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The rain kept its careful time along the awnings of Birch Avenue, a rhythm so steady it felt arranged. She was late, of course, and the town—always listening—seemed to hold its breath between drops.

By evening the storefront glass became a page: reflections layered over type, headlines over faces, stories over the people who carried them. I waited beneath the clock and counted the seconds I could spare.

When she arrived, her umbrella closed like a book finished in one sitting. “You kept the place,” she said, stepping through the doorway as though crossing a margin. I nodded. Some stories ask only to be set cleanly on the page.

The door chimed again. Outside, the street pooled with light, paragraphs of rain breaking neatly at the curb. Inside, the words finally found their measure.