Whispers in the Bookshop: chapter 2

The note sat on the kitchen counter, right beside Mara’s chipped coffee mug, as if it belonged there—like a bookmark slipped into a morning ritual. She hadn’t slept much. Her mind kept replaying the words from the letter, the curve of the handwriting, the way it had been folded so precisely, so carefully.

There was something intimate about it. Something meant to be found.

She sipped her coffee and stared at the note again.

“I saw you again today…”

But who had written it? And to whom?

She’d been in the bookshop nearly all her childhood, especially during the summers. She remembered every face—regulars, tourists, even the awkward teens who loitered near the fantasy section pretending not to read poetry. None of them seemed the type to leave secret love letters in Austen novels.

Was it written for Evie?

That made her pause. Her grandmother had never spoken of a romantic life—not after Mara’s grandfather passed when Mara was only five. Evie had filled the shop with words, not men.

Mara folded the note again and tucked it into her pocket.

Back at The Inkwell, the shop was still too quiet. She flipped the old brass switch behind the counter, and the soft hum of vintage bulbs lit the place in warm gold. Dust motes danced in the light. It felt more alive today.

She grabbed a box labeled “Poetry & Letters” and began to unpack, placing slim volumes along the nearby shelf. A few pages fluttered out from one of the older books. She reached to tuck them back in—then paused.

Another note.

Not the same paper as before. This one was on stationery—ivory with faint blue lines. The handwriting was different too—messier, more emotional.

“Do you remember the reading nook in the corner? You used to sit there cross-legged, biting your lip while underlining Neruda. I always wanted to ask what you were thinking when you read him. I never did. I regret that.”

Mara sat down.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she reread the words.

It couldn’t be a coincidence. Two notes, within twenty-four hours, in two different books—one a classic romance, the other a poetry collection. Both addressed someone who clearly used to be here.

She glanced toward the far right corner of the shop—the reading nook.

It was still there.

The little velvet chair, the leaning lamp, the scuffed coffee table.

Goosebumps lifted along her arms.

These letters weren’t random. Someone had left them—perhaps years ago, perhaps recently. And they were left for someone very specific.

She just didn’t know who yet.

As she stood up to shelve another book, the bell over the front door jingled.

She turned, surprised.

A man stepped inside—tall, lean, dressed in a navy sweater, dark jeans, and a brown scarf tucked neatly around his neck. He had storm-gray eyes and tousled chestnut hair. In his hands, he carried a wrapped bundle of books, bound in string.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” Mara lied, brushing her hands on her jeans. “We’re… technically not open yet.”

He nodded, taking in the space. “I know. I’m not here to shop. Just dropping off a repair. These need rebinding.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re a customer?”

“Not exactly.” He placed the books on the counter. “I’m the bookbinder from next door. Caleb Rowe.”

The name rang faintly in her mind—Evie had mentioned a Caleb once, she thought. Someone who fixed books for her when her hands grew too tired to sew spines.

“I’m Mara Bellamy,” she said. “Evie’s granddaughter.”

“I know.”

His tone was unreadable.

Mara tilted her head. “Did you know her well?”

Caleb hesitated, eyes scanning the shelves. “She was kind. Kept to herself. But she loved this place… and she loved you.”

Mara’s breath caught slightly.

There was a pause.

“I’ll be back in a week to pick those up,” he said, turning toward the door.

Just before stepping out, he added without looking back, “You might want to check Jane Eyre. I remember she used to hide things in that one.”

The bell jingled again. He was gone.

Mara stared after him, heart suddenly racing.

Was that a hint?

She rushed to the fiction section, scanned the spines, and pulled Jane Eyre from the shelf. As she opened the cover, a single envelope slid out, sealed and yellowed with age.

Her name was written on the front.

“Mara”—in her grandmother’s handwriting.

She held her breath and slowly opened it.

“If you’re reading this, my darling, then the shop has begun to speak to you. Follow its whispers. They’ll lead you to the truth—and perhaps, to love.”