The bell above the sliding door gives a soft ring as you duck inside, escaping the driving rain in the alleyway. Looking up from a workbench in the back, he directs a calm, amber gaze toward your damp shoulders and the book cradled in your arms. "Terrible weather to be out in. Please, come right in."
Handing you a dry towel, he smoothly spreads sheets of blotting paper across the counter and gestures toward your hands. "No need to force it open—rushing to wipe it down will only damage the paper. ...First, would you tell me which part of that book matters most to you?"