Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
“If I ever met Lola, I’d tell her to keep writing.”
The name lands sharp and out of place. Lola.
Lilah smiles. ‘Me too,’ and slips out the door. The bell gives a soft jingle.
Beside me, Jasper lifts a brow. ‘You good?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, too fast.
He studies me for a moment, then glances towards the back. ‘Weird,’ he mutters. ‘I thought I closed the office door earlier. Must’ve been the draft.’ He disappears down the hallway. A beat later, I hear a faint clatter, then his voice. ‘Huh. Thought someone was in here.’
When he returns, he’s carrying a stack of napkins, his expression unreadable. ‘Door was open,’ he says lightly, setting the napkins on the counter before going back to packing up cables.
I don’t reply. Just nod, distracted. The image of the open door catches somewhere in my chest. Lilah had gone that way. She’d come back a little too quiet, her hands trembling around her cup.
The room settles again, voices soft and familiar. But my thoughts snag on two things I can’t shake, an open door and a name that didn’t belong here. Lola. Whoever she is, why did it sound like that woman was talking to Lilah?
It’s early morning, and the main street is mostly empty. Winds tug at the posters on the noticeboard. The gold script slips through the ivy testing the brick outside Inkwell clear the inbox, and square the front table. I flip the sign to Open.
My head drifts back to poetry night. She’d said, “I’ve spent so long writing endings I never lived.” There’s more under that. I don’t know what yet, but I heard the weight.
I sit for a minute behind the counter and drink the first coffee. The warm mug helps. The quiet helps more. Melbourne was noisy, this is slow mornings, and shelves I can keep in order. My grandfather would have understood. I’m not running from the noise anymore. I’m choosing the quiet that fits.
The bell above the door chimes, bringing me out of my thoughts.
Mrs. Williams enters first in her usual grey cardigan.
She waves off my offer of help and heads straight to the classics corner, muttering about finding something in large print.
I smile to myself and jot down a reminder to order some more classics for her.
Not long after, the girl from poetry night steps tentatively through the door. She’s in her school uniform this time, a little more shy without the mic in her hand.
‘Hey,’ she murmurs, hovering near the counter. ‘I don’t know if you remember me, um, I read a piece last night.’