The bell above the bookstore door chimed softly as Baron stepped inside. The familiar scent of old paper and fresh ink wrapped around him, grounding him in the same comfort as always. But today, Cecile’s smile was different. Not the usual gentle welcome, but something bright, conspiratorial—like she had been waiting just for him.
Without a word, she reached behind the counter and placed a book on the desk between them. Its cover was simple, the edges slightly worn, but she presented it like a treasure.
“The sweetest romance I have ever read,” she declared, eyes alight. “Written a hundred years ago, and not a single love story since has come close. Go on. Open it.”
Baron raised an eyebrow, picking it up carefully. “That’s quite a claim.”
“It’s not a claim. It’s fact,” Cecile countered,
