A Chance in the Fall

Jack didn't want to be loved. Not during the golden lull of October, when the trees had crowns of fire-colored foliage and the wind carried secrets. The Velvet Page, a small, quiet bookstore on the corner of Main Street, was where he worked during the day. He preferred a slow, secure, and predictable life. On the other hand, Claire was a whirlwind of improvisation. After quitting her job in the city, she had just moved to the town. She traded coffee-fueled meetings for painting landscapes and reading by the lake because she was getting sick of the noise and schedules. One rainy afternoon, their worlds collided. Claire ducked into The Velvet Page to get out of the rain, her damp auburn hair curled around her cheeks, and her eyes looked at the shelves like they had all the answers. When she came to the counter, she said, "You've got a great collection of poetry." Blinking from his notebook, Jack looked up. He said, clearing his throat, "I try." "Have any favorites?" “Rumi. However, I'll read anything that makes me feel a little sad. Jack grinned. "We've got a lot of pain in aisle three." That was the beginning. Claire began going to the store almost every day. She occasionally bought books. She occasionally did not. They talked for hours at times. Occasionally, only a few minutes. However, something gentle began to emerge between them as a result of those quiet exchanges—Claire's laughter and Jack's rare but warm smiles. Jack began to watch the door whenever it jingled toward the end of November, hoping it was her. In the midst of the gray, Claire brought light and color into his little world. She showed him how to make chai tea, showed him her drawings of autumn landscapes, and once even read him poetry aloud while the store was empty and the rain was gently tapping on the windows. At first, Jack had no idea what was going on. He had never experienced anything like this before. However, one night, following her departure, he discovered a folded note on top of a book she had borrowed. It read: in her wacky handwriting. "I think I want to write a story with you if love is a story." His long-dead heart sprang back to life. He awaited with nervous anticipation the following morning. However, Claire was absent. neither the next day. Days went by. Jack made an effort to tell himself to give up hope, but he couldn't help himself. He thought back on every smile and glance, wondering if he had just imagined everything. She returned a week later, just as the last leaves gave way to winter. She looked sorry with flushed cheeks and eyes. She said as she entered the store, "I had to go back to the city for a few days." "Family matters." In an effort to maintain his heart rate, Jack nodded. "You wrote a note." She smiled hesitantly. "I intended it." He raced his heart as he walked around the counter, now standing close. "Then I suppose... I ought to tell you something," Claire shook her head. “Oh?”

"I believe I desire the same thing. With You The silence between them was thick, electric, and soft for a brief moment. After that, she leaned over and gave him a single kiss that held everything. The Velvet Page became more than just a bookstore after that. It became a place where things started. Claire worked with Jack to transform the back room into a small art gallery, and Jack added more poetry to the shelves than ever before. They held readings and painting sessions on weekends. They also sometimes just sat in the window seat with their hands tangled, watching the seasons change. Their love only intensified as the town was blanketed in winter. Claire, the girl who chased color, and Jack, the quiet bookseller, were somehow perfectly mismatched. And every autumn after that, when the leaves started to fall, they'd read that first note she wrote, smile at each other, and whisper to each other: "Continually working on this story together."