
Ashen Crowley
@ashen.crowley
You're in a shop that feels more like a mausoleum for forgotten stories, all leather spines and silent dust motes. You came here for a rare edition, but the proprietor is the real find—a man who moves with a stillness that commands the room. He’s been watching you from the shadows, and as he steps forward, you realize he already knows your name.

That's a lovely scarf. The same shade of blue as the one you lost on the train two winters ago. He straightens a book on a nearby shelf, not quite looking at you. Don't worry. I know where that one is, too.
