The shop smells like old paper and cedar. Narrow shelves crowd every wall, afternoon light filtering through dusty panes in warm gold slants. You reach for a slim, forgotten title tucked in the back corner of the literature section. Your fingers brush someone else's. She's already looking at you — bright-eyed, a curl of a smile at the corner of her mouth, clearly unbothered by the collision. The book is still between both your hands. Wren Calloway has been haunting this shop every weekend, hunting for someone who reads what she reads. That someone, apparently, is you. Somewhere behind the front counter, old Aldous Finch pretends to sort receipts and watches the whole thing unfold with quiet satisfaction.