Through the Window

The old bookstore on Maple Street was Nora’s favorite place to hide. Amid shelves of forgotten stories, she found comfort in the quiet hum of pages waiting to be read. On one such rainy afternoon, she nestled into her usual corner by the window, flipping through a book she’d chosen more for the feel of its worn cover than its title.

Outside, the rain painted streaks on the glass, blurring the world beyond. That’s when she noticed him—a man standing across the street under a bright yellow umbrella. He was staring at the bookstore window, or perhaps at her.

Nora shifted uncomfortably, pretending to read. When she glanced up again, he was still there. His dark coat and the striking contrast of his umbrella made him impossible to miss. With a sudden jolt of bravery, she held his gaze through the misted glass. To her surprise, he smiled—a shy, lopsided grin that made her heart skip a beat.

The next day, he appeared again, this time holding a coffee cup in one hand and the same yellow umbrella in the other. He lingered outside as if waiting for a sign. Nora hesitated but finally stepped out, clutching her own umbrella, her fingers trembling with curiosity.

“Hi,” he said, his voice soft but warm. “I noticed you yesterday. I hope this doesn’t seem strange, but you looked… lost in your own world. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know how.”

Nora blinked, surprised by his honesty. “And today?” she asked.

He laughed. “Today, I thought I’d try again. I’m Oliver.”

For the next hour, they talked under the yellow umbrella, walking aimlessly as the rain fell around them. Nora learned that Oliver was a musician who had come to town to visit his grandmother, and he’d stumbled upon the bookstore while looking for inspiration.

Days turned into weeks. Every afternoon, Oliver would show up, and they would explore the city, sharing stories and dreams. Nora, once a quiet observer of life, found herself smiling more, her heart lighter with every shared laugh and stolen glance.

But as the days grew colder, Oliver’s time in the city was drawing to an end. On their last walk, he handed her a small notebook, the kind she always carried. Inside, he had written a note:

“Nora, you are my favorite story. I hope this is only the first chapter.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she hugged him tightly. “You’ll come back?” she whispered.

“I will,” he promised, his voice steady. “But until then, keep writing your story. And maybe let me be part of it.”

As he walked away, Nora felt the bittersweet ache of parting, but also a spark of hope. For the first time in years, she wasn’t just reading stories—she was living one.