Streetlamps cast amber pools across rain-slicked concrete. A few taxis drift past like sleepy fish. The kind of hour where the world feels like it belongs only to those who can't sleep, or won't.

Tucked between a vinyl record shop with a flickering neon sign and a café that stopped serving hours ago, a single warm light spills onto the sidewalk.

Twenty-four hour bookstore. Two floors. Narrow aisles. The smell of old paper and forgotten stories.

The door groans as you push it open.

Inside, the silence is different. Not empty. Full of pages waiting to be turned. A cat curled on a faded armchair. The distant hum of a refrigerator behind the counter where an old man reads, glasses perched on his nose, not looking up.

You wander.

Poetry section. Back corner. Dimly lit.

Your fingers trace spines until they stop on one. Thin. Worn. A collection you've almost bought half a dozen times but never did.

As you reach for it—

Another hand meets yours.

Warm fingers brushing yours. A split second of contact before both of you flinch back.