Shadows Between the Pages

Chapter Three - Count to Sixty

"It often does," she said methodically, as if we were discussing inventory. "Bodies that are looked at too much learn to apologize. We unlearn that. Hands here." She lifted my wrists gently, placed them by my sides. "Neutral. Ready. Not sorry."

My throat went tight with a grief I hadn't named. "Okay," I managed.

She stepped back. "Walk to the poetry shelf and back. Slow. Keep the line from ear to ankle."

I made two trips, then a third—awkward at first, then less so. On the fourth, I felt something click. A hinge that had been rusting for years finally took oil. My arms swung naturally at my sides. I felt... taller? Not in inches. In intention.

"Better," she said. "Now turn."

I pivoted, aware of how I wanted to make it pretty—some leftover ballerina instinct from a school recital I barely remember. She stopped me with a soft, "No performative spins. Functional. You're not on stage. You're alive."

I laughed. "That's a good motto."

"You can borrow it."

We practiced pivot steps—right foot anchor, left foot sweep—until I could execute the movement without thinking, without giving away too much of my center. "If someone blocks your path," she said, "you don't back up. You shape the space. Think... bookstore aisle. You've done this all your life—moving past people without knocking books down. Translate that memory."

"That I can do," I said, and meant it. I'd spent years building a life in narrow spaces.

Lesson two came like a new page: where to place my hands when I was thinking. "Not crossed," she said gently, touching her own arms to demonstrate. "It collapses you. Not clasped in front—looks apologetic. Not fidgeting," she added, and I obediently released the hem of my cardigan.

"So what then?" I asked, trying to laugh.

She showed me—fingers relaxed, palms open at my sides, or one hand lightly holding the opposite wrist behind my back (not hiding, just resting). "This says I can move any direction in a second. It tells your nervous system you're not trapped."

"Also makes me look like a principal," I muttered.

"Then the kids will behave," she said, straight-faced, and I startled into a real laugh, the kind that makes your chest uncurl.

"Third," she continued, "where to look. Pick a point that isn't a face. Anchors you. Then choose the face, not the other way around."

"Choose the face," I repeated. It felt like rebellion. "Okay."

We were quiet after that. Quiet in the way you are when learning something old your bones knew but your fear forgot.

The bell chimed. A courier stepped in—different uniform, same folded manifest. "Good morning po. Delivery for... Reyes Books. Two boxes."

"Finally," I said, signing. "The restock."

He brought in the boxes—new editions of classics, a YA order, three copies of a gardening book that I'd accidentally clicked and now had to sell by sheer charm. He left with a nod. The bell chimed again, the door sighed, the street crawled on.

We cut the tape open with a box cutter. The fresh-paper smell rose like a small hymn. My hands are happiest when pulling new books from cardboard, ang sarap ng tunog ng unwrapping—plastic rustle, soft thump on the counter, the squeak of the register as I scan. I lined them on the table, spines facing out like new soldiers.

"May I?" Dominic asked, and took one—the YA with a brave cover—flipping a page or two like she was reading the book's temperature. "You stock for mood," she observed.