The bell above the door chimed as Ryan stepped into the bookstore. The air inside smelled like paper and cedar, and the dust floating in the golden afternoon light made the place feel almost frozen in time.
He glanced around. Wooden shelves stretched to the ceiling, some slightly tilted, others patched up. A calico cat blinked lazily from its perch on the counter, unbothered by his presence.
"Don't worry, she won't bite," came a voice from deeper in the shop.
An older man appeared from behind a stack of books, holding a mug and wearing a flannel shirt that looked older than Ryan. His face was lined but kind, with sharp eyes that seemed to study more than just the surface.
"First time in here?" the man asked.
Ryan gave a short nod. "Yeah. Just looking."
"Well, looking's free. Buying's better," the man said, chuckling as he stepped closer. "Name's Mr. James. And you are?"
"Ryan."
Mr. James raised an eyebrow. "Ah. You must be Sarah's boy."
Ryan looked up. "You know my mom?"
"Know her?" Mr. James chuckled again, leaning on the counter. "I watched her grow up. Feisty little thing. Kind heart, though. Not much of a bookworm, mind you—so I'm guessing your love for reading didn't come from her."
Ryan smirked slightly. "Definitely not."
"Well, I'll forgive you for taking after someone else. Any author you're looking for?"
Ryan wandered toward one of the shelves. "I'm into David Foster Wallace. Vonnegut. Mostly that kind of stuff."
Mr. James gave a thoughtful nod. "Smart taste. Heavy, but real. You've got a lot going on upstairs, huh?"
Ryan didn't answer, but Mr. James didn't push. Instead, he pulled a worn paperback off the shelf and handed it to him.
"Try this. It's not as well-known, but it sticks with you. Like Rosehill—quiet, but it gets under your skin in time."
Ryan took the book and flipped through it, the paper soft from years of being read. "Thanks."
Mr. James watched him for a moment, then said gently, "If you ever need anything… I'm around. Always have been."
Ryan glanced up, confused for a second—but before he could ask what he meant, the old man had turned to feed the cat.