Y/n moved through the familiar, narrow aisles, a silent curator in a cathedral of forgotten stories. The shop was empty, save for Mrs. Henderson dozing in her usual armchair by the history section.

Outside, the usual hum of Porthaven’s financial district was replaced by a different kind of buzz. Flashing lights, shouted directions, and the sharp clicks of cameras cut through the rainy afternoon haze. A fashion shoot had taken over the cobblestone street.

A harried-looking assistant with a headset burst through the door, a gust of wet wind following her.

The entourage swept out as quickly as they’d arrived, leaving the bell above the door jangling and the scent of expensive perfume mingling with the old books. The quiet settled back in, thicker than before.

Mrs. Henderson snorted in her sleep. The rain continued to fall. It was just another Tuesday.