The scent of old paper and ink hung in the air, wrapping the tiny bookstore in a familiar warmth. The dim lighting cast gentle shadows on the wooden shelves, making the space feel smaller and cozier—like a world apart from the one outside.
Eleanor sat behind the counter, absently running her fingers over the tattered edges of a well-loved classic. It was long past closing time, and the streets outside were silent except for the occasional hum of a passing car. But she wasn't in a rush to leave.
She had nowhere to go.
Pulling her knees to her chest, she tucked herself into the oversized hoodie that had seen better days. This place—this quiet sanctuary of forgotten stories—was the only home she had left.
At twenty-two, she had nothing. No family. No savings. Not even a bed that truly belonged to her.
Her childhood had ended the moment she lost her parents at twelve. What followed was a blur of cold glares, harsh words, and constant reminders that she was unwanted. Living under her aunt's roof had been suffocating. At eighteen, she tried to leave, only to be dragged back. It wasn't until four years later—when the insults turned into bruises—that she finally ran.
She never looked back.
Mr. Benson, the bookstore's elderly owner, had taken her in, offering her a job. But he didn't know the full truth. No one did.
Once the doors were locked and the last customer had left, she curled up in the storage room, making a bed out of old blankets and half-read novels.
Tonight was no different.
Eleanor rubbed her hands together, trying to shake off the cold that seeped through the thin walls. Her stomach twisted with hunger, a cruel reminder that she hadn't eaten since morning. But food cost money, and every cent she earned needed to be saved.
Just a little longer, she told herself. Soon, she'd have enough for a tiny apartment—nothing fancy, just a place where she could sleep without fear of being thrown out.
The sudden chime of the doorbell shattered the silence.
Her head snapped up.
A customer? At this hour?
Heart pounding, she scrambled to her feet. Mr. Benson had been clear—no customers after closing.
"We're closed—" The words died in her throat.
A man stood in the doorway, tall and composed, his sharp gaze fixed on her.
He was dressed in an expensive black suit, the kind that reeked of money and power. Everything about him—his posture, the quiet confidence in his stance—made him feel out of place in a dusty little bookstore.
His eyes met hers, dark and unreadable.
And for a brief moment, Eleanor felt like he could see right through her.