If only...

Chapter 2

The rain had been falling steadily for hours, drumming against the windows in soft, rhythmic taps. The kind of rain that made people hurry past the shop, heads down, umbrellas clutched tightly as they rushed to wherever they were going. I watched them from behind the counter, the gray afternoon light casting everything in soft shades of silver. The shop was quiet.

It was the kind of day that seemed to stretch, as though time itself had slowed down to match the steady drip of rain from the gutters. The occasional customer would wander in, shake off their wet coats, browse the shelves for a few minutes, and leave with a book tucked under their arm. But now, in the fading light of the late afternoon, it seemed like the world had forgotten my little corner of the street entirely. I didn't mind. The soft glow of the lamp beside me, the sound of the rain, the warm scent of books—it was enough.

I glanced at the clock. A few more hours before I'd close up, go back to the small apartment upstairs, and make something simple for dinner. Maybe I'd read, maybe I'd try to write, though I hadn't written anything worth keeping in weeks. There had been too many things to focus on. The shop. Keeping things running.

A part of me was starting to wonder if this was it—if the dream I had chased for so long was simply this: a quiet shop on a rainy October day. It was beautiful in its own way, but... if only...

The bell above the door jingled, pulling me from my thoughts. I looked up and saw him. A man, tall, with a rain-soaked jacket, stepping into the shop and pushing the door closed behind him. For a moment, he just stood there, shaking off the wetness of the outside world, running a hand through his hair. Blonde. His hair was a pale, golden blonde, still damp from the rain, and he had the kind of face you didn't forget. Sharp, but soft around the edges, and when his eyes lifted to scan the room, I caught a flash of green. Bright, clear green.

I felt a strange jolt, something I wasn't prepared for, as though the air itself had shifted the moment he walked in. I wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because he seemed so out of place here, standing there with the rain dripping from his coat, his presence sharp and vivid in the soft, quiet shop. I stood up a little straighter behind the counter, trying to seem casual, though I suddenly felt anything but.

He wandered in slowly, hands tucked into his pockets, his eyes drifting over the shelves. He moved with a quiet confidence, like someone used to having time and space to themselves. I couldn't stop watching him, trying to figure out what it was that held my attention so tightly. It wasn't just that he was handsome, though he certainly was. There was something else. Something I couldn't name.

He stopped in front of the poetry section, tilting his head slightly as he studied the titles. I could see him reading the spines, his fingers hovering just above them, as though he was hesitant to touch them, like they might break under his hand.

I swallowed, trying to ignore the quick flutter in my chest, and decided to do my job.

"Can I help you find anything?" I asked, stepping out from behind the counter, my voice steady, though I felt anything but.

He turned, meeting my gaze with those striking green eyes. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he smiled, a small, almost secretive smile, as though he knew something I didn't.

"I'm just looking," he said, his voice quiet, smooth. "But thanks."

I nodded, though I didn't step away. There was something about him that pulled me in, made me want to stay, to talk to him. To hear more of his voice.

"You're in the right section, then," I said, gesturing to the shelves. "Some good stuff in there. Do you like poetry?"

His smile widened a little, a soft laugh escaping him. "I guess you could say that. Though I'm not really sure what I'm looking for."

He reached out, finally, and pulled a book from the shelf. Yeats. His fingers brushed the cover lightly before opening it, flipping through the pages with a kind of reverence. I watched the way his hands moved, the care he took with each motion, as if the book was something delicate, something to be respected.

"I've always liked Yeats," I said, not really thinking about it. "There's something about his poetry. The way he writes about longing... about beauty and loss."

The man looked up at me again, his eyes softening as he met mine. "Yeah. Yeats has a way of making everything feel... timeless, I guess. Like he's writing about something we all know, but can never really put into words."

I nodded, feeling the strange pull again, like his words were somehow wrapping around me, drawing me in. I should've stepped back, given him space. But I didn't want to. I wanted to hear more. To keep him talking.

"What about you?" he asked, still holding the book, his gaze steady. "Do you have a favorite?"

The question caught me off guard. For a second, I wasn't sure how to answer. I had so many favorites, so many poets whose words had moved me, shaped me. But standing there, looking at him, I found myself reaching for something deeper, something that meant more than just words on a page.

"I think..." I hesitated, then let the words come. "I think Rilke. His 'Letters to a Young Poet.' The way he talks about love, about how it should be two people who guard each other's solitude. There's a quietness in his words, but also... a kind of intensity. Like he's not afraid to say what love really is."

The man tilted his head, his eyes searching mine as if he was trying to read something more in what I'd said. There was a moment of silence between us, the rain tapping softly against the window, the shop quiet and still.

"Rilke, huh?" he said, his voice soft. "I haven't read much of him. But I like that. About guarding each other's solitude. Sounds... right."

I swallowed again, feeling the flutter in my chest grow stronger. There was something happening here, something I hadn't expected. I didn't know this man, and yet, standing this close to him, talking about poetry of all things, it felt like the air between us had changed. Charged, almost.

I forced myself to stay focused, to do my job, but it was getting harder to ignore the way my heart was racing, the way every word he said seemed to pull me closer, even if I wasn't moving.

He put Yeats back on the shelf, his fingers lingering on the spine for just a second longer before turning to me fully.

"Thanks for the recommendation," he said, his voice still soft, but there was something in it now. Something deeper. "I'll have to check out Rilke."

"You should," I replied, trying to keep my voice even. "You won't regret it."

For a moment, we just stood there, the space between us feeling small, too small. I felt like I should say something more, but I didn't know what.

Then he smiled again, a little softer this time, and with a nod, he turned and headed toward the door. The bell jingled as he stepped back into the rain, disappearing into the gray afternoon, leaving me standing there with my heart still pounding, wondering what exactly had just happened.

If only...