A bit flustered, the young man steps out of the shadows before the critique session officially wraps up, quietly making his way back to the front desk. He places two books on the counter: a volume on the history of the coastal village, and one on the old fish market.
As the shopkeeper rings him up, he pulls the loose scrap of paper from his pocket. He slips a pen from the counter and carefully writes a message right beneath the advice she’d been given:
I’m sure it went really well. The grinches decided to celebrate Christmas. I can’t wait to read the book myself.
He folds the paper, hands it over to the shopkeeper with a warm smile, and says, “Could you please make sure Elara gets this back? Slightly gesturing to the counter, he continues, “And could you also add a copy of Elara’s book to these?”
The shopkeeper accepts the note. With knowing eyes and a gentle smile she meets his gaze and replies, “Of course, dear,” tucking it safely under the desk. “But I’m afraid your second request will have to wait. That book won’t be on our shelves until winter—tonight was a final pre-publishing critique.”
He offers a polite, understanding nod, hands over his payment, and patiently waits as she calmly begins wrapping his volumes in brown paper behind the high counter.
With his new books tucked under his arm, the young man steps out into the crisp, foggy coastal air, leaving the warmth of the shop behind. He walks through the damp streets back to his room at the local bed and breakfast. The chill of the ocean air is washed away under a hot shower. Dressed in comfortable clothes, he turns on the electric teapot, listening to the quiet, rising hiss of the water beginning to boil.
With a steaming mug in hand, he settles onto the chaise lounge, pulling a heavy blanket over his legs to get completely comfortable. He rests the mug on the side table and reaches into the paper bag for the volume on the fish market. Unexpectedly, he sees a third item hidden between his two books. Intrigued, he pulls it out. It is Elara’s manuscript with Advanced Reader Copy stamped on it. Resting on the cover is a small sticky note from the shopkeeper, written in a hurried, elegant script: Must be back on my desk by Friday morning. Happy reading.
In disbelief he lets out an amused huff and proceeds to open to the very first page. Under the soft glow of the lamp, he reads the opening piece:
Arrival
I packed my bags
and left without hesitation.
I drove until the asphalt turned to gravel.
Tears collected at the bottom of my eyes.
In the rearview mirror,
images flashed to the rhythm of a petit allegro.
With every synchronized blink,
my eyes released the contained emotions
like a failing dam.
The structure is gone.
What do you do
when you have nothing mapped out?
The GPS is turned off
and, in an uncoordinated way,
you arrive.
The rhythm is slow.
The long cypress trees
dance freely.
You wrap yourself
in cozy blankets
and unfamiliar faces.
You find peace in the negative spaces,
hoping that they trace
right back to you.
He takes a slow sip of his tea, letting the hot cup rest against his chest. Staring at the page, his eyes lingering on the words. She had managed to break away from whatever was constraining her, finding freedom in the fluid, empty spaces. Curiosity piquing, he turns the page to begin the next poem, struck by a sudden, sharp wave of intimacy—as if crossing an unspoken boundary into words never meant for an audience.
Before he could finish, he lets out a quiet, appreciative breath, letting the book rest open on his lap as he listens to the actual coastal wind outside his window. Should I continue reading? – he thinks. Finally, he decides to close the slim volume. He walks towards the bed, sets the manuscript carefully on the nightstand, tucks himself in and drifts off to sleep.
Meanwhile, on the very same night, a little while after the young man had left the shop, the critique circle comes to a close. Elara walks out of the back room, feeling a mixture of exhaustion and relief. The suffocating weight of the anticipation—the nerves that had made her feel like a chaotic mess—has completely melted away.
As she reaches the foyer to gather her things, the shopkeeper smiles and hands her the folded note. “A tall gentleman left this for you. He wanted to buy your book, but I explained it wasn’t for sale yet.”
Elara quickly looks up, her eyes darting to the tall glass window of the shop, peering out into the thick, shifting coastal fog to see if she can still find him. But the damp pavement is empty.
She walks the short distance back to her cottage, kicking off her tall boots by the door with a sigh of relief. She hangs her damp green coat on its usual hook and drops her bags and keys onto the console table with a heavy, satisfying clatter.
Still in her dress, she walks straight to the living room and sinks onto the couch. She unfolds the paper, reading his deliberate script beneath her friend’s frantic handwriting. A smile tugs at the corners of her lips as her mind flashes back to that exact microsecond in the foyer—the sudden, clumsy collision of their energies.
Laughing quietly to herself, she grabs her phone and dials her best friend.
“You are not going to believe how tonight started,” Elara says the moment the line clicks open, her voice bright and buzzing with leftover adrenaline. She twists a strand of her hair, while lying on the couch. “I practically ran a clinic on how to make a complete fool of myself in under sixty seconds. I almost tripped over the threshold—naturally—and then I literally shook the fog off my coat straight onto this incredibly tall, ridiculously handsome man who was just trying to mind his own business in the doorway. I was such a flustered mess, I think I handed him my awkward panic energy like a business card! But then… he left me this note.”
Her friend immediately lets out a dramatic gasp over the line, launching into a relentless barrage of twenty questions, barely giving Elara room to breathe: “Wait, hold on—back up! A tall, ridiculously handsome man? In our village bookstore? Elara, you don’t just shake anything onto a man like that and walk away without getting a name! Did the grinches actually like the manuscript? Did old Mr. Abernathy sweat through his tweed jacket again? How did you get the note? Is he staying here?!”
Elara laughs, staring at the ceiling as if she is looking at stars. “Yes, the critique actually went incredibly well! They made some comments, but I feel rebellious. Mrs. Porter handed me the note and said he wanted to buy my book. But she didn’t ask for his name!”
“Well, a mystery man in a town this small can only stay hidden for so long,” her friend says with a laugh.
“You are right,” Elara replies, her voice trailing off softly. “Maybe the universe is not done with him yet.”