Chapter 3
Belle
Morning light slanted through the front windows, catching dust motes that danced above the poetry section.
I unlocked the door at eight instead of nine because Dad had insisted on helping today, and I'd learned not to argue when he used that particular tone—the one that meant he needed to feel useful more than I needed him to rest.
Coffee brewed in the back room. The machine gurgled and hissed, mixing with the familiar scent of old paper and the lavender sachet I kept near the register to mask the mildew I still couldn't afford to fix properly.
Dad sat behind the counter, a stack of invoices spread before him like he'd actually organize them this time. He wouldn't. We both knew it. But his hands moved across the papers anyway, sorting nothing into careful piles, and I let him pretend.
"You're staring," he said without looking up.
"I'm making sure you're not filing receivables with the tax receipts again."
"Once. That happened once." His smile flickered, warm and familiar and gone too quickly. "And you fixed it in ten minutes."
"Twenty." I poured two mugs, added sugar to his without asking. "You're impossible to clean up after."
"Builds character."
I set the coffee beside him. Steam curled between us.
He'd lost weight. Not dramatically—nothing I could point to and say there, that's wrong.
But his sweater hung looser across his shoulders.
The hollows beneath his cheekbones had deepened.
When he reached for the mug, his hand trembled just enough that I noticed.
Just enough that I told myself I was imagining it.
"You didn't have to come in." I straightened the stack of bookmarks beside the register, needing something to do with my hands. "I've got it covered."
"I know." He took a sip, winced slightly. Too hot. "But it's nice. Being here."
Some people aged. Others faded.
Dad was doing both.
"The bank called yesterday," he said, too casual. "Just checking in. Nothing urgent."
My fingers stilled on the bookmarks. "What did they want?"
"Paperwork. You know how they are." He waved it away, attention already drifting back to the invoices. "I'll handle it."
He wouldn't.
We both knew that too.
Dad's gaze drifted toward the fiction wall, the mismatched shelves I'd always meant to replace but never would. His expression softened into something distant.
"Your mother picked those, you know." He gestured with his mug. "The oak ones. Said pine was for amateurs."
"She called them an investment in permanence."
"She was right." His smile turned wistful. "Course, she didn't know her daughter would stock them with romance novels instead of law textbooks."
I moved a display of new releases two inches to the left. "We've had this conversation."
"Have we?" Mock surprise colored his voice. "Because I don't remember you mentioning turning down real jobs to alphabetize fiction."
"That was one summer internship. Eight years ago."
"A prestigious summer internship."
"At a firm that billed clients for coffee."
"Character-building coffee."
I looked up. Caught the teasing glint in his eyes, the slight upturn of his mouth. My own smile came automatic, tight enough to ache at the corners.
His hand trembled when he lifted the mug again. Not a tremor—sharper than that. The coffee sloshed, a brown drop hitting the invoice below. He set the cup down quickly, wiping at the paper with his sleeve.
"Clumsy this morning," he muttered.
I watched him push back from the counter, watched the way he gripped the edge before standing. Like he needed the support but refused to acknowledge it. Like his body had become something requiring negotiation.
"New shipment came in yesterday," he said, moving toward the back room. Started to say something else. Paused. His mouth worked around the word, reshaping it. "Storage. In the—storage area."
Not storeroom.
Storage area.
The correction so subtle I almost missed it. Almost convinced myself I'd imagined the slur beneath.
"Dad."
He stopped. Didn't turn around.
"Are you okay?"
Silence stretched between the shelves. Dust motes swirled in the morning light, dancing patterns neither of us followed.
"Just tired, sweetheart."
He always said that.
Last month. Last week. This morning.
Just tired.
Like exhaustion explained the tremors. The weight loss. The pauses that grew longer each time I saw him.
"Maybe you should see—"
"I'm fine." Firmer now. The voice he used when arguments ended whether I agreed or not. "Stop fussing."
He disappeared into the back room before I could press further.
I stayed at the register, staring at the invoices he'd abandoned. The coffee stain spread across the paper, bleeding numbers into illegible brown.
The crash came soft. Not glass shattering or shelves toppling—just the dull, hollow thud of weight meeting wood.
I was halfway around the counter when I registered what the sound meant.
Dad.
The back room doorway framed him in pieces: one hand braced against the frame, knees buckling, shoulders tilting sideways like gravity had doubled when I wasn't looking. His face held confusion more than fear. Like his body had betrayed him mid-step and he couldn't understand why.
I ran.
Not fast enough.
He folded. That's the only word for it—folded like his legs forgot their job, forgot how to hold him upright. His shoulder hit first, then his hip, the impact sending a stack of paperbacks scattering across the floor.
"Dad!"
I dropped beside him. Hands on his shoulders, his face, searching for blood or bruising or some visible reason for this.
His eyes stayed open. Unfocused but open.
"I'm okay," he mumbled. Words slurred at the edges, soft and wrong. "Just—lost my balance."
"Don't move." My voice came steadier than my hands. "Stay still."
I fumbled for my phone. Fingers shaking so hard the screen didn't recognize my touch the first time. Second time. Third.
This wasn't panic yet. This was instinct.
The call connected.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"My father collapsed." The words came automatic, clinical. "He's conscious but disoriented. Breathing normally. No visible injuries."
Dad's hand found my wrist. Squeezed weakly.
"Belle," he whispered. "Don't—"
"What's the address?"
I gave it. Answered questions I barely heard. Yes, he could speak. No, he wasn't bleeding. Yes, I'd stay on the line.
Dad's grip tightened.
"I'm fine," he said again. Clearer this time, like the floor had shocked clarity back into him. "Tell them—tell them I don't need—"
"Ma’am, the ambulance is three minutes out."
"Belle." Firmer now. Almost himself. "I said I'm fine."
He wasn't.
We both knew it.
But his eyes held mine, pleading in a way I'd never seen before. Not asking permission.
Asking me to lie.
"Ma'am? Are you still there?"
"Yes." I pressed my free hand to Dad's chest. Rise. Fall. Rise again. Rhythm steady enough to count. "I'm here."
"Good. Keep talking to me."
Dad's eyes fluttered shut. I shook his shoulder, gentle but insistent.
"Stay awake." My thumb traced circles against his collarbone, meaningless movement that gave my hands purpose. "Dad. Look at me."
His lids lifted halfway. Glassy. Distant.
"You're going to be fine," I said. To him. To myself. To the empty spaces between the shelves where morning light couldn't reach. "They're almost here."
He tried to speak. Lips moved around syllables that dissolved before forming words.
I counted again. One breath. Two. Three.
This can't be happening here.
Not in the back room with the scattered paperbacks and the coffee still brewing and the invoices he'd abandoned mid-sort. Not where customers would walk in any minute expecting normal—shelves and recommendations and the quiet hum of a place that sold stories instead of living them.
Not in front of strangers.
Blood caught my eye. Dark smear on the corner of the display stand where his temple must have grazed it. Small amount. Nothing serious. But it gleamed wet under the fluorescent lights, stark against pale wood.
I'd clean that later.
After the ambulance. After explanations. After whatever came next that I couldn't let myself imagine yet.
I always cleaned later.
"Dad." His name again because silence felt worse. "Stay with me. Just a little longer."
His hand found mine. Squeezed once.
Then went slack.
"Ma’am?" The dispatcher's voice sharpened. "What's happening?"
"He's—" I pressed harder against his chest. Still rising. Still falling. "He's breathing. Eyes closed. Not responding."
"The ambulance is pulling up now."
I heard it. Sirens cutting through the morning quiet, growing louder until they stopped right outside. Doors slamming. Footsteps on pavement.
The bell above the shop door chimed.
Two paramedics moved past the fiction wall, past the counter, past everything I'd built to keep the world at arm's length.
They knelt beside us. Asked questions.
I answered.
Dad's hand stayed limp in mine.
They lifted him onto the gurney with practiced efficiency. Straps across his chest, his legs. Dad's eyes opened briefly when they locked the wheels into place, confusion flickering across his face before fading back to blankness.
"I'm coming with you," I said.
Not a question.
The shorter paramedic nodded toward the ambulance. "In the back. Stay out of the way."
I grabbed my purse. Locked the register by reflex. The door handle felt foreign under my palm when I pulled it shut behind us—like I was closing something that wouldn't open the same way again.
The ambulance smelled like antiseptic and something underneath it I couldn't name. Chemical warmth. Old fear. The taller paramedic worked over Dad, checking vitals, adjusting the oxygen mask they'd fitted over his nose and mouth.
I wedged myself against the far wall. Made myself small.
"Pulse is steady," the paramedic said into his radio. Numbers followed. Code I didn't understand. "ETA seven minutes."
Seven minutes.
I counted Dad's breaths through the clear plastic mask. Watched fog bloom and fade with each exhale.