The bell above the door rang with a tired little chime, the kind that had been rung so many times it no longer believed in enthusiasm.

Dust shifted in the afternoon light as the door closed again.

The bookstore smelled like old paper, lemon oil, and something faintly metallic—ink, maybe, or the memory of it. Shelves leaned inward at odd angles, as if they were listening. Handwritten labels dangled from twine: HISTORY (PROBABLY), ROMANCE (NO REFUNDS), COOKING (BRAVE SOULS ONLY).

Behind the counter, a man popped upright.

He was thin in the way of someone who forgot meals when distracted. His hair was thinning aggressively at the crown, combed forward in a valiant but clearly losing battle. His glasses were too large for his face and perpetually slid halfway down his nose, where he never seemed to notice them slipping.

“Oh!” he said, clapping his hands once. “A person! A real one!”

The customer froze just inside the doorway.

“…Yes?”

“Marvelous,” the bookseller said. “I was worried today would be a browse-only day.”

“I—what?”

“Browsing is fine, of course,” he added quickly, already flustered. “Vital, even. Browsing keeps the books hopeful. But purchasing—oh, purchasing is what really keeps them limber.”

The customer cleared their throat. “I’m just looking for a book.”

The man gasped softly, like someone had just offered him a quest.

“A book,” he repeated reverently. “Excellent. Any particular kind of book?”

“Something practical,” the customer said. “Maybe a cookbook.”

The bookseller’s eyes lit up.

“Oh. Oh good. We’ve just reorganized cooking.”

He scurried from behind the counter with surprising speed, shoes whispering against the wooden floor. As he passed, the customer noticed ink stains on his cuffs and a pencil tucked behind one ear, worn nearly flat.

He stopped in front of a narrow shelf near the back, crouched, then stood again with a triumphant little noise.

“Here we are!”

He pulled out a thick volume and presented it with both hands.

The cover read:

Meals You Can Make From Things That Were Almost Thrown Away

The customer blinked.

“…Is that a joke?”

“Only partially,” the bookseller said brightly. “Page seventy-four alone has saved three marriages and one neighborhood raccoon problem.”

“I was thinking something more… normal.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding seriously. “You want less honesty.”

He slid the book back and immediately replaced it with another.

Cooking with Confidence: A Journey Through Compost-Adjoining Ingredients

The customer stared.

“Compost-adjoining.”

“Yes,” the man said. “Not compost. Near compost. Emotionally adjacent. Very different.”

“I don’t think I want to eat anything emotionally adjacent to compost.”

“That’s a common fear,” the bookseller said gently. “Perfectly natural. We hear it a lot. Usually right before people buy this one.”

He produced a third book.

Stews, Soups, and Other Things That Started as Regret

The customer rubbed their forehead.

“Why are all the titles like this?”

The man frowned, genuinely puzzled.

“Like what?”

“Like they’re trying to warn me.”

“Oh! No, no,” he said quickly. “They’re trying to prepare you.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

“Too many cookbooks lie. They say things like Simply Delicious or Easy Family Favorites. Nonsense. Cooking is messy. Emotional. Sometimes you drop a spoon and have to sit down for a moment.”

The customer opened the stew book. The pages were thick and warm from the room, margins crowded with notes in different handwriting styles.

“This one has stains.”

“Those are testimonials.”

“I’m not sure this is what I’m looking for.”

The bookseller brightened again. “No problem! We pivot. I love a pivot.”

He darted to another shelf.

“What about fiction?”

“Maybe,” the customer said cautiously.

He returned holding a slender paperback.

A Man Who Made Perfect Decisions Until Tuesday

“That feels ominous.”

“It’s very short,” he said. “Tuesday arrives quickly.”

Another book appeared.

The Hero’s Journey, But Mostly the Waiting Around

Then another.

A Romance Built Entirely on Missed Eye Contact

The customer laughed despite themselves.

“Okay, that one’s kind of good.”

“Yes!” the man said, pointing eagerly. “Chapter nine is just three pages of them standing near the same bookshelf pretending not to read the spines.”

They looked around again. The longer they stood there, the more the place felt… awake. Not in a magical way. Just busy. Lived in. Like it remembered everyone who had ever stood unsure in the aisle.

“I think,” the customer said slowly, “I want something comforting.”

The bookseller’s expression softened.

“Oh,” he said. “You should have said so.”

He moved more carefully this time, selecting a book from behind the counter. The cover was plain. The title simple.

You Can Start Again Tomorrow

No subtitle. No jokes.

The customer held it for a moment.

“…This one doesn’t sound terrible.”

The man smiled, small and sincere.

“It’s our best seller,” he said. “Mostly bought on difficult days.”

The bell rang again as the customer left a few minutes later, book tucked under their arm.

Behind the counter, the bookseller made a note in a ledger.

Sold one. Mood: hopeful.