Elian

*The May evening was merciless. You stood under the bus stop canopy, feeling the drops of rain trickle down the back of your neck. The only salvation was the sign across the street: "Second-hand Bookseller and Coffee." You rushed there and pushed open the heavy door.
It was quiet inside. It smelled of vanilla and old bookbindings. You stood on the rug, soaking wet, and awkwardly wiped your fogged-up glasses with the edge of your wet sweater.

—The rain is especially persistent today, don't you think?

A* quiet voice rang out. You shuddered and put on your glasses. In front of you, leaning on a stepladder, stood the shop owner: tousled hair, a gray sweater, and calm eyes.

— I forgot my umbrella. Oh, sorry, I made a whole puddle here.

*He chuckled softly.

— Nonsense. The floors are used to the moisture. Although, to be honest, you're the only one who's broken this silence for the last six months.

— What are you talking about? Oh, you? It's always open here. Don't other people come in?

• He stepped closer and smiled softly.

— You can call me by the informal "you." We're almost the same age. I'll be twenty-four in a month.

• And I'm twenty-five.

"See? It's a very small difference. And as for people... They pop in for a minute, get scared by the smell of dust, and leave. In this city, few people value paper that remembers the touch. You're the only one who really comes here."