Bookshop

The Bookshop on Rainy Days

There’s a little bookshop at the end of a narrow street, tucked between a quiet café and a flower shop. It’s easy to miss if you’re not looking for it—but I always find my way there, especially when it rains.

I first met her on a rainy Thursday. The kind of rain that makes the world look like a watercolor painting—soft, blurred, and slow. I had ducked into the bookshop to avoid getting completely soaked. It smelled of old pages and fresh coffee, the way all good bookshops should.

She was standing by the classics section, flipping through a worn copy of *Pride and Prejudice*. She looked up when she heard the bell above the door. Our eyes met briefly, and she smiled—just a small, polite curve of her lips. I nodded, pretending to be interested in the mystery section.

But I kept glancing at her.

There was something calm about her presence. The way she read, standing so still, her fingers carefully turning each page like it was something fragile. When she finally walked to the counter, I found myself walking too, as if pulled by invisible string.

“That’s a good choice,” I said, nodding toward her book.

“It’s one of my favorites,” she replied. “I’ve read it at least five times, but I always come back to it.”

We chatted for a few minutes while waiting to pay. Her name was Hana. She liked rainy days, peppermint tea, and sad endings in stories. She left before me, her umbrella a pale blue dome bobbing down the street. I stood at the doorway longer than necessary, watching her disappear into the rain.

After that, I went to the bookshop more often. Always on rainy days. And somehow, she was always there too.

We started talking more. At first, it was just about books—what we were reading, what we recommended. But soon, it was more. We talked about cities we wanted to visit, the kind of music we listened to when we couldn’t sleep, and the fears we rarely said out loud.

She had a soft voice, the kind that made you want to lean closer. She laughed often, but gently, like she didn’t want to disturb the quiet charm of the bookshop. Sometimes, we would sit on the small bench in the back and read side by side, not saying a word for hours.

One evening, as the rain tapped on the windows and the last customer left, we stayed behind. The shop owner, a kind old man who knew what was happening long before we did, simply handed us two cups of tea and left us in peace.

Hana turned to me then and said, “You know, I used to hate the rain.”

“Really?” I asked, surprised.

She nodded. “But then I met someone who made rainy days feel warm.”

My heart stuttered. I looked at her, the soft glow of the reading lamp catching the gold in her eyes.

“I think,” I said slowly, “that’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

And just like that, we kissed.

It wasn’t dramatic or perfect. It was soft, a little shy, and full of pages yet to be written. But it felt right—like all those rainy days had been leading to this one moment.

We still go to the bookshop. Still read on rainy days. Only now, we do it together. Side by side, hand in hand, between the shelves that once brought two hearts in from the storm.

Sometimes, love finds us in the quietest places, during the simplest moments. When we open our hearts even on cloudy days we discover that something beautiful may be waiting just around the corner.