly.
Ah.
That explains the look in her eyes.
I lean casually against the shelf beside her. “Do you remember anything about the story?”
She tilts her head slightly. “You’ll know the book just by the story?”
I smile faintly. “Try me.”
She studies my face for a moment as if deciding whether I’m serious. Then she chuckles softly. Alright. Maybe she doesn’t completely think I’m insane.
“Fine,” she says. And then she starts telling me the story.
Her voice changes slightly when she does.
It becomes warmer somehow, more animated, like the memory itself is bringing a piece of her father back to life.
“There’s this little prince,” she says, gesturing lightly with her hands as she speaks. “He travels from planet to planet meeting strange adults who all represent different flaws.”
I blink. Wait. “Eventually he meets a pilot who crashed in the desert,” she continues. “And the story becomes about loneliness and friendship and… growing up.” I push away from the shelf immediately.
She pauses mid-sentence. “What?”
“Stay here,” I say.
Then I walk down the aisle toward the children’s section.
If I’m right—and I’m pretty sure I am—this won’t take long. I scan the shelf quickly before spotting the familiar pale cover tucked between two newer editions.
I pull it out and turn back toward her. She’s still standing exactly where I left her. When I reach her, I hold the book out. “Here you go.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh my God.” She takes the book from my hands carefully, like it’s something fragile. “This is it,” she breathes.
Her fingers run across the cover. “It’s the same cover.” She looks up at me, clearly amazed. “How did you know?”
I lean down slightly, lowering my voice like I’m sharing a secret. “I’m secretly a nerd.”
