Fate of my love

The Bookshop

Naomi stood in front of her heaven as she normally calls it. The building looks like it was sketched by an enchanted quill and then forgotten by time,left to settle into the crooked, cobbled street like a drowsing cat. Its walls are a patchwork of weathered brick and dark oak beams, the mortar between them etched with tiny, wandering vines that bloom with silver-throated flowers no botanist could name.

The roof slants at odd, whimsical angles, its mossy shingles overlapping like dragon scales. At the peak, a wrought iron weathervane spins lazily,though there’s no wind its silhouette a curled up fox with a book balanced on its tail.

The door , a kind you feel before you touch. Heavy oak, banded with iron that’s too ornate to be practical, its handle shaped like an owl’s talon clutching a brass key. A lantern hangs beside it. Its glass stained in hues of amber and twilight, casting a glow that doesn’t flicker so much as pulse ,slow and golden, like the heartbeat of something old and kindly.

Windows bulge outward, their panes warped and wavy, each one framed by carvings of creeping ivy and sleeping faces poets, perhaps, or the shop’s long gone keepers, their stone lips parted mid whisper. Through the glass, the shelves inside seem to stretch further back than the building’s edges should allow, and sometimes, if you stare too long, the titles on the spines rearrange themselves.

A wrought-iron sign hangs above the entrance, its letters reading "The vintage Quil" in ink black script that never quite dries, dripping slow, shimmering streaks down the wood though the stains vanish by morning.

And if you press your ear to the door?

You’ll swear you hear pages turning inside.

Even when no one’s there.

She was jerked out of her rapt admiration of the building for the umpteenth time by a bump. ‘Hey’ she called out when the person didn’t as much as look back or apologize. ‘ rude bastard’ she hissed. Looking back up she was sucked back into her reverie slowly she walked in.

Ruth and Irene raised their heads simultaneously, hearing the chiming sound resulting from the door opening, smiling at each other as though they expected what they saw

‘ I bet you 10 bucks she’s lost in wonderland , Irene whispered snickering ‘ seriously Rin can’t wrap my head around it she practically lives here and always have this same reaction to this place ‘ came Ruth’s reply to her friend. “That’s the Quil’s charm , and she’s been swoon in. Get back to work ladies “ “ yes Mrs pat” the girls chorused and ran off.

Naomi oblivious of her surroundings,still in her reverie strolled to her favorite aisle while slowly taking in the interior of the vintage quil. It’s the kind of place that feels like it shouldn’t exist like you’ve wandered into a storybook by accident. The building itself seems to lean in to greet you Its old brick walls draped in ivy, its arched wooden door carved with tiny, secret symbols. A bell chimes as you step inside, not a harsh *ding*, but a soft, silver sound, like a fairy’s laugh.

The air smells like ink, old paper, and something sweet—maybe the ghost of a hundred spilled cups of tea. The shelves aren’t just shelves; they’re living things, twisting slightly as if they’ve grown here, their wood smooth under your fingertips. Books don’t just sit there; they breathe. Some glow faintly or it’s just the light catching the gold leaf, Others hum with the weight of unwritten tales, their spines shivering when you walk past.

A spiral staircase curls up to a second floor that shouldn’t fit in the building’s frame, its steps worn by centuries of readers. Up there, the air is even thicker with magic literally. Tiny motes of dust or are they spells dancing in the slanted sunlight. The fantasy section isn’t labeled. Instead, a sign reads, “Here Be Dragons and Other Lost Things"

Behind the counter, the shopkeeper You can’t tell if she’s thirty or three hundred. Eyes crinkling as she smiles softly looking up at Naomi’s direction. “ ohh silly child “

Naomi still fantasizing, crossed the phonogram standing like a relic of another time with its brass horn flaring outward like the bloom of some mechanical flower, catching the dim light in soft, golden ripples. The body was polished wood mahogany or oak, worn smooth by decades of reverent hands adjusting the needle, lifting the arm, savoring the ritual of sound.

Beneath the horn, the turntable waited, its matte black surface slightly scuffed from years of spinning records. The records themselves rested in a slotted cabinet below, their paper sleeves yellowed at the edges, their labels bearing the names of artists who had long since stopped singing. The crank on the side, slightly tarnished, hinted at the effort it once took to make music no instant streams, no silent taps on a screen, just the physical act of winding, waiting, letting the mechanism breathe to life. When the needle hit the groove, the sound was never perfect a hiss of static, the occasional pop, the wobble of a warped record but that was part of its charm. It was alive. Imperfect. Human. And as it plays, the room is filled with something warmer than just music a kind of magic, slow and syrupy, like honey dripping through time. You could imagine your weathered man leaning over it, his calloused fingers carefully lowering the arm, his eyes closing as the first notes rose, rough and sweet, like his own voice. Running her hands through the relic, she stops in front of a giant elegant wooden case polished to a warm, aged patina, porcelain face with delicate hand painted numerals Art Deco-style digits. Ornate filigree hands sweep gracefully over the face. Mechanical wind up movements with a soothing gentle hum, typical of mid-20th-century models. Intricate engravings of Victorian scrollwork. A glass front beveled to protect the face. A pendulum swinging rhythmically behind a small window. “ oh dear what a clock “ she breathed out .

“No dear “ Naomi jerked frightened, turning around she smiled “ Ohh it’s you Mrs pay you gave me a start”. “ I’m sorry dear you were lost as usual “ came Mrs pat’s reply, earning a smile from Naomi as they both turned their attention to the vintage clock “This clock isn’t just a timekeeper it’s a piece of history evoking nostalgia and sophistication in any room”. “ you can say that again Mrs Pat everything in this building is to be honest “. Mrs pat’s smile froze when a running kid caught her attention “ oh no he can’t be running in here”. “ Mrs pat take it easy don’t trip “ Naomi called after her as she zoomed off.

Moving further, Naomi finally found the shelf she came all the way for. Standing on her tiptoe,she reached for a worn copy of The Great Gatsby same time a another hand reached also for sake book . Their fingers brushed, and sent chills down Naomi’s spine . She focused on his hands which carried the weight of years beyond his age. Slender but strong, the kind that had known callouses before they’d fully grown into themselves. The skin was sun-kissed and slightly rough, not from decades of labor but from nights spent under open skies, from gripping handlebars too tight on long rides out of town. His fingers were long, the kind that could strum a guitar with aching sweetness or roll a cigarette with practiced ease. Knuckles bore the faintest scars split once or twice in fights he hadn’t started but refused to walk away from. There was a quiet strength in them, a tension that never fully uncoiled, like he was always halfway bracing for the next blow life might throw.. Yet when they moved, there was something almost poetic in their roughness a contrast to the way they could trace a lover’s spine with deliberate softness, as if reminding himself that not everything had to be hard. His palms were warm, the lines deep for a man so young, as if fate had pressed its thumb there too soon. And when he laced his fingers with yours, you feel the way they held on just a second longer than necessary, like he’d learned early that good things slip away if you don’t grip tight enough. These were hands that had known hunger, had clenched in anger, had trembled in the dark. But they were also hands that knew how to cradle a face like it was something sacred, how to brush away tears with a touch that whispered, “I’ve been there too.”

“Coughs “ drawn out her reverie by his slight cough, Naomi trails up to his face which seemed like they were crafted carefully by three Gods at a time. “ I’m sorry I didn’t see you were reaching for it as well” came a voice that sent Naomi spinning . Stiffly,he pulled back his hands gently putting them in his pants pocket.

Both stood awkwardly in silence, with “Train wreck by Clever “ playing soothingly from the phonogram…….