The Bookshop by the Sea

A crooked little bookshop between a café and an antique store with a faded sign that read "Pages by the Sea" was the kind of place you'd miss if you didn't look for it. On a rainy Thursday when the sky was a stubborn gray and the ocean seemed to sigh against the shore, Emma stumbled upon it.

To forget, to breathe, to write, and to heal from a broken heart caused by someone who never really knew how to hold it, she had traveled to the seaside town. The remedy seemed to be a month alone in a coastal cottage. There are no phones or demands. only ink, paper, and waves' sound .

She was greeted by a blanket of old books and sea salt by the tinkling of the shop bell as she entered. The interior was cosy, warm, and charmingly cluttered. On the shelves, there were labels written by hand, a small stove that burned wood in the corner, and a sleeping golden retriever by the counter.

“Can I help you find something?” a voice asked.

Emma looked up—and froze.

He smiled in a way that made you feel at home. a copy of Wuthering Heights in his hand, laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, and tousled dark hair. Oliver was the proprietor of the business. She told him she was just visiting. She said she was just looking.

But she came back the next day. And the next.

First, they talked about books. about how she adored Austen and he adored poetry in secret. about memorable opening lines and heartbreaking endings. They then discussed everything else, including where they came from, their fears, and their hopes. The silence in between words with Oliver was just as comfortable as the conversations themselves.

He showed her the private alcove behind the store with a window looking out onto the sea on the wall. While he restocked shelves or prepared tea, she would occasionally write there.

She found herself drenched and laughing when a storm rolled in one night and she ran into the shop. He had stayed past closing time. He gave her a towel and a steaming mug to her without saying a word. The air changed as their fingers brushed against it.

“I’m leaving in a week,” she said softly, almost apologizing.

“I know,” he replied, eyes holding hers. “But we still have tonight.”

However, it wasn't just one night. The week was long, golden, and taken. walks along the shore, laughs muddledly, and shares a kiss under a misty lighthouse. She was unwilling to leave. She just had to.

She went back to the shop early on her last morning. The lights had been turned off, but the door was open. A note and a wrapped package were inside, on the counter.

“For Emma, who reminded me how to turn a page. — Oliver.”

Inside the package was a journal. Its first page read: “Every great story begins with a leap.” Her heart caught.

She left without saying goodbye. It felt easier than goodbye. Cleaner. Safer.

But six months later, when I was back in the city, the pain was still there. She would end up writing about him. about poetry, sea air, and a boy who loves a bookstore.

And then one day, she passed a little shop nestled between a bakery and a gallery.

“Pages by the City.”

The sign appeared to be hand-painted. Her breath was labored. The same golden retriever napped by the counter inside.

And there he was—holding Wuthering Heights, that same soft smile on his face.

“Took me a while to find the right place,” he said.

Emma stepped forward, heart in her throat. “So… what chapter is this?”

Oliver grinned. “Chapter One.”