Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
The ginger cat is back. She’s curled up in her regular spot on the bench—has been since the day I left her water. She lifts her head up the second she sees me, gives me a small meow and hops down off her perch.
I push the door open. ‘Morning,’ I murmur, feeling ridiculous and not caring.
She walks right up to me; tail curled like a question mark and bumps her head against my shin. I crouch to scratch behind her ears. The purr hits immediately—loud enough to vibrate through my hand.
‘You’ve been here every day,’ I say quietly. ‘You keeping an eye on the place?’
She blinks, utterly unimpressed with my tone, then circles once and hops back onto the bench, curling up like her shift starts at sunrise.
‘Right,’ I say, straightening. ‘You stay there. I’ve got shelves to finish.’
She closes her eyes as if to say obviously.
I head inside, leaving the door propped open for the breeze—and maybe for her.
Not that I’m admitting that.
I set the cup by the battered register and roll my shoulders.
When I first got the keys, it felt like half a bookstore, half time capsule.
I’m not here to erase Carol, just to write the next bit.
She left the place in my name without ever asking if I wanted it.
Typical Carol. She had a faith in people, that makes you want to deserve it.
Some days that feels heavier than the paint cans lying on the floor.
My mind wanders to her. I can still feel the blip of that moment at the door, the near collision.
The way Inkwell genre shelves by the counter where people can argue about endings within earshot.
The kids’ corner gets the rug and stools; Jasper pretends to hate them but ends up sitting on one while he unboxes picture books.
We build the local cart together: self-published poetry, zines from the high school, a short stack of small-press novels. I add two blank journals and a note that reads, “Start your own story.”
Jasper straightens and wipes his hands on his jeans. ‘You should do Blind Date with a Book,’ he cheers. ‘Brown paper, cryptic notes, the whole thing. People love that stuff.’
‘Maybe next month,’ I reply. ‘Let them learn the layout before I start wrapping surprises.’
By noon, Rory’s finished. Inkwell & Ivy shines in gold enamel across the front window, catching the sunlight like it’s always been there.
‘It looks good,’ Jasper tells me, handing me half a cold toastie.
‘Yeah,’ I say quietly. ‘Feels like it belongs.’
We eat on the back step, legs stretched out, the smell of paint still clinging to our clothes.
‘Council sign-off all sorted?’ he asks.
‘Yep,’ I reply. ‘As long as the ivy doesn’t reach the footpath, we’re legal.’
He grins. ‘You’ve thought of everything.’
‘Trying to.’ I smile, adding, ‘Hey, how are you going with your investigative work?’
‘Not a whole lot so far. I found Marley on Tiktok. Did you know that Lola’s release party was here just before… well you know.’
I blink, that caught me off guard. ‘No, I didn’t.’ That must have been the last event she organised. Typical of her to make sure someone else’s story was celebrated, even when hers was ending. I clear my throat, pulling myself back to the moment. ‘She would’ve loved that.’
Jasper hums in agreement. ‘Anyway, the internet reckons she’s a mystery author hiding out in some small town. So, naturally, I’ve decided she’s either the mayor’s niece, a librarian in disguise, or an alien with a publishing deal.’
I shake my head. ‘Strong start. Keep me posted if you find any actual evidence.’
‘Evidence is overrated.’ He takes a sip of his coffee. ‘Speculation’s where the magic lives.’
When we go back inside, the air feels different, settled. By mid-afternoon, we’re down to the last few boxes: heavy art books, glossy cookbooks, a late shipment of romances that’ll need their own end-cap.
Jasper picks one up and flips it over. ‘You going to sign your staff picks or keep them anonymous?’
‘Sign,’ I say. ‘People like to know who’s recommending what.’
He laughs. ‘Then they’re definitely, going to know mine. Might have to censor a few.’
‘Keep it PG,’ I warn. ‘Children read too.’
He holds up a poetry collection and offers it to me. ‘This one’s yours.’
Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver. My old copy. The spine is soft, the pages worn at the edges. I open to the back where the margin space waits for ink and close it again.
‘Not yet,’ I say quietly. ‘I’ll write when it’s finished.’
A couple of locals tug at the front door, despite the paper still taped across the glass, and peer through anyway. One of them gives a thumbs up. I lift my hand and point towards the new letting on the window. They nod like they've been waiting for it too.
By three, the shelves are full enough to look deliberate. Not perfect but lived in. On the counter, I line up a neat stack of loyalty cards, a jar of pencils, and an old tin full of paperclips because someone will always ask—and I like being able to say yes.
‘The signwriter did a good job.’ Jasper wipes his hands on a rag. He glances around at the light hitting the spines, the smell of polish still sharp in the air. ‘You did too.’
I give a half-smile. ‘Don’t get nice on me.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ there’s warmth behind the sarcasm, and it lands where it should. He tips his chin towards the window. ‘Are you thinking of pulling the paper today?’
‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘Tomorrow. I want the paint to cure, and maybe I just want to stand here for a while and believe it’s real.’
He studies me for a moment, then nods. ‘Fair enough. Big day tomorrow.’
We sweep up the dust and flatten the cardboard. I put the kettle on in the back of the cabinet, because apparently, I’m now a person who makes tea for other people.
On the counter, I stack a small pile of pocket poetry by the register. I don’t even know why I do it. Habit, maybe. Or faith that someone will need a poem the way I used to.
When the light turns soft and the edges of the room go gold, Jasper grabs his jacket from the hook. ‘Do you need anything before I head off?’ I shake my head. He raps the counter twice. ‘Text me if you change your mind. Beer later?’
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘Once the boxes stop floating in my vision.’
He laughs, the sound fading as the door closes behind him.
The silence that follows isn’t empty, it’s earned.
I lean against the counter, looking out at the window.
Inkwell & Ivy glows faintly in the late sun, and for the first time, I start to believe Carol might’ve been right. Stories do find their way home.
I walk the aisles once, fingertips grazing spines, and stop at the door to look at the glass from the street side. The script reads cleaner out here. Inkwell & Ivy. Feels like a promise I can keep.
Back at the counter I pull Devotions and scribble in the back:
There’s a quiet you don’t notice until someone interrupts it just right. She didn’t give me her name, but she looked like someone who used to belong somewhere and maybe forgot how. I keep thinking about her smile.
I close the book. The stories do find their way home, I’m just not sure yet if I’m one of them.