The smell of old paper hung thick in the air as Yuki turned the brittle pages of the journal. Each stroke of ink, each faded verse, seemed to tremble under the weight of time and untold feelings.

  “She… was your grandmother?” he asked, finally breaking the silence.

  Aoi shook her head. “No. My grandmother passed away when I was little. Hana wasn’t family—at least not by blood. She was… someone important to my grandfather. That’s all I know.”

  Yuki sat back, absorbing her words. The rain outside hadn’t let up; it drummed on the roof like a steady heartbeat.

  “Your grandfather—Shirou—he wrote about her often,” she added. “The journal was hidden in a box labeled ‘Never Sent.’ My father found it last month after the funeral. He didn’t care for it, but I couldn’t throw it away.”

  “‘Never Sent,’” Yuki echoed. He smiled faintly. “That sounds like him.”

  Aoi leaned closer, resting her elbows on the counter. “He was a romantic, huh?”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “A stubborn one,” Yuki replied. “He ran this bookstore most of his life. He always said books were the only thing that never left him.”

  Her smile faded. “And yet, he wrote poems to someone he let go.”

  The silence between them was not awkward—it was heavy with understanding. A thousand questions bloomed between them like ink on parchment, but neither asked. Not yet.

  Aoi gently tapped the journal. “There’s a map in the back. A place circled, just north of the city.”

  Yuki’s brow lifted. “Let me guess—an old park with a cherry tree in the middle?”

  She blinked. “You know it?”

  “I used to go there as a kid. He called it ‘The Waiting Place.’ Said it was where he first met someone he could never forget.”

  The phrase sent a chill down Aoi’s spine. “Then maybe… maybe it’s still waiting for something. Or someone.”

  The idea hung in the air like a whispered dare.

  Yuki stood slowly, brushing off his apron. “I close early on Wednesdays.”

  She tilted her head. “It’s Monday.”

  “I’m making an exception,” he said with a grin.

  Aoi laughed—a soft, genuine sound that warmed the quiet corners of the bookstore. “Then I guess we’re going.”

  Outside, the rain continued to fall.

  But inside, for the first time in years, the air smelled not just of old pages—but of something new.