Morning broke lazily, with sunlight dragging itself through the mist like a late guest at a tea party. Yuki woke with the distinct feeling that he had misplaced something important—like a dream, or perhaps, his dignity—only to realize it was simply the memory of Aoi’s hand slipping into his the night before.

  An ordinary touch.

  And yet… not ordinary at all.

  He arrived at the bookstore earlier than usual, nerves balled up like crumpled receipts in his stomach. Aoi was already there, perched on the tall stool behind the counter, humming a song that had no real tune—only a feeling.

  "You're early," she said, raising an eyebrow in mock suspicion. "Looking to buy all the poetry books before I do?"

  "I’m considering monopolizing the market," Yuki replied dryly. "Cornering the world’s dwindling supply of broken metaphors."

  She laughed—a sound that, frankly, deserved its own sonnet.

  Before he could fumble through another awkward line, the door chimed.

  And fate, the old trickster, swaggered into their cozy world.

  A woman stood in the doorway, umbrella dripping, coat too expensive for the town’s modest tastes. She was striking in the way thunderstorms are—beautiful from afar, dangerous up close.

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  "Yuki," she said, her voice slipping into the room like a blade through silk.

  Aoi stiffened.

  Yuki, to his eternal dismay, turned the color of day-old strawberries.

  "Rin," he managed, voice cracking in a way that would have made lesser men take immediate vows of silence.

  Rin smiled—sharp and knowing. "It’s been a long time."

  Too long, Yuki thought. And yet somehow, not long enough.

  Aoi rose from her stool slowly, carefully.

  "You have a customer," she said, voice perfectly polite—and perfectly armored.

  "I’ll, um, be in the back."

  Without another word, she disappeared into the storeroom, the door swinging shut behind her with a finality that made Yuki’s heart ache.

  Rin stepped closer, surveying the bookstore like a cat deciding where to nap—or pounce.

  "I heard you disappeared," she said. "Looks like you built yourself a little shrine to forgetting."

  Yuki forced a breath. "What do you want, Rin?"

  She smiled again, but this time, there was something almost sad about it.

  "Maybe just a reminder," she said softly. "That some stories don't let you go... even when you stop reading."

  And before he could muster a reply, she placed a small envelope on the counter.

  No address.

  No stamp.

  Just like the last letter.

  "Think of it as... an overdue page," Rin said, turning on her heel and vanishing into the morning mist with a flourish that would have made any stage actor applaud.

  Yuki stared at the envelope.

  The past had returned.

  And it had brought luggage.