Raine didn't expect her to come back.
She told herself not to wait, not to keep glancing at the door whenever the bell chimed. But no matter how hard she tried to focus on work, her mind kept circling back to the quiet woman with the guitar and the unreadable eyes.
Then, on a crisp autumn afternoon, when the golden light streamed through the windows and the scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the shop, she appeared again.
This time, she didn't hesitate at the door. She walked in, her steps quiet but certain, her guitar case slung over her shoulder like an afterthought. She went straight to the shelf where she'd left off last time, fingers tracing the spines before she pulled out another book.
Raine swallowed her surprise and kept her tone casual. "I was starting to think you were a ghost."
The woman glanced at her. "Why?"
"Well, you showed up, lingered for a bit, and then disappeared into thin air. It felt very ghost-like."
There was a pause, and then—so soft that Raine almost missed it—a quiet chuckle.
Not much. But enough.
Something warm unfurled in Raine's chest.
The woman carried her book to the same table as before, setting it down next to the cup of tea Raine had already started preparing.
"Earl Grey, right?"
The woman blinked at her. "You remembered."
"I own a bookstore," Raine said with a playful shrug. "Not much else to do but pay attention."
Another pause. Then, finally, the woman sat down.
Raine resisted the urge to celebrate.
She had been right about something—this woman, despite her quiet demeanor and guarded presence, was not indifferent. She noticed things. She came back.
She just wasn't ready to say why.
For the next hour, they fell into the same familiar pattern. The woman read, slowly and deliberately, turning pages as if each word held weight. Raine worked, occasionally stealing glances, catching the way her fingers hovered over certain lines, the way her expression flickered in response to things unseen.
It was fascinating, really.
The way silence could feel like a conversation.
The way presence alone could mean something.
Eventually, Raine broke the quiet.
"You know," she mused, leaning against the counter, "you keep coming in here and leaving without telling me your name. Kind of mysterious, don't you think?"
The woman didn't look up. "Maybe I like being mysterious."
Raine grinned. "Or maybe you just don't want me to Google you."
That got a reaction—just a flicker of amusement in her eyes before she turned the page.
"I'm Raine, by the way," she continued. "Since we're apparently doing this whole… recurring acquaintance thing."
A beat passed.
Then, softly, "Celeste."
Raine straightened, surprised.
Celeste.
It suited her. The kind of name that felt distant, like something belonging to the stars rather than the earth.
"Well, Celeste," she said, rolling the name over her tongue, "nice to finally meet you."
Celeste only hummed in response, eyes still on the book. But something had shifted.
For the first time, she didn't feel like a stranger.
---
The days blurred together after that. Celeste never promised to return, but she did. Always unannounced, always unhurried, slipping into the bookstore like she belonged there.
She never spoke much, but she listened.
Raine would talk about the books she loved, the ones she hated, the ones that made her cry at three in the morning. Sometimes, Celeste would hum quietly while reading, a barely-there melody that made Raine's heart tighten.
But she never played her guitar.
Not once.
"Why do you carry it around if you never use it?" Raine asked one evening, after closing time.
Celeste looked up from her book.
For a moment, she said nothing. Then, finally—
"Because I don't know if I want to."
Something about the way she said it made Raine's throat dry.
But before she could ask what that meant, Celeste turned back to her book.
Conversation over.
Raine exhaled and leaned back against the counter, watching as Celeste read, as the light from the setting sun painted golden streaks in her dark hair.
She didn't know what she was waiting for.
Only that she didn't want this to end.
Not yet.