The book store smelled like time.
Dust and leather, ink and secrets. Isla Monroe pushed the door open with her hip, arms full of mismatched hardcovers she wasn't planning to read. The little brass bell above the door chimed, a delicate sound in a world too loud.
The place was nearly empty, as usual. Only Mrs. Greaves was behind the counter, knitting something the color of melancholy and muttering about how no one read the good stuff anymore.
Perfect.
Isla drifted toward the far corner of the shop - the poetry and philosophy section. The shelves there leaned with age, as if tired of holding all that sorrow and longing. She slid a copy of Letters to a Young Poet from the shelf, opened it gently, and tucked something between the pages.
A letter.
Her letter.
Dear You,
I don't know who you are, or if you'll ever read this. Maybe someone else will find it and toss it away like trash. But I have to write this anyway. I need a place to bleed, and paper doesn't flinch when I do. You don't know what it's like to be invisible and too loud at the same time. To feel like your heart is a house no one knocks on anymore. But I think, maybe if you found this letter, you understand. And if you do... write back. Leave it in the same book. I'll be waiting.
- Me.
She closed the book slowly, placed it back on the shelf like it was glass and exhaled the breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. The quiet in her chest felt foreign, like calm wearing someone else's perfume.
This was her secret ritual.
She had left eleven letters in the past four months. Some in novels, some in poetry collections, always anonymous, always unsigned. None had been answered.
But it didn't matter. Writing made her feel less... unfinished.
Outside, the rain began to fall. Isla pulled up her hood and stepped out into the wet, cold city, pretending she was someone worth missing.
The response came six days later.
She was back in the shop, this time with no intention of leaving a letter. Her fingers brushed over the spined of old books like lovers long gone. She didn't expect anything.
But when she opened Letters to a Young Poet, there was another envelope.
Same paper. Different handwriting.
Her fingers trembled as she unfolded it.
Dear Me,
I know what it's like. To be loud in silence. To ache in the places no one sees. I know what it means to scream into paper and hope someone hears it like music.
I don't know your name. I don't need to.
But if you write again, I'll write too.
- You.
Her heart stuttered.
She sat down on the worn leather chair, near the back wall, the letter shaking in her hands like a secret on the edge of a scream.
Someone had heard her.
Someone was out there.