Chapter 200

• The evening pressed in gently, not rushing me the way afternoons sometimes did when I worked too long in the boutique. The light outside had softened to that in-between shade, not quite day but not fully night either, the kind of light that makes everything look suspended in a pause. I closed the boutique carefully, sliding the key into the lock and hearing the firm click that told me the racks and fabrics inside were safe for the night. Instead of pulling my phone out to check messages or set the route home, I slipped it into my bag, powered off. I wanted nothing between myself and the city but the sound of my own footsteps.
• The first stretch of the street was familiar, lined with shops whose owners I greeted most mornings. A baker across the way was just stacking baskets, the last of the day’s loaves arranged neatly even though he knew they would sell quickly. He looked up and nodded at me, flour still dusting his sleeves. I lifted my hand in a small wave, and then kept walking. Without the distraction of the phone in my palm, my body adjusted to a slower rhythm. I could hear the uneven tapping of my heels against the pavement, the rush of a bicycle slipping past, the distant low hum of traffic blending with voices carried through the air.
• I let myself stop in front of a bookstore with its window still lit. The display was stacked high with novels, some spines new and gleaming, others already softened from being handled. The titles stared back at me, stories I had never read but could almost imagine from their covers. Inside, a man was sliding a ladder along a shelf, pulling books down with deliberate care. For a moment, I considered going in, just to stand among the shelves, but the thought of carrying the weight of a new book home felt too heavy. I wanted to carry nothing but myself.