The Turning Page smelled of cedar shelves, worn paperbacks, and the comforting drift of roasted coffee and warm pastries from the café nestled in the back. Sunlight stretched through the tall windows, dancing across the polished wood floors and pooling in cozy corners stacked with books and pillows.
Mouse moved confidently through the shelves in her signature black platform boots, three inches of extra height boosting not just her reach but her quiet authority. Her lavender-purple hair shimmered where sunlight kissed it, tucked into two messy buns with stray strands framing her face. She wore ripped black jeans, a cropped vintage band tee, and sharp, metallic green eyeliner that sliced out in crisp wings. A silver moon dangled from one ear, a tiny star from the other.
For the first time
