She laughs. And for the first time since I noticed her, the tiredness in her eyes fades slightly. But only for a second. Then it comes back. Still, the sound of her laughter stays with me a moment longer than it should.
“Thank you,” she says softly, holding the book against her chest. “This book…” She trails off. I study her for a second before finishing the sentence for her.
“Will make you feel closer to your father.” Her head snaps up.
“How did you—”
“You need it right now,” I add gently.
Her eyes widen slightly. I smile. “I can also secretly read minds.”
For a moment she just looks at me. Then she smiles. Soft. Almost surprised. “It is… disturbingly accurate,” she admits.
And something about the way she says it makes me realize one thing very clearly. This woman is carrying more than she’s letting on.
And suddenly—I’m very curious to know what it is. She’s still looking at the book like it might disappear if she loosens her grip. The way her fingers trace the edge of the cover is almost careful, reverent. Like she’s touching something far more valuable than a paperback that probably costs less than a cup of expensive coffee.
For a moment I just watch her. Then I realize that might be slightly weird. “So,” I say, straightening up and crossing my arms loosely. “Did I pass the test?”
She looks up again, blinking like she’d momentarily forgotten I was still standing there. “You didn’t just pass,” she says slowly. “You solved a mystery.”
I tilt my head. “It wasn’t that mysterious.”
“I didn’t even tell you the title.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Her brows pull together slightly in curiosity. “How?”
“Well,” I begin, counting lightly on my fingers, “you said your father used to read it to you when you were younger. Which means it’s either a children’s book or something philosophical disguised as one.”
She nods slowly.
“Then you mentioned planets, strange adults, loneliness, and a pilot in the desert.” I shrug lightly. “That narrows it down considerably.”
Her lips twitch. “You’re dangerously good at this.”
“I spend a lot of time around books.”
“Clearly.”
She glances down at the cover again, brushing her thumb over the small illustration of the little prince standing on his tiny planet. “My father loved this book,” she says quietly. There’s a softness in her voice now, something gentler than the guarded tone she had earlier. “He used to read it to me before bed,” she continues. “Even when I was too old for bedtime stories.”
I lean back against the shelf beside us, listening. “He said it wasn’t really a children’s book,” she adds.
“He was right,” I say automatically.
She looks up again, surprised. “You’ve read it?”
“More times than I can count.”
A small smile appears on her face. “My father used to underline passages in pencil,” she says. “He said the author hid important truths between the lines.”
“That sounds exactly like something a reader would say.”
“You say that like it’s a personality type.”
“It is.”
