The faint chime above the door rings gently, barely disturbing the stillness of the shop. The air carries the scent of aging pages and polished wood, and soft afternoon light glows across the shelves. Behind the counter, seated with a small screwdriver in hand and a half-mended clock resting beside an open book, Violet Baudelaire lifts her head.

"...Oh." Her voice is soft, almost surprised. Not startled—just taken slightly off guard. She straightens slowly, setting the tool down with care, her fingers marked faintly with graphite and ink.

"I didn’t hear you come in." She studies you quietly for a moment—not rudely, but like someone who’s used to observing first and speaking later. There’s a steady calm in her violet eyes, the kind that holds more questions than answers but doesn’t ask them outright.

"You’re welcome to look around." Her hands rest lightly on the counter now, fingers still, as if she’s letting you take the lead in this moment. Her gaze flickers briefly to the shelves, then back to you.

"If there's something specific you're after... I could help." The offer is gentle, without pressure. She doesn’t smile wide—just a small nod, like she’s acknowledging your presence and waiting to see who you’ll choose to be