3. Tessa
TESSA
Morning light filters through the dusty front windows in uneven streaks, turning the floating particles in the air into something almost magical—if I ignore the fact that I’m breathing them in.
I stand in the middle of the bookstore, hands on my hips, taking it in again with fresh eyes. Day two. And somehow, it looks worse.
“That’s not possible,” I mutter.
But it is. Now that I’m not running on adrenaline and blind optimism, the problems stand out in sharper detail. The warped floorboards. The subtle sag in the ceiling. The faint discoloration creeping up one wall where moisture has clearly been making itself at home for far too long.
I step carefully across the floor, testing each shift of weight. It holds, but there’s a softness beneath certain boards that makes me wary.
“Okay,” I say, more to myself than anything. “We’re prioritizing.”
Structural first. Everything else later.
I grab a notepad from my bag and start jotting things down—roof inspection, flooring, shelving replacement, possible plumbing issues. The list grows faster than I’d like. And probably faster than my budget allows. I sigh, tapping the pen against the page.
“Coffee,” I decide. “Coffee will fix this.”
It won’t. But it might make it feel less overwhelming. I lock up the storefront behind me—more out of habit than necessity—and step out into the morning air. Redwood Crossing feels different in daylight. Still quiet, but less… watchful. Or maybe I’m just getting used to it.
The café isn’t hard to find. Crowder Café sits just down the street, its windows clean, its front welcoming in a way that immediately makes my shoulders loosen a fraction. A small bell chimes as I push the door open.
Warmth hits me first—real warmth, not the stale, trapped heat of the bookstore. The scent of coffee follows, rich and grounding, layered with something sweet baking in the background.
“Morning!” a cheerful voice calls.
I look up to see a woman behind the counter, her smile wide and genuine. There’s something effortlessly kind about her expression, like she’s already decided she likes me.
“Hi,” I say, returning the smile despite myself. “I just got into town yesterday.”
“You must be Tessa,” she says immediately.
I blink. “That was fast.”
She laughs, waving a hand.
“News travels quick here. I’m Delilah.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Same. Coffee?”
“Yes, please. Strong.”
“Smart answer.”
She turns to the machine, moving with easy efficiency. I glance around the café while she works. A few people sit scattered at tables, talking quietly, sipping drinks. The atmosphere is relaxed, comfortable. Normal. It’s a stark contrast to the chaos waiting for me next door.
“So,” Delilah says, sliding a mug toward me, “how’s the bookstore?”
I let out a small, helpless laugh. “Standing. Barely.”
She winces sympathetically. “Yeah… that place has been empty a while.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“You’ll get it there,” she says, leaning lightly against the counter. “Takes time, but it’ll be worth it.”
I want to believe that.
“I hope so,” I say, wrapping my hands around the mug. The heat seeps into my skin, grounding. “Right now it just feels like I bought a very expensive problem.”
“You bought potential,” she corrects gently.
I huff a quiet laugh. “I like your version better.”
She grins. A couple of the other patrons glance over, offering small nods or smiles. It’s subtle, but noticeable. They know who I am.
“Everyone’s been really… aware of me,” I say carefully.
Delilah’s smile softens. “Small town. New faces stand out.”
“Clearly.”
She hesitates for just a second, then adds, “You’ve got good neighbors, though.”
My mind immediately goes to the mechanic shop.
“To the left?” I ask.
Her eyes flicker with something—amusement, maybe.
“Archer Kade,” she says. “Yeah. He’s… dependable.”
“That’s one word for him.”
Her brow lifts slightly. “You’ve met?”
“He stopped a shelf from taking me out yesterday,” I admit. “Then told me my building was basically a death trap.”
Delilah laughs, not at all surprised. “That sounds like Archer.”
“Does he always communicate like that?”
“Pretty much.”
I take a sip of coffee, considering. “He owns the garage?”
“Born and raised here. Took it over years ago.”
“That explains the ‘I’ll fix everything whether you asked or not’ energy.”
Delilah smiles knowingly. “He means well.”
“I’m sure he does,” I say. “He’s just… intense.”
That word feels inadequate. But it’s the closest I’ve got. After a few more minutes of easy conversation—and a second cup of coffee I absolutely need—I thank Delilah and head back out.
The bookstore looks the same as I left it. Of course it does. I unlock the door and step inside, already mentally preparing myself for another round of cautious cleaning and organizing.
But I stop just inside the entrance.
Something’s different. The air feels… disturbed. I frown, stepping further in. And then I see it.
The broken shelving unit from yesterday—the one that nearly crushed me—is no longer leaning precariously in the middle of the floor.
It’s been repaired. Not perfectly, but solidly.
The cracked panel has been reinforced. The joints tightened.
The entire unit stands straight and stable, as if it belongs that way.
I stare at it for a long moment.
“What…?”
I move closer, running my hand along the wood. The repairs are clean. Efficient. Done by someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. Someone who had access. Someone who didn’t say a word about it.
Archer.
A mix of irritation and reluctant appreciation twists in my chest.
“You could’ve just said you were going to fix it,” I mutter.
Instead, he did it quietly. Without asking. Without telling me. Without even sticking around for a thank you. I turn and head back outside, crossing the short distance to the mechanic shop.
“Hello?” I call, stepping just inside the open garage.
Silence. The place looks active—tools laid out, a car half-lifted—but there’s no one there.
“Archer?”
Nothing. I step back out, frowning.
“Of course,” I mutter.
I stand there for a moment longer, then shake my head and head back to the bookstore. Fine. If he doesn’t want thanks, he doesn’t get thanks. But I’ll remember it.
The rest of the day passes in a steady rhythm of work. Cleaning. Sorting. Making small, manageable progress. By evening, I’m exhausted.
The sun dips low, casting long shadows across the street as I lock up for the night. I linger on the sidewalk for a moment, stretching my sore arms, letting the quiet settle around me. That’s when I notice it. Movement.
At the far end of the street, a small group of people gathers near a parked truck. Another group a little further down. Doors open. Engines start. I frown, watching. One by one, vehicles begin to pull away. Not just one or two. Several. All heading out of town. At the same time.
“Okay… that’s weird,” I murmur.
It doesn’t look like an event. No one’s laughing or lingering.
It’s quiet. Purposeful. Coordinated. A faint unease curls in my stomach.
Where are they all going? And why does it feel like I’m the only one not in on it?
I hug my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how unfamiliar everything still is.
“Small town,” I whisper. “Different rhythms.”
That has to be it. Still…
As the last set of taillights disappears down the road, the silence that follows feels heavier than before. And I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just watched something I wasn’t meant to notice.
I stay outside longer than I mean to. The street has gone quiet again, like nothing unusual happened at all. Like I didn’t just watch half the town leave in a strangely coordinated exodus without a single explanation.
“Maybe it’s normal,” I say.
It doesn’t feel normal.
I lean, arms folded, staring down the road where the last car disappeared. The sky has shifted into that dusky blue that always makes everything feel suspended—like the world is caught between one thing and another.
In-between. That’s exactly how I feel here. Not settled. Not grounded. Just… temporarily placed. I glance toward the mechanic shop again. Dark now. Closed. No sign of Archer. Which, for reasons I don’t want to examine too closely, is disappointing.
“That’s ridiculous,” I mutter.
I barely know the man. Our entire interaction consists of him saving me from being crushed and then criticizing my life choices. And fixing my shelf. Quietly. Without asking.
I push away from the wall and head back inside, locking the door behind me this time with more intention. The click echoes slightly in the empty space, sharper now that the town outside has gone so still. The bookstore feels different at night. Less chaotic. More… hollow.
The shadows stretch longer, deeper, filling in the spaces between the shelves. The repaired unit stands solid where it nearly collapsed before, a quiet reminder that someone had been here when I wasn’t.
Someone who hadn’t needed permission. I walk toward it slowly, trailing my fingers along the wood again.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, even though he’s not here to hear it.
It feels important to say anyway. The air shifts slightly, a faint draft brushing against my arm. I turn, scanning the room, trying to pinpoint where it’s coming from. Somewhere near the back, maybe. Another thing to add to the list.
Another problem to solve. I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face.
“You wanted a fresh start,” I remind myself. “This is what it looks like.”
Not clean. Not easy. Not predictable. But real.
I grab a small lamp from one of the boxes and plug it into the nearest outlet. It flickers once before settling into a steady glow, pushing back just enough of the darkness to make the space feel manageable.
Not fixed. But manageable.
I sink down onto the floor behind the counter, back resting against the wood, and pull my knees in slightly. My muscles ache, exhaustion settling in now that I’ve stopped moving.
Outside, the town remains unnaturally quiet.
Inside, the bookstore creaks softly, the old building adjusting to the cooling night air. I close my eyes for a moment, listening. To the silence. To the unfamiliar rhythm of a place that isn’t mine yet. And somewhere beneath it all—
That same strange feeling lingers. Like something is happening just out of reach. And I’m standing right in the middle of it, whether I understand it or not.