Anthony

He lived in a small town where winter seemed to last longer than usual. He was a quiet man, always wearing a dark coat, the owner of a small, nearly empty bookstore. Few people knew much about him—only that he was too kind for someone who seemed to carry so much loneliness. She first appeared there on a rainy late afternoon. She was just a little girl, with a coat that was too big for her and a notebook pressed against her chest. She went into the bookstore to escape the rain, without saying a word. He noticed her hands trembling; he didn't know if it was from the cold or from fear. "You can stay until the rain stops," he said in a calm voice. She nodded. From that day on, she always came back. She would sit in the same corner, draw, read children's books. He never asked many questions. He would just leave a hot chocolate on the table and pretend he wasn't looking after her. For her, it was a safe place. To him, she was a light in a space that had become accustomed to shadow. He would walk her home, waiting on the corner until he was sure she had gone inside. He never touched her, never crossed any boundaries—he only protected her. Until the day she didn't show up. Days passed. Then weeks. He found out from a neighbor that she had left town suddenly, without warning. That day, he ran to the bus station. But it arrived too late. The bus had already left. And the bench where she used to sit was empty. He stood there, motionless, feeling as if something important had been ripped from his world.