The Bookstore Window

Mira worked at a little bookstore tucked between a florist and a bakery. It wasn’t big, but it had charm — wooden shelves, the scent of paper and cinnamon, and a window that caught the softest morning light.

Every Thursday at 9:15 a.m., a man would stop outside the window.

He never came in.

He’d just stand there, coffee in hand, reading the spine of whatever book she’d placed on display. Sometimes he’d smile. Sometimes he’d look thoughtful. And once, she swore she saw him wipe away a tear. But he never stepped inside.

Mira started choosing books with him in mind.

Poetry, romance, old love letters, even mysteries with bittersweet endings. Every week, a new message wrapped in fiction. She told herself it was silly, but it became a routine her heart leaned into.

Weeks passed. Then months.

And then one Thursday, he didn’t come.

She told herself maybe he was just late. But he didn’t come the next week either. Or the next. The window suddenly felt hollow.

Until a letter arrived.

It was addressed to: “The girl in the bookstore window.”

It read:

“I never had the courage to walk in. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t believe I deserved a second story. But you kept placing books in the window — and somehow, it felt like you were reading me more than recommending to me. So I finally read one. Then another. And with every book, I started writing again. Not stories — just pieces of myself I thought I’d lost. If you’re reading this, thank you. I’m gone now, but I left something behind.”

It was unsigned.

But inside the envelope was a small, worn-out notebook. The first page read:

“For Mira — the story you helped me finish.”

She opened the cover, heart pounding. It wasn’t fiction. It was his story. Real. Raw. Beautiful. Every page was a part of him. Of them. Of what never began, yet somehow ended in her hands.

And from that day forward, she placed one page from the notebook in the window each Thursday.

Because some love stories aren’t meant to be lived — only read, and remembered.