If only...

Chapter 1

The bell jingled softly as I pushed open the door, the sound settling like a familiar melody. A gust of cold air swept in behind me, carrying with it the scent of damp leaves, and the distant smokiness of wood fires starting to burn in someone's hearth. I stood there for a moment, letting the warmth of the shop embrace me, watching the light of the new morning stretch across the wooden floor.

My bookshop. Sometimes, I still couldn't believe it.

I took a slow breath, the air settling warm in my chest, like trying to hold on to a fleeting feeling. I was always waiting for it to slip away, as if any minute now, I'd wake up and find myself back in one of those other bookshops, working for someone else, listening to someone else's rules. But no—this was mine. The shelves I'd built with my own hands, the books I'd chosen with care, the windows that looked out onto a street that now felt like a small piece of my life. A quiet corner of the world, carved out just for me.

I moved behind the counter, setting down my coffee, the steam curling up lazily into the morning air. I flicked on the small lamp, the soft, warm glow spilling across the desk, turning everything golden. There was a peace in the early hours, a silence that wrapped itself around me before the world fully woke up. This moment, right here, when the shop was just mine, felt like a gift. Outside, the leaves twisted and spun in little whirlpools of orange and red, dancing along the cobblestones like something out of an old poem. Autumn always felt like a pause, a breath before the rush of winter. A season of turning inward, of things letting go.

I glanced around the shop, the rows of books, the shelves neatly lined with spines in all shades of brown, green, and deep blue. It looked like the kind of place I'd dreamed about when I was younger, wandering into old bookshops that smelled of dust and secrets, hoping to find some hidden treasure that would change everything. There was always that hope, wasn't there? That one book, that one story, that would shift your world in some invisible way, make you see things differently. Maybe that's why I wanted this place so badly—to create that space for someone else.

The past few weeks had been slow at first. I'd stand behind the counter, watching people pass by, glance in through the window, then keep walking. But recently, something had shifted. A couple of regulars had started coming in—Mrs. Liddell, with her gentle voice and a fondness for old Russian novels; Olivia, the art student, her hands always ink-stained, always looking for something strange and inspiring. I'd even had a few tourists pop in, taking a break from the busier streets nearby. Word was spreading, and slowly, the shop was finding its rhythm.

I took another sip of my coffee, letting the warmth fill me. The taste was familiar, slightly bitter, but comforting all the same. I walked the aisles, straightening the books, letting my fingers trail along their spines, feeling the smooth paper under my hands. There was a new delivery waiting for me at the back—fresh books, their covers still crisp and untouched. I couldn't resist. I tore open the box, the smell of ink and fresh print rising up to meet me. There was something almost sacred in the scent of new books, as if every one of them was holding a secret just waiting to be discovered.

I set the books on the counter, arranging them neatly, already thinking of who might walk in and pick one up. Would it be Olivia again, lost in thought as she flicked through the pages? Or maybe someone new—someone who had never been here before, who'd wander in by accident and leave with a story that would stay with them. I liked imagining that, the way stories can find you, even when you're not looking.

I checked the time—just before ten. Soon, the day would start for real. The door would open, and people would come in, and for a few moments, I'd be part of their lives, helping them find something that might matter to them. I was the bookseller now, the one who could make those connections.

And yet... there was still this feeling. This little flicker at the back of my mind, like a stray thought that wouldn't settle. If only...

If only what? I couldn't quite pin it down. I should have been content, and most days, I was. This was the dream, after all. The shop was real, the shelves were filled, and I had people who came, people who trusted my recommendations. And yet... some part of me still tugged at the edges of my happiness. Like a loose thread I was afraid to pull.

I caught my reflection in the window. Twenty-four years old, though I felt older, sometimes. The long hours had put shadows under my blue eyes, my brown hair was longer than it probably should have been, and the beginnings of a beard were starting to make me look scruffier than I wanted. Not quite the image of a seasoned bookseller, but I liked to think I had a certain charm. Or at least, I hoped I did.

The bell over the door jingled, and I turned, instinctively straightening up. A woman stepped inside, brushing off the autumn wind that had followed her in. Her eyes were wide as she looked around, taking in the shelves, the quiet, the soft light.

"Good morning," I said, my voice easy, practiced. "Let me know if you need any help finding something."

She smiled—a polite smile, the kind that said she wanted to be left alone to explore. I nodded, staying behind the counter, watching her as she moved down the aisle, her fingers grazing the spines like she was looking for something she didn't know she needed.

I leaned against the counter, listening to the soft rustle of pages as she browsed, feeling that familiar pull of satisfaction, but still, there was that whisper in my head. If only... If only what? What was missing?

The bell chimed again. More customers. The day was beginning, the shop coming to life. I shook off the thought, let it drift back into the quiet corners of my mind where it usually hid.

For now, this was enough. For now, the dream was real, and it was mine. But still...