IThe email arrived on a Monday.Dear Cra Monroe,We regret to inform you that your services are no longer required. With recent advancements in automated editorial systems, our company has streamlined its workflow to ensure maximum efficiency. We appreciate your contributions and wish you the best in your future endeavors.

  Cra stared at it longer than she needed to. Not because she was shocked—she had seen the signs for months—but because something about the phrasing made her want to ugh. "Future endeavors," as if her skills could be used elsewhere, when everything was being automated nowadays. Editing was now a dwindling industry on the brink of obsolescence.

  She closed the ptop gently.

  By noon, Cra had already packed the shelves.

  She didn't own much furniture. Just a mattress on the floor, a desk cluttered with old notebooks, and the secondhand reading mp that only clicked off if you pressed it twice. Most of what she owned fit into a few suitcases and a tote bag.

  The only real decision left was where to go."Happy birthday, my clever girl. The cottage’s still there, waiting. You know, if the world ever gets too loud."

  The world wasn't loud—it was actually getting quieter. It was repcing her and moving away, and all she could do was watch.

  After two uncertain days, she left.

  The train ride to Windmere Bay took most of the afternoon. Cra watched the city blur into the countryside, and eventually into the quiet seaside hills she remembered.

  By the time the train pulled into the small, unmanned station at Windmere, the sun was beginning to lower itself behind the hills. Cra stepped off with her bags and took a deep breath.

  The rusty key still worked.

  Inside, everything was as it had been.

  She dropped her bags in the living room and stood still.

  For the first time in days, she exhaled—without realizing she’d been holding her breath.

  Windmere hadn’t changed much. It still felt like a town where nothing rushed. The kind of pce where postmen knew your name and shopkeepers left handwritten signs on the doors when they stepped out for lunch.

  The next morning, Cra had lots of time on her hands—perhaps a little too much.

  She took a walk through town after breakfast. Her feet found familiar paths: the narrow alleyways, the cobblestone stretch along the harbor, and the row of shops with hand-painted signs and salt-faded awnings.

  She wasn’t looking for anything. Just walking.

  That’s when she saw the bookstore.

  Between a bakery and a pottery shop was a narrow building with tall windows and a wooden sign that read: The Last Page. The lettering was done in a looping hand, slightly chipped at the edges, and the door was propped open with a brick.

  Cra hesitated, then stepped inside.

  The scent hit her first.It was the refreshing smell of paper.

  The store was quiet, save for the gentle hum of a ceiling fan and the occasional creak of wood settling. The shelves stretched tall along every wall.

  Behind the counter stood an old man.

  “Morning,” he said. “Just browsing, or are you looking for something dangerous?”

  Cra blinked. “Dangerous?”

  “Books,” he said, drawing closer and arranging some titles on the shelf beside her. “The good ones always are.”

  A smile pulled at her mouth. “Just browsing, I think.”

  “Take your time.”

  The pce was cozy.

  As she was running her fingers across the shelf, she noticed there were handwritten notes pinned beneath certain titles. This one broke me a little. Worth it, read one. Another simply said, Read on a rainy day with strong tea.

  After some time, she returned to the counter. The man was flipping through a book.

  “Nice pce,” Cra said.

  “Thank you. It does its best.”

  “I’m Cra.”

  “August.”

  “It’s August already? My calendar seems to be mismatched, then.”

  “It’s my name—I’m August Thorne.” August returned the book to the counter and gave her a curious gnce. “New in town?”

  “Sort of. My aunt lived here—Nora Monroe. I used to visit often when I was little.”

  His face lit with faint recognition. “Nora. The vender dy.”

  Cra chuckled. “That sounds like her.”

  “She used to stop in for gardening magazines and detective novels.” August leaned on the counter. “Well, welcome back to Windmere.”

  Cra looked around at the rows of books. “It’s a cozy pce. I like it.”

  “That’s why I stayed,” August said. “So, what do you do?”

  “I used to be an editor. Then AI showed up.”

  “So it took over your job? I’ve heard it’s even doing good paintings now.”

  “Only God knows what else it will do in a few years.”

  “Well, if you’re looking to lose your concerns for a while, this is a good pce for it.”

  Cra nodded slowly. “I think I am.”

  She scanned the counter and noticed the paperback tucked near his elbow. It had a pair of hands on it—one holding another.

  She squinted. “Is that a romance novel?”

  August grinned. “It is.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed,” she said, amused.

  “Because I own a bookstore and wear gsses?”

  “Because you seem… quiet. Thoughtful.”

  “You say that like love stories can’t be thoughtful.”

  She tilted her head. “I’ve just always found them a little predictable. Or ft.”

  He made a small, exaggerated gasp. “You wound me, Cra.”

  She ughed. “Sorry. Give me dragons and spells and crumbling towers.”

  “And chosen ones,” he added, “with glittering eyes and hidden destinies.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Sounds predictable,” he said, and her eyes narrowed.

  “Touché.”

  August turned the paperback over in his hands. “Romance is just another kind of magic. Just happens to wear fewer cloaks and swords.”

  “It also tends to happen in coffee shops with people who have an unusual amount of free time and excellent cheekbones. And don’t get me started on the vampires and alpha werewolves.”

  “I’ll give you the cheekbones,” he said, chuckling. “And the vampires part too. Most of them are written by teenagers who become authors on their summer vacation.”

  “But romance is still the best out there!” he added.

  She crossed her arms. “Alright then. Convince me.”

  “What, right now?”

  “Yes.”

  He thought for a while and finally settled on something.

  “Let me pick five books. Read them all honestly.”

  “Sounds like a nice waste of time.”

  He gestured broadly to the store. “Any one book off the shelves—I’ll give it to you if you read them.”

  “I’ll take it.” Never let go of something free—that was a policy she followed strictly.

  “Excellent. You’re about to fall madly in love with at least one of the characters and root for them.”

  “I already do that,” she said dryly. “It’s part of the fantasy package.”

  He pulled a notepad from under the counter and began scribbling. “Give me until tomorrow to pull the first book. I’ll ease you in gently. Something light and charming. I’ll save the heartbreakers for ter.”

  “I can’t wait,” Cra said, clearly teasing.

  He handed her a bookmark with the store’s name and a phone number on it. “Drop in sometime tomorrow. I’ll have something ready.”

  She stepped back out into the street.

  Cra tugged her jacket closed and began the short walk back to the cottage.

  She was eager to come back.

  IICra pushed open the door to The Last Page the next afternoon. The bookstore felt somehow warmer than she remembered. A subtle instrumental tune pyed from a vintage radio behind the counter, something piano-heavy and slow.

  August looked up from restocking a low shelf. “Right on time.”

  “I take my wagers seriously.”

  He stood, brushing off his jeans, and crossed to the counter, where a small stack of paperbacks sat waiting. He picked up the top one and handed it to her.

  Cra studied the cover. It featured a pastel-colored bike leaning against a flower cart and two figures mid-ugh, walking hand in hand beneath a string of café lights. The title: The Bloom Street Letters.

  “Looks harmless enough,” she said.

  “Deceptively so,” August replied. “This one’s more about quiet healing than fiery romance. A slow burn.”

  Cra turned the book over in her hands, flipping to the first page before gncing up. “Are you trying to convert me with feelings?”

  “Absolutely,” he said with a grin.

  August leaned against the counter, thoughtful. “We could make it a little more interesting.”

  “Go on.”

  “Each time you finish a book, come by. We’ll talk. I’ll try to guess what you liked—or didn’t. If you didn’t love it, you get a free drink from the café next door. If I’m right, I get the points.”

  She tilted her head. “Points for what?”

  “Bragging rights. And eventual proof that romance has range.”

  She left not long after.

  The clouds had rolled in, bringing with them a crisp wind and the faint smell of rain. Windmere Bay was still the serene pce she’d loved as a child, far from the bustle of the city.

  Back at the cottage, Cra settled into the old armchair by the firepce. She lit one of her aunt’s leftover candles and opened the book to its first line:

  The letter arrived on a Wednesday, tucked between an unpaid electricity bill and a coupon for dog food.

  It was, unexpectedly, a good line.

  She kept reading.

  The story unfolded slowly. It followed a woman who returned to her te mother’s flower shop after a breakup and discovered a stack of unsent letters hidden in the back room. The narrative was gentle, meditative.

  Cra found herself flipping pages more quickly than she’d intended. The prose wasn’t fshy, but it was steady and sincere. The romance, when it bloomed, didn’t feel like a twist. It felt like a truth she’d been edging toward for chapters.

  By evening, she was halfway through the book and hadn’t checked her phone once.

  She made a pot of pasta and read between stirs. She curled into her bnket, finishing three more chapters before the candle had burned low and her eyes started to ache.

  The next morning, she rose early and read the final twenty pages with a cup of lukewarm tea in her hand. The ending wasn’t dramatic. It was small, soft, and utterly satisfying.

  She closed the book, stared at the ceiling for a long moment, and whispered to herself, “Huh.”

  She wasn’t sure what surprised her more—that she liked it or that it made her feel… quiet in a good way.

  It was raining when she returned to The Last Page, a soft drizzle that made the entire town smell like stone and wet leaves. She entered with the book tucked under her arm and water beading on her coat.

  August smiled at her arrival. “Well?”

  She pced the book on the counter gently. “I liked it.”

  He nodded solemnly, then reached for a napkin and held it up like a tiny white fg. “Surrender accepted.”

  “You don’t want to try guessing what I liked?”

  “Oh, I will. I’m just savoring this moment.”

  Cra rolled her eyes but smiled as she pulled off her coat and draped it on the nearby chair.

  “It didn’t rush the emotional turns, and it was well-paced. Oh, and the letters. You were hooked on the letters.”

  Cra stared at him. “Okay. Now I’m unnerved again.”

  August held out his hand. “Point to me.”

  She shook it, amused. “Alright. One point.”

  Then he turned to the stack and picked up the next book. “Ready for round two?”

  Cra took it without looking at the cover. “Not yet. I want to sit for a while.”

  August nodded. “Be my guest.”

  She curled into one of the reading chairs near the front window. The rain tapped steadily on the gss.

  Cra stared out at the gray street beyond and realized she wasn’t thinking about the email. Or the job. Or the empty spaces that had been growing in her life since she’d stopped feeling useful.

  She was thinking about a fictional flower shop. And a fictional boy. And how sometimes, small stories found real pces to live inside you.

  The second book August gave her was a sharp turn from the first.

  “This one’s banter-heavy,” he warned as he passed it to her across the counter. “Enemies to lovers. Office setting.”

  Cra squinted at the cover: a stylized elevator and two silhouettes standing back to back, arms crossed.

  “You’ll probably hate the first five chapters. Push through.”

  And she did hate them, at first. The characters bickered constantly. The plot was, by her standards, absurd—two rival assistants at a publishing company competing for the same promotion, forced to share an office and, eventually, feelings.

  She rolled her eyes often. Muttered under her breath. Nearly gave up halfway through.

  But then something strange happened.

  One of the characters quietly admitted why they were afraid of failing. And it wasn’t dramatic or tragic. It was just… deeply human. Something about being ordinary in a world that demanded spectacle.

  Cra paused. Reread the paragraph. Set the book down. Then picked it back up and kept going.

  By the time she finished, she wouldn’t say she loved the book—but she respected it.

  When she returned to The Last Page, August was stacking secondhand hardcovers near the travel section.

  “Well?” he called.

  She held up the book. “I hated it initially.”

  “And?”

  “But there’s something honest in the way it handled loneliness. I didn’t expect that. Still, it wasn’t something I loved overall.”

  He handed her a tea from the café next door. “Chamomile. For bance.”

  The third book was older, a cssic romance set during World War II. It centered on an American nurse and a British mechanic who exchanged letters over the course of a year, falling in love without ever meeting.

  Cra read it in two sittings, curled beneath a bnket while rain pattered against the roof. There was something beautiful about how the love grew in ink, not in gnces.

  When she came back, August didn’t ask this time.

  They sat in companionable silence while the bookstore hummed around them.

  “I loved it, and cried a tiny bit,” she said after a while.

  He didn’t tease her. Just nodded. “That one gets me, too.”

  She gnced at the stacks nearby. “Did you read all of these?”

  “Most. Some more than once.”

  She leaned back. “Why romance?”

  August exhaled. “Because it says that caring about someone else is enough of a story.”

  Cra looked at him, surprised. “That’s… well said.”

  He smiled, then stood to fetch the fourth book.

  This one was newer. Queer, quirky, and strange in the best way.

  It took pce in a fictional coastal town where the residents believed a lighthouse was haunted by a ghost that granted romantic wishes. The protagonist, a skeptical radio host recovering from heartbreak, returned to their hometown and started receiving anonymous love letters signed only L.

  Cra adored it.

  She hadn’t ughed that much in ages. It was witty and sharp and weirdly profound. Somewhere in the middle of a particurly unhinged chapter involving a town-wide matchmaking contest, she realized she wasn’t even trying to judge anymore. She was just having fun.

  When she returned to the shop, she didn’t wait for August to ask.

  “That one was ridiculous,” she said, dropping the book on the counter.

  “In a good way or a bad way?”

  “Good. It was stupid but fun.”

  “It certainly is hirious.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Do you do this bet with everyone who walks in?”

  “Only the one who cimed fantasy is superior to romance.” He leaned forward. “One book left.”

  The fifth book, he told her, was personal. He didn’t say why.

  It wasn’t fshy. No big hook or twist. Just a story about a retired teacher and a widowed carpenter who started a community garden together.

  But it felt real.

  She returned to The Last Page with quiet eyes and a full heart.

  August was behind the counter, rearranging bookmarks into neat rows.

  “Well?”

  She pced the book down and leaned against the counter. “I still love fantasy. But nowadays I fantasize about love.”

  “You could write a poem with such lines, dy.”

  “I was an editor for good reason.” She added, “So, can I pick a book now?”

  “Sure, look around.”

  She gnced at the titles on the shelves.

  Something in a dusty corner caught her attention—a pin, clothbound book with no title, tucked behind a row of older romance anthologies.

  Cra brought it to the counter.

  “This one.”

  August froze.

  He didn’t speak at first. Just stared at the book like she’d handed him something fragile from another life.

  “Where did you find that?” he asked quietly.

  “In a dusty corner. It looked interesting.”

  He hesitated. “That’s not a store copy.”

  Cra looked down at it. “Then what is it?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Something I wrote. Years ago.”

  “You wrote this?”

  “A long time ago. Before I opened the shop. I never published it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Didn’t think it was good enough. Or different enough. Or whatever enough.”

  Cra traced the edge of the cover. “May I read it?”

  August was caught between pride and panic.

  “You won the bet. It’s yours if you want it.”

  Cra took the book gently. “I do.”

  IIIThe next morning, she woke early, before the sky brightened. With a worn pencil tucked behind her ear, she opened the first page.

  The story followed a man named Elias, a once-famous painter who had lost his sight. After retreating to a quiet vilge by the sea, he stumbled into a slow friendship with a local café owner named Marianne, who never asked about his past but always left the window open so he could feel the sun on his face.

  Cra read the first fifty pages without stopping. The prose wasn’t perfect—some parts rambled, others repeated themselves. But the rhythm was unmistakably August’s.

  By midday, she’d filled the margins with soft notes.

  “Beautiful—keep this.”

  “Maybe trim this repetition?”

  “This metaphor is lovely but reads a bit heavy—could we simplify?”

  Then she packed up and walked to the bookshop.

  It was te afternoon when she arrived.

  “Back already?” he asked.

  Cra pced the manuscript on the counter between them.

  “I read it.”

  “And?”

  “It’s good.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Good?”

  “Genuinely good,” she said.

  August folded his arms. “It’s unfinished.”

  “I know. But what’s there is enough to see what it could become.”

  He hesitated, unsure whether to believe her or brace for disappointment.

  “I don’t know, Cra. It’s old work. I haven’t looked at it in years. It probably reads like someone still figuring things out.”

  Cra smiled gently. “You were figuring things out. That doesn’t make it any less valid. Or worth sharing.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not polished.”

  “I’m an editor,” she said calmly. “We don’t have to chase agents or publishers. There are ptforms online where we could just put this up.”

  “You really think someone would want to read it?”

  “I did.”

  “I don’t want to embarrass myself,” he said finally.

  “You wouldn’t be. And besides,” she added with a small smile, “if it flops, you won’t lose any printing costs. You’ll just get roasted by an anonymous guy behind a keyboard.”

  That earned a chuckle.

  She pulled her annotated notes from the back. “We begin here.”

  “You’ve already started?”

  “I couldn’t help it,” she admitted. “It made me want to work again.”

  It was a conversation between two people who had lost something they used to love—and were suddenly brushing against the edges of it again.

  “I don’t remember the st time someone cared enough to mark up my work,” he said.

  “Well, you got lucky. I’m the meddling type.”

  There was a pause. Then, he opened the manuscript again.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s try.”

  IVThe next day, Cra arrived at The Last Page just before opening.

  August was already there, two mugs of tea waiting on the reading table near the front window.

  Cra sat down, tucking her pencil behind her ear.

  “Where do you want to start?” he asked.

  She flipped open the manuscript. “Chapter three.”

  And so they worked. They rephrased and reshaped. The world outside the window faded.

  It reminded Cra of editing sessions in university cafés, long before deadlines, invoices, and automation. Back when editing was about making a story better just because you could.

  By lunchtime, they’d finished revising three chapters.

  “Same time tomorrow?” August asked.

  She nodded. “If you bring the tea.”

  That night, Cra y awake in her aunt’s cottage, staring at the ceiling.

  She thought, for the first time in a while, that maybe stories didn’t need to change the world or earn money and fame. Maybe they just needed to reach someone.

  And maybe that was enough.

  The routine settled in comfortably.

  Each morning, Cra would arrive early. August was always there ahead of her, already making tea or sorting through books—as if he had been waiting for the day to begin, just like she had.

  On one particur morning, as Cra settled into the corner seat with her cup of tea, she broke the silence that stretched between them like a long, comfortable exhale.

  “August,” she said softly. “You said you stopped writing because you were afraid it wouldn’t be good enough. That it wouldn’t find success.”

  “I was afraid, yes,” he said. “But it wasn’t just that. I needed it. Needed to be recognized. And when I didn’t get it, I stopped trying.”

  She didn’t answer right away. She knew that feeling—the pull toward validation, the longing to be acknowledged for what you could offer. And she had been left wanting too. Editing rarely got recognition.

  “I get that,” she said quietly, her voice rough around the edges.

  The words hung between them for a long moment.

  “You don’t have to be a bestseller to matter, do you?”

  The morning passed in a quiet rhythm of pen scratching on paper, tea refilled, the occasional hum of wind outside. By the time Cra reached the final chapter, she was almost reluctant to finish.

  She had gotten lost in the small victories that didn’t matter to anyone else. But they mattered to her. They mattered to August.

  “We’re done.”

  August sat back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. “We are.”

  He looked at her, then down at the manuscript. “What now?”

  Cra smiled, the warmth of the moment settling around them. “Now we let it go.”

  It was time to share it with the world—or at least, with the small corner of the world that still believed in something like this. Something honest. Something imperfect.

  “I’ll upload it to ScribbleHub,” Cra said, already reaching for her ptop. “We’ll get feedback. No pressure.”

  August watched quietly, as if trying to believe this was really happening—that his words were finally about to see the light of day.

  When the final click happened, the story was live.

  “It’s done,” Cra said, her voice full of quiet pride.

  August leaned back in his chair, his eyes distant but content. “It’s out there.”

  VThe first comment arrived three days after the story was posted.

  “This was beautiful. I’ve been reading this site for years, and I’ve never come across anything so simple, so real. Thank you.”

  Cra read it with a soft exhale.

  By the end of the week, they had a dozen, each one offering a different take on the story, but all echoing the same sentiment.

  Cra read them aloud to August as he sipped his tea, his gaze now focused on the screen with a mix of disbelief.

  “I didn’t think... I didn’t think people would care,” he said quietly.

  Cra smiled. “People care more than we think.”

  The next morning, they woke to a small flurry of notifications. A few new readers had joined the conversation, offering their own thoughts, some referencing parts of the story that had touched them deeply.

  More readers began to leave reviews. Most of them were thoughtful, asking questions about the characters and their struggles. The book wasn’t a sensation, it wasn’t topping any charts, but it had found its audience, one that cared deeply and wanted more.

  Cra couldn’t help but feel a spark of something inside her, something she had forgotten—the joy of sharing a story with the world.

  August didn’t know what to make of it.

  The numbers weren’t overwhelming.

  The story hadn’t gone viral.

  And it hadn’t made any money.

  But he was happy.

  One afternoon, Cra sat across from him as he pored over the feedback again, his eyes scanning each comment. She watched him carefully, the slight twitch at the corner of his lips.

  “I’ve never had this before,”

  Cra nodded, understanding exactly what he meant.

  “I’m gd you talked me into this.”

  “I’m gd you let me.”