Mara
Mara had known this moment would come.
She just hadn’t expected it to arrive disguised as a polite man with clean shoes and an umbrella he did not need.
He stood in the bookshop doorway with the careful posture of someone trying not to offend a place older than his confidence. Late afternoon light slanted through the windows, dust motes hanging like suspended punctuation.
“I’m looking for a book,” he said pleasantly.
Mara looked up from the counter. She did not smile.
“No,” she replied.
The man blinked. “I—haven’t told you which one.”
“You’re not here for a book,” Mara said. “You’re here because you were sent.”
A pause.
Then he laughed softly, shaking his head like someone amused at a clever guess.
“Sent is such a strong word,” he said. “I prefer invited.”
Mara studied him
