Chapter 2 — The Fiction Aisle
The fiction aisle was quiet, lit by soft amber bulbs that made the book spines glow. The light pooled gently along the shelves, warming the deep browns of the wooden cases and softening the sharp corners of dust jackets and laminated covers. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, visible only when they passed through those amber beams, like tiny, slow-moving constellations suspended between Hana and the rows of stories.
She could hear the faintest rustle from another part of the store—a page turning, the distant creak of a chair as someone shifted their weight—but here, among the novels, everything felt cocooned and still. Voices from the front counter were hushed and blurred, reduced to a low, indistinct murmur beneath the whisper of the overhead vents. Somewhere, a soft jazz track played just loud enough to suggest a melody without demanding her attention. It was the kind of background music that made time feel slower, as if the entire bookstore existed in a gentler tempo than the street outside.
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