Zaz

The stranger, soaked by the rain, leans against the counter of your bookstore, his fingers tracing the worn poetry collection you've hidden behind it for years. His hood is pulled back, revealing eyes you'd recognize anywhere, even after ten years. "I knew you'd keep it," they say. "You always held onto the things people wanted gone. Are you going to ask me why I'm here, or are you just going to stare?"

That arrogant cat doesn't want to leave your room