A Tale of Love and Loss

chapter one

One hour and thirty-seven minutes—that's how long I've been standing here, wondering if I should just walk home alone and leave Amora behind. She's been busy since classes ended, caught up with people who always seem to crave her attention. I can't blame them. At 5'6", she's stunning—not just in a classical way, but truly beautiful. Her dark brown hair, which could almost pass for black, reveals golden strands when the sunlight hits just right. Her skin glows, fully tanned from the hours she loves to spend basking in the sun. And her eyes—wide and innocent, like a baby's, though not in a strange way—only enhance the purity she always seems to radiate. Her pouty, pink lips? Yeah, I've thought about kissing them too, and she's my best friend!!!

So no, I don't blame anyone for wanting her attention. But if Amora doesn't show up soon, I'm leaving. The bookstore is reopening in a few minutes, and I can't miss my chance. I shift my weight from foot to foot, adjusting the strap of my backpack. There was little I could do to make the wait bearable. Students brush past me, chatting with their friends. Some greet me; others just give me that familiar, curious look. I get it—this isn't the first time I've been stuck waiting for Amora.

After another twenty minutes, I'm sure she's not coming. It's past our usual two-hour wait mark. I sigh, shuffling my feet as I head toward "Storey." I don't know if I'm angry or just disappointed. Amora knows how much I want this job. The bookstore has been closed for renovations for eight months, and now that it's finally reopening, I can't afford to be late. My finances are tight, and working here would mean earning money while doing what I love—plus, I'd get to read as many books as I want for free.

Storey is only a fifteen-minute walk from campus. I could've gone there and back twice already, but instead, I waited for Amora, who didn't even bother to text me. The more I think about it, the more irritated I get. I don't need to be angry right now—not when I have an interview to focus on.

I pick up my pace when I spot Percy heading in the same direction. My heart races—what if he's going to Storey for the job too? But he just glances at the store twice and keeps walking. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

Finally, I reach the door. I smooth down my wild hair, knowing it's a lost cause, but at least I look presentable. Stupidly, I knock before pushing the door open—who knocks on the door of a*****e? I hope no one notices my awkwardness, or worse, how embarrassed I feel.

I've been to Storey before the renovations—it was my favorite spot when I started college—but nothing prepared me for how it looks now.

The scent of old paper and fresh ink wraps around me as I step inside, warm and familiar. The exterior doesn't do it justice—inside, it's heaven. The painted windows remind me of the ones I once saw in a Catholic church. The wooden floors creak softly beneath my feet. It’s an odd combination, but somehow, it works perfectly.

The heart of the bookstore remains the same—shelves stacked with novels in every color, promising distant worlds to explore—but the renovations have transformed the space. It's cozier, more inviting. The faint sounds of pages turning and soft laughter drift through the air. To the right, I spot a seating area where a few people—some from my college—are already settled in.

The whole place feels intentional. It’s not just a*****e to buy books or borrow them—it’s a place where you want to stay, to get lost in stories.

"Books aren't just words," I read aloud from a sign, smiling. "They're filled with places to visit and people to meet."

I’m tempted to grab a book and sink into one of the chairs when I hear someone call my name.

"Uriel?"

I turn too quickly and nearly stumble. Straightening myself, I meet the gaze of an older woman who’s beaming at me. She’s small and chubby, with wrinkles framing her face, but she has a warm, healthy glow. Despite my 5'4" frame, I still have to look down slightly to meet her eyes.

"You're Uriel, right?" she asks. I nod, too nervous to trust my voice.

"Come with me," she says, and I follow silently, guessing she must be the store’s owner. I’ve never met the owner before—just Martin, the kind man who used to work here. I don't see him now, which explains why they're hiring.

She leads me to a small office tucked behind one of the largest bookshelves. "I like to think of it as a magic door to my sanctuary," she says, her voice animated. "It’s part of the new renovations."

I smile at her warmth. The office is cozy. A coffee maker hums softly on a side table near the door, and a massive wooden desk dominates the small space. The desk looks ancient, but it’s beautiful.

"Please, sit," she says, settling into a chair that looks like it belongs to a pope.

She studies me for a moment before speaking again. "I don't know how I'm going to interview you when I’m already certain you’ve got the job," she muses with a chuckle. "I’m Nina, but everyone calls me Nona—it’s easier, and I’m already a grandma."

I shake her outstretched hand gingerly. "I’m Uriel."

"Lovely name," she says, and I murmur a quiet thank you. Most people find my name weird, not lovely.

"Martin recommended you," she continues. "He said you used to help him a lot. His word alone could get you the job, but I want to hear why you want to work here. It can get boring, you know—being surrounded by books all day."

"I love books," I say simply. "I’m studying literature at Pathfinder College down the road, so I could always be around. It’s easy to love a job when you love the work."

Nina nods thoughtfully. "We’re not just a bookstore or a library—we’re both now, and it’ll get busy once we officially open. Have you ever managed a*****e?"

"My mom owned a grocery store," I explain. "I worked there after school and during summers. It got hectic in the evenings when people stopped by after work. Fridays were the busiest—it was a crush. I figure this might be similar."

Her smile widens. "I love your hair," she says suddenly.

I touch my curls self-consciously. It’s a mess, but I don’t argue.

"With you at the front desk, it’ll give us that fairy-tale look we’re aiming for," she continues. "I’m not supposed to tell you this, but we specifically looked for someone with curly hair."

I gape at her. She’s joking—she has to be.

"Can you manage a bookstore and a library?" she asks, her tone turning serious again.

"I think it’s a wonderful improvement," I say, trying to sound confident. "Both involve books—it should be easy to fall into place."

She gives a satisfied nod. "It’s settled, then. I’ll call you on Saturday."

As she leads me back to the front, my heart pounds. I just pray I get the job—I need it.