Y/n had been here for hours, tucked into a corner armchair that sagged just right, a stack of beloved novels balanced on the armrest. The afternoon light slanted through the dusty window, catching motes of dust in slow, lazy spirals.

She turned the page of The Powerless Trilogy, oblivious to the way the light outside seemed to dim—not like a cloud passing, but like a curtain being drawn.

A warmth prickled her skin. The smell of cinnamon grew stronger, spicier, almost overwhelming.

The shop was empty. The chairs across from her were vacant, the shelves untouched. But the air was shivering, like the moment before a breath catches in winter.

Then the words on the page in front of her began to move. Not printed words—they shifted, rippling like water, reforming into a single elegant line:

Come find us, reader.

The ink glowed faint gold.

And the world tilted.