His Winter Wolf

The Day I Almost Spoke to Grace

The hottest day of my life was the day I almost spoke to Grace. The kind of heat that clung to your skin, pressing in through every crack and crevice, making it impossible to escape. Even in the bookstore, where the air conditioning hummed steadily in the background, the heat found its way inside, sneaking through the cracks beneath the doors, slipping past the edges of the big picture windows. It came in waves, shimmering in the air outside, distorting the street beyond like an impressionist painting.

Behind the counter, I slumped forward on my stool, half-heartedly fanning myself with a dog-eared paperback. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, bleaching everything in its path—turning the colorful book covers on the display tables into faded, sun-drenched versions of themselves. Even the ink inside the pages seemed to heat up, filling the air with the distinct scent of printed words, a smell that had always comforted me. It mingled with the faint aroma of coffee drifting from the café section in the back, creating a heady mix that I breathed in as deeply as I could.

This was what I loved—what I had loved, back when I was human.

I was reading when the bell over the door chimed, letting in not only a burst of suffocating hot air but also a group of girls. Their voices filled the space immediately, a flurry of laughter and chatter as they spilled inside. They moved through the store without hesitation, their words bouncing off the bookshelves and ceiling. From the counter, I barely glanced up. They weren’t here for books, not really. They were here for the air conditioning, for the novelty of stepping inside, for the sheer thrill of being somewhere new.

I might have ignored them completely if not for one small, seemingly insignificant gesture.

One of the girls, standing at the edge of my vision, reached up and swept her blonde hair into a ponytail. It was nothing, a reflexive motion, a thoughtless action. But in that movement, she stirred the air around her, sending a whisper of scent toward me.

I knew that scent.

Recognition hit me like a punch to the gut. My fingers tightened on the book in my hands as I struggled to process what my senses were telling me. It was her. It had to be.

Without meaning to, I found myself lifting my book just a little higher, using it as a shield while I risked a careful glance toward the group of girls. Most of them were still gathered near the entrance, pointing at a paper bird I had hung from the ceiling above the children’s section. But she wasn’t with them.

Grace.

She stood slightly apart from the others, her eyes flicking over the shelves, scanning the spines of books with something that looked like quiet desperation. There was a familiar hesitation in the way she moved, as if she were searching for an escape, an anchor, something solid in a world that never quite made sense.

I recognized that look.

It was the same way I had once stared at bookshelves, seeking solace in stories, hoping to disappear into their pages, to become someone else for just a little while.

I had imagined this moment a thousand times. I had planned for it, rehearsed conversations in my head, played out different versions of how it might unfold. But now that the moment was here—real and immediate—I was paralyzed.

She was right there.

She wasn’t a distant figure anymore, glimpsed through a window or seen from the safety of the shadows. She was within reach. Here, in this bookstore, in my world, there was nothing stopping me from speaking to her.

And yet, I couldn’t move.

Her gaze swept in my direction, and I immediately dropped my eyes to the pages of my book, my heart hammering against my ribs. I knew that if she looked too closely, she would recognize something—if not my face, then my eyes. I had to believe she would recognize my eyes.

I didn’t know what I wanted.

I prayed for her to leave, to take the unbearable weight of her presence with her so that I could breathe again.

And at the same time, I prayed for her to buy a book, to come to the counter and force me to speak to her.

Across the store, one of the girls called her name.

“Grace, come over here and look at this. Making the Grade: Getting into the College of Your Dreams. That sounds good, right?”

I watched as she hesitated before walking over to them, her movements slow and measured. She crouched down near the SAT prep books, nodding absently as they flipped through the pages, but she didn’t seem interested. Her posture was polite but distant, her attention drifting elsewhere.

I studied her as the sunlight caught the loose strands of her hair, turning them into gold. I watched the way her shoulders subtly moved in time with the quiet music playing overhead.

I couldn’t stop looking at her.

But then, suddenly, I wasn’t the only one looking.

“Hey.”

I jerked backward, startled, as a face appeared in front of me. One of the other girls—not Grace. She had dark hair and tanned skin, and a camera slung over her shoulder. Her gaze locked onto mine with open curiosity.

She didn’t say anything at first, just studied me with the same intensity I had been using to watch Grace. I knew that look. People always reacted to my eyes. Some glanced at them furtively, uneasy but unwilling to stare outright. Others were bolder, staring openly, trying to understand what made them different. This girl fell into the latter category.

“Do you mind if I take your photo?” she asked.

I scrambled for an excuse. “Some native cultures believe that if you take a person’s photo, you steal their soul. Sounds logical to me, so—sorry, no pictures.” I shrugged in what I hoped was a casual, apologetic manner. “But you can take photos of the store if you want.”

Another girl pushed up beside the one with the camera. She had wild, curly brown hair, skin dusted with freckles, and an energy that seemed to vibrate in the air around her. She sighed exaggeratedly.

“Flirting, Olivia? We don’t have time for that.” She turned to me, rolling her eyes. “Here, dude, we’ll take this one.”

She handed me the SAT prep book.

I swallowed hard and forced my fingers to function, ringing up the purchase as I stole another glance toward Grace.

“Nineteen dollars and ninety-nine cents,” I said, my voice betraying the thudding of my heart.

“For a paperback?” The freckled girl made a face but handed over a twenty. “Keep the penny.”

We didn’t have a penny jar, so I set it down on the counter beside the register. My hands moved slowly, carefully folding the receipt and bagging the book. If I took just a little longer, maybe—just maybe—Grace would wander over to see what was taking so long.

But she didn’t.

She remained in the biography section, her head tilted to the side as she read the spines of books.

Freckle girl took the bag, grinning as she nudged Olivia toward the door. Then they turned to Grace.

“Grace, come on.”

My chest ached. I stood there, rooted to the spot, as they moved toward the exit.

Turn around, Grace. Please. Just look at me.

If she turned now—if she saw me, if she met my gaze—she would know. She would have to know.

But she didn’t turn.

The bell over the door chimed as Freckle girl pushed it open, glancing impatiently over her shoulder. Olivia hesitated, her eyes flicking toward me again, frowning slightly.

And then she was gone too.

Grace lingered for half a second longer. She ran a single, absent-minded finger over the cover of one of the new hardcovers, her touch as soft and fleeting as a whisper.

And then she walked out the door without ever knowing I had been right there, just a breath away from her, waiting—always waiting—for the moment she would see me.