CHAPTER 2
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He had been watching her for three months. Not every day, but often enough to know her routines, her favorite coffee order, and the worn leather bag she carried everywhere. She was a creature of habit, and this bookstore was her sanctuary, a place where the scent of old paper and ink seemed to muffle the sounds of the city and the ghosts of other people’s stories surrounded her. He understood the appeal. It was safe here, and she desperately needed to feel safe.
Today, she was in the poetry aisle, her usual spot. She stood with her back to him, her shoulders slightly hunched as if to ward off an unseen blow, tracing the names on the spines of the books, a ritual he had watched her perform a dozen times. The delicate, almost hesitant way her finger moved was a language he was beginning to understand. It spoke of a past filled with sharp edges and broken promises. Even from behind, he recognized the look. It was the look of someone who had learned to expect pain.
He waited for her to choose a book. When her hand finally came to rest on the spine of a worn copy of Rupi Kaur’s “The Sun and Her Flowers,” he knew his moment had come. He walked purposefully down the next aisle, holding his breath. He reached for a book on a high shelf and, with a subtle shift of his hand, sent a small cascade of books tumbling to the floor with a loud thud. The sound was jarring in the quiet space.