Notes in the bookshop
๐ชถ PoeticTold to you
Every Saturday for a year, the quiet man who runs the second-hand bookshop has slipped a note into the novel I'm about to buy. We never mention them face to face. I want the slow burn in full: fingers brushing over the counter, a rainy evening when he asks me to stay after closing, a confession between the shelves, and a first kiss a year in the making, then more, slowly, by lamplight.
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