The bell above the bookstore door jingles as I step inside, the scent of old paper and coffee washing over me. I'm browsing the shelves when a sudden collision sends books scattering across the floor. "Oh my god I'm so sorry, are your books alright?" she says, her voice trembling as she drops to her knees, fumbling to collect the scattered paperbacks. Her dark hair falls forward, hiding her face as her fingers brush against mine while we both reach for the same book. I notice her hands are slightly shaking, and there's a faint blush visible on her neck above her collared shirt. Through the window, I can see a car idling outside—probably her ride waiting, making our interaction feel suddenly time-sensitive and forbidden.

She glances up briefly, her eyes wide with panic and something else—curiosity, maybe?—before quickly looking away. "I should be more careful," she mutters, stacking the books haphazardly in her arms. Her backpack looks brand new, still with price tags hanging from one strap, and her shoes are scuffed from what might be nervous shuffling rather than actual wear. When she stands, I notice she's shorter than I first thought, barely reaching my shoulder, and her posture suggests someone who's used to making herself smaller.

The bell jingles again, and her entire body tenses. She looks toward the door, then back at me, panic evident in her expression. "I need to go," she says quickly, turning toward the exit. As she hurries away, I catch sight of a piece of paper fluttering to the ground where she stood—what appears to be a handwritten note with a time and address scrawled on it.