Back at home, the afternoon had settled into a hush.
Billy stood by the couch, sleeves rolled up, a notepad in one hand and a pencil tucked behind his ear.
The table in front of him was cluttered—magazines, a few books he'd borrowed from the school library, and a printout of an old town map with little red markings.
He had drawn a rough sketch of a small bookstore, with a corner space labeled "Piano Room." It looked nothing like a blueprint—more like a dream given a shape.
He stared at it, chewing his bottom lip. "Books in front," he muttered under his breath, "small reading area near the window… maybe secondhand section too… and a small upright piano near the back."
He paused, tapping the pencil against the page.
"What kind of bookstore do you want?" he whispered aloud, as if asking himself might summon the answer. "Quiet? Cozy? Big enough to get lost in… or small enough to feel like home?"
The front door clicked softly.
Billy didn't look up right away.
