I moved a display of new releases two inches to the left. "We've had this conversation."
"Have we?" Mock surprise colored his voice. "Because I don't remember you mentioning turning down real jobs to alphabetize fiction."
"That was one summer internship. Eight years ago."
"A prestigious summer internship."
"At a firm that billed clients for coffee."
"Character-building coffee."
I looked up. Caught the teasing glint in his eyes, the slight upturn of his mouth. My own smile came automatic, tight enough to ache at the corners.
His hand trembled when he lifted the mug again. Not a tremor—sharper than that. The coffee sloshed, a brown drop hitting the invoice below. He set the cup down quickly, wiping at the paper with his sleeve.
"Clumsy this morning," he muttered.
I watched him push back from the counter, watched the way he gripped the edge before standing. Like he needed the support but refused to acknowledge it. Like his body had become something requiring negotiation.
"New shipment came in yesterday," he said, moving toward the back room. Started to say something else. Paused. His mouth worked around the word, reshaping it. "Storage. In the—storage area."
Not storeroom.
Storage area.
The correction so subtle I almost missed it. Almost convinced myself I'd imagined the slur beneath.
"Dad."
He stopped. Didn't turn around.
"Are you okay?"
Silence stretched between the shelves. Dust motes swirled in the morning light, dancing patterns neither of us followed.
"Just tired, sweetheart."
He always said that.
Last month. Last week. This morning.
Just tired.
Like exhaustion explained the tremors. The weight loss. The pauses that grew longer each time I saw him.
"Maybe you should see?—"
"I'm fine." Firmer now. The voice he used when arguments ended whether I agreed or not. "Stop fussing."
He disappeared into the back room before I could press further.
I stayed at the register, staring at the invoices he'd abandoned. The coffee stain spread across the paper, bleeding numbers into illegible brown.
The crash came soft. Not glass shattering or shelves toppling—just the dull, hollow thud of weight meeting wood.
I was halfway around the counter when I registered what the sound meant.
Dad.
