Shadows Between the Pages

Chapter Three - Count to Sixty

The next morning, I unlocked the store earlier than usual. Habit, or maybe restlessness. The street was still yawning—vendors setting up, jeepneys coughing awake, the air cool with that particular Manila chill na hindi naman talaga malamig pero may lamig pa ring konti sa anit. I held the key in the door a second longer than needed, listening to the bell's small voice when I pushed through.

Five minutes. Count to sixty. Twice.
I did it last night because she asked. Today, I did it because I wanted to.

I turned on the front lamps. The shop warmed one pool of light at a time, like the room itself was stretching. I made a circuit: curtains half-open, register drawer checked, kettle filled, floor scan for stray receipts. I moved the QUIET PLEASE sign two inches to the left and the sampaguita vase two inches to the right. I told myself it mattered.

When the first tea bag bled into the mug, my phone buzzed.

Unknown Number:
Counted yet?

My mouth betrayed me and smiled before my brain could play it cool. I typed, erased, typed again, then settled on:

Me:
I'm only at forty-seven. Will the world end if I miscount?

A pause. I imagined a dark jacket, a thumb hovering over a screen with an economy of movement.

Unknown Number:
If the world ends at forty-eight, I owe you a coffee.

I laughed—alone, and unfortunately out loud. "Ridiculous," I told the mug, which had no opinion, then saved the number as Cruz before my face could heat further. Lola would love to see a new name on my phone; I would die before letting her.

By nine, the street noise grew into its usual morning quilt. A student bought a review book and asked if we had highlighters (we didn't, but I gave her the neon sticky flags I hoarded from a stationery sale). A woman in scrubs browsed the self-help section and whispered thank you when I led her to a slim title about rest that actually respected the reader's intelligence. Not all rest is lazy, it said on the back. I wanted to underline it on her behalf.

At ten, Lola appeared, hair in its daily bun, cardigan in its daily heroic effort to fight a breeze that wasn't actually cold. "Good morning, anak," she said, tapping her cane like a conductor. "Mukhang maaga ka na naman."

"Couldn't sleep," I admitted, pouring her tea without being asked. "May sinigang ka ba today?"

"Kung mabait ka." She smirked, then looked at my face the way people read the last page of a book to see if they can handle the ending. "Ah. May nag-text, 'no?"

"Why would you say that?" I tried to arrange my expression into a neutral shelf.

"Kasi ganyan din ang hitsura ko noong lola mo ako," she said, then frowned at her own sentence. "Noon pala. Bata pa ako noon. Tsk. Ewan." She sipped her tea and leaned closer. "Iyong tahimik na matangkad?"

"Lola," I groaned, "please."

"I'm old," she declared. "I see things but I pretend not to. Respect my effort."

I laughed. "Fine. Yes. She said... to count."

"Good. Counting is useful. It keeps people alive and budgets honest." She patted my hand, then wandered toward the donation box from yesterday, peeking as if books arrange themselves while you aren't looking. (They don't. That's my job. Still, the hope.)

At ten-thirty, the bell chimed.

I looked up on instinct, ready to paste my bookstore smile, and then didn't have to paste anything at all.

Dominic stood in the doorway like a promise kept. Same jacket. Same careful posture. Same quiet that moved with her like a second skin. The gray of the sky from yesterday had softened into a pale blue, and for one unreasonable beat, I thought well, of course it cleared. The universe sometimes has taste.