If it rains

The rain streaks glowed under the streetlight, falling into the light like a fine mist.

I slid the bookstore door halfway open. The bell rang once—then again, as if belatedly.

The man outside gave a small smile and knocked.“Would you say I’ve arrived once, or twice?”

“Your choice,” I said. “If you’re here for a book, once. If you’re here for time, then countless.”

“Still open?” he asked.

“Just twenty minutes left,” I said.

He paused slightly as he stepped inside, as if leaving a mark in the damp light.

The heating was still out, and the room was only slightly warmer than the street outside. Pages turned one by one, their sound slow and drifting through the empty space.

He picked up Norwegian Wood, opened it to an inside page, and paused at a pencil underline.

I recognized it—it was mine.

“Do you underline your books too?” he looked up.

“Only in old books,” I said. “New ones are too young—they haven’t yet learned to tolerate scars.”

He smiled, softly. “Are you comforting the book—or yourself?”

“If I really were comforting myself…” I looked up at him, my voice a beat slower. “Do you want to be my footnote—or my main text?”

He froze for a second, clearly not expecting that question—then laughed, surprised.

“That depends,” he said. “Are you someone who turns the page—or someone who stays?”

Outside, the rain suddenly grew heavier—

as if someone had turned the night one shade darker.

I went to close the door. He waited by the counter, his fingertip resting on the edge of the page—as if still unsure whether to continue.

“Need a bag?”

“No, thank you.” He put the book into a canvas tote—white, with a black-lined drawing of a house. I recognized it, but I’d never been there. Like some relationships.

He walked to the door. The bell rang again.

“Will you be open tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I said. “Rain is the key.”

He nodded, as if something had been agreed upon.The light followed him into the rain, his silhouette fading inch by inch.

I stood behind the door, my shadow stretching into the rain, fading slowly. I flipped the “Open Tomorrow” sign around. On the back, a single line remained: If it rains.