The Scent of You

Chapter 1 The Bookstore Encounter

ADITYA

I’ve always believed that every person has one place where the noise of the world softens.

For some people it’s a temple. For some it’s the ocean. For my mother, it was books. For me, it has always been this bookstore.

The little brass bell above the door chimes softly as I push it open, the familiar sound settling somewhere deep in my chest like a memory returning home.

The place hasn’t changed much over the years.

The wooden floors still creak under every step, the shelves still lean slightly like tired old men who have spent decades carrying stories on their backs.

And the smell—God, the smell—is the same. Paper. Dust. Ink. If comfort had a scent, it would probably smell like this.

I pause just inside the entrance for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the warm yellow light that spills down from the old lamps hanging between the shelves. It’s late afternoon, which means the place is quiet. Only a few people wander the aisles, each absorbed in their own silent worlds.

I breathe in slowly.

Sundays used to belong here.

My mother and I would come every week, sometimes right after breakfast, sometimes after lunch if she had spent the morning chasing my father around the house about work calls and meetings. She used to say this place was the only location in the city where my father couldn’t interrupt her.

He hated bookstores. Said they were bad investments. Too slow. Too sentimental.

My mother used to laugh every time he said that. “Stories build people,” she would reply. “And people build the world.”

I think that was the first time I realized my parents lived in two completely different universes. My father built companies. My mother built readers. And somehow I ended up belonging more to her world.

I move deeper into the store, my fingers brushing lightly across the edges of a shelf as I pass. The owner, Mr. Khan, sits at the counter near the entrance reading a newspaper. He glances up briefly when I walk in and gives me a small nod of recognition.

I’ve been coming here for years. Sometimes to buy books. Sometimes just to sit in the corner chair near the philosophy section and read until the sun disappears.

Today, I’m not even sure why I came.

Maybe a habit. Maybe nostalgia. Or maybe I just needed somewhere quiet after spending the entire morning arguing with lawyers about my father’s will.

I exhale slowly at the thought.

Marriage.

The word still feels absurd in my mind. Apparently my father decided that if I wasn’t married within a year of his death, the publishing house would be sold to a larger corporation.

No discussion. No negotiation. Just a condition written neatly into legal documents like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

I shake my head slightly.

Typical.

Even in death, he managed to complicate my life. I turn into the fiction aisle, running my hand along the spines of books as I walk. It’s a habit I’ve had since I was a teenager—touching books, like greeting old friends.

That’s when I notice her.

She’s standing a few shelves ahead of me, her back half turned toward my side of the aisle. One hand is braced against the wooden shelf while the other slides across a row of books as she reads the titles, her brows pulled together slightly in concentration.

There’s something restless about the way she moves. Not frantic. Just… searching. Like someone looking for something very specific and not finding it.

Her hair falls forward slightly as she leans closer to the shelf, dark strands brushing her cheek before she pushes them back absentmindedly. The movement is small, distracted. I should probably mind my own business. But something about the way she sighs softly under her breath makes me pause.

She steps back from the shelf, scanning the aisle again before moving toward another section. Still searching.

I watch her for a moment longer before realizing I’ve been standing here doing absolutely nothing like an idiot.

Great.

Now I’m the creepy guy staring at strangers in bookstores. I clear my throat lightly and take a step forward.

“Looking for something?”

She turns immediately.

For a second we just stare at each other.

Her eyes are the first thing I notice. Not their color.

The expression in them. There’s a sharp intelligence there, but underneath it something else—something tired.

The kind of tiredness that doesn’t come from lack of sleep but from carrying too many responsibilities for too long.

I recognize that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror. She blinks once before answering. “I’m looking for a book.” Her voice is soft but steady.

“What book?”

She hesitates. “That’s the problem,” she says with a small, embarrassed laugh. “I don’t remember the name.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s… a difficult starting point.”

“I know.”

She gestures vaguely toward the shelves. “My father used to read it all the time when I was younger.”

Something in her expression shifts slightly when she mentions him. “He passed away a few years ago,” she adds quietly.

Ah.

That explains the look in her eyes.

I lean casually against the shelf beside her. “Do you remember anything about the story?”

She tilts her head slightly. “You’ll know the book just by the story?”

I smile faintly. “Try me.”

She studies my face for a moment as if deciding whether I’m serious. Then she chuckles softly. Alright. Maybe she doesn’t completely think I’m insane.

“Fine,” she says. And then she starts telling me the story.

Her voice changes slightly when she does.

It becomes warmer somehow, more animated, like the memory itself is bringing a piece of her father back to life.

“There’s this little prince,” she says, gesturing lightly with her hands as she speaks. “He travels from planet to planet meeting strange adults who all represent different flaws.”

I blink. Wait. “Eventually he meets a pilot who crashed in the desert,” she continues. “And the story becomes about loneliness and friendship and… growing up.” I push away from the shelf immediately.

She pauses mid-sentence. “What?”

“Stay here,” I say.

Then I walk down the aisle toward the children’s section.

If I’m right—and I’m pretty sure I am—this won’t take long. I scan the shelf quickly before spotting the familiar pale cover tucked between two newer editions.

I pull it out and turn back toward her. She’s still standing exactly where I left her. When I reach her, I hold the book out. “Here you go.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh my God.” She takes the book from my hands carefully, like it’s something fragile. “This is it,” she breathes.

Her fingers run across the cover. “It’s the same cover.” She looks up at me, clearly amazed. “How did you know?”

I lean down slightly, lowering my voice like I’m sharing a secret. “I’m secretly a nerd.”

She laughs. And for the first time since I noticed her, the tiredness in her eyes fades slightly. But only for a second. Then it comes back. Still, the sound of her laughter stays with me a moment longer than it should.

“Thank you,” she says softly, holding the book against her chest. “This book…” She trails off. I study her for a second before finishing the sentence for her.

“Will make you feel closer to your father.” Her head snaps up.

“How did you—”

“You need it right now,” I add gently.

Her eyes widen slightly. I smile. “I can also secretly read minds.”

For a moment she just looks at me. Then she smiles. Soft. Almost surprised. “It is… disturbingly accurate,” she admits.

And something about the way she says it makes me realize one thing very clearly. This woman is carrying more than she’s letting on.

And suddenly—I’m very curious to know what it is.

She’s still looking at the book like it might disappear if she loosens her grip.

The way her fingers trace the edge of the cover is almost careful, reverent.

Like she’s touching something far more valuable than a paperback that probably costs less than a cup of expensive coffee.

For a moment I just watch her. Then I realize that might be slightly weird. “So,” I say, straightening up and crossing my arms loosely. “Did I pass the test?”

She looks up again, blinking like she’d momentarily forgotten I was still standing there. “You didn’t just pass,” she says slowly. “You solved a mystery.”

I tilt my head. “It wasn’t that mysterious.”

“I didn’t even tell you the title.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Her brows pull together slightly in curiosity. “How?”

“Well,” I begin, counting lightly on my fingers, “you said your father used to read it to you when you were younger. Which means it’s either a children’s book or something philosophical disguised as one.”

She nods slowly.

“Then you mentioned planets, strange adults, loneliness, and a pilot in the desert.” I shrug lightly. “That narrows it down considerably.”

Her lips twitch. “You’re dangerously good at this.”

“I spend a lot of time around books.”

“Clearly.”

She glances down at the cover again, brushing her thumb over the small illustration of the little prince standing on his tiny planet.

“My father loved this book,” she says quietly.

There’s a softness in her voice now, something gentler than the guarded tone she had earlier.

“He used to read it to me before bed,” she continues.

“Even when I was too old for bedtime stories.”

I lean back against the shelf beside us, listening. “He said it wasn’t really a children’s book,” she adds.

“He was right,” I say automatically.

She looks up again, surprised. “You’ve read it?”

“More times than I can count.”

A small smile appears on her face. “My father used to underline passages in pencil,” she says. “He said the author hid important truths between the lines.”

“That sounds exactly like something a reader would say.”

“You say that like it’s a personality type.”

“It is.”

“And you belong to it?”

“Guilty.”

She studies me for a second longer than necessary. “Are you always this helpful to strangers in bookstores?”