Whispers in the Bookshop: chapter 3

The ocean murmured just beyond the glass as Mara stood in the bookshop’s backroom, the letter from her grandmother still clutched in her hand. Her eyes lingered on the final line:

“They’ll lead you to the truth—and perhaps, to love.”

Love? She scoffed under her breath.

She hadn’t come here for love. She came to sell the shop, clean out memories, and move on with her quiet, calculated life. She certainly hadn’t come to follow breadcrumb trails of mystery and emotion tucked between pages.

But Evie had always known her better than she knew herself.

Follow the whispers.

The words echoed again in her mind as she tucked the letter back into its envelope and placed it in the drawer next to the register. She needed air, clarity—something the dusty shop couldn’t offer right now.

The moment she stepped outside, the salty wind slapped her cheeks with the urgency of winter. The small harbor town of Greystone Cove looked unchanged. Winding streets lined with pastel buildings, wrought iron balconies, and shopfronts with hand-painted signs.

Across the alley, she spotted the small wooden plaque: Rowe Bindery.

The door was slightly ajar.

Compelled by something she couldn’t name, she crossed the street and gently pushed it open. A tiny brass bell rang above her head, and the rich scent of leather, glue, and old parchment enveloped her like an embrace.

Inside, it was quiet—almost reverent.

Books in various states of disrepair were stacked neatly on long tables. Swatches of cloth and binding thread rested beside antique presses. The walls were lined with shelves containing thick tomes with restored spines, their gold embossing gleaming in the filtered light.

And at the far end of the room, hunched over a table, was Caleb Rowe.

He was threading a needle through a torn spine with surgical precision. His fingers were steady, his face focused. The only sound was the gentle scrape of thread pulling through worn pages.

Mara hesitated in the doorway. “You weren’t lying. You really do fix broken things.”

Caleb glanced up but didn’t smile. “Didn’t expect you so soon.”

“I… found the note. In Jane Eyre.”

His brow twitched slightly, but he said nothing.

She stepped closer, watching the way he worked—careful, quiet, patient. Everything about him felt… unreadable.

“Did you leave the other notes?” she asked. “The ones in the poetry and Austen books?”

He looked at her then—really looked. His eyes were sharp but tired, like someone who’d been carrying a silence too long.

“No,” he said simply. “But I knew about them.”

That made her pause. “How?”

“Your grandmother showed me a few. Said they were part of the shop’s soul. Said she liked letting people believe in small magic.”

Mara smiled faintly. “That sounds like her.”

Caleb went back to stitching.

“She once told me,” he murmured, “that everyone who walks into the shop is looking for something. Even if they don’t know what it is yet.”

“And what do you think I’m looking for?” she asked, more curious than defensive.

He looked up again, eyes meeting hers for a long, steady beat.

“Closure,” he said. “Or a reason not to leave.”

The words hit harder than she expected. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“I’m just… trying to figure things out,” she said softly.

He nodded, as if he understood more than he let on. “Then maybe stop organizing the books and start listening to them.”

Mara blinked. “You believe the letters are real? That they’re… meant for someone?”

“I believe stories have a way of finding who they’re meant for. Sometimes, all we have to do is read between the lines.”

The bell over the door rang again as she left, the chill returning the moment she stepped back outside.

But this time, it wasn’t just the wind that gave her goosebumps.

It was the way he’d looked at her.

The way his words felt like they weren’t meant for just anyone.

Like somehow, he already knew exactly what she was looking for.