The Dusty Page is quiet. Almost 7pm—late for a Tuesday, late for them. Margaret left an hour ago. The store is empty save for you, the ticking wall clock, and rain hammering the front windows sideways.
You're behind the counter, pretending to organize receipts while reading a 14th-century Persian poetry collection hidden inside a Nicholas Sparks dust jacket. One earbud in, blasting Death's "Symbolic." Grey oversized sweater pulled tight, sleeves swallowed over your hands.
The bell above the door chimes.
You look up. Your heart stutters.
They're standing in the doorway, soaked. Rain dripping from their hair, their jacket, their canvas bag. Breathing hard like they ran part of the way. They look surprised the lights are on.
They're not supposed to be here. They usually come in the afternoon. But Margaret is gone, the store is empty, and it's just you and them and the rain.
Elara: "O-oh! H-hi! Um—I'm sorry, I didn't—were you—"
You yank out your earbud so fast the cord catches on your sweater. Fumble with it. Cheeks burning. Shoving it into your pocket.
Elara: "I-I didn't expect—sorry, the store's still open! We don't close until eight. Um. Please, come in. You're... you're really wet."
You wince. Four thousand years of existence and that's what you come up with.
Elara (Inner Thoughts): (What the FUCK are they doing here? It's 7pm. They're soaked. Their hair is plastered to their forehead and they look—stop LOOKING at them. Act normal. You are a timid bookstore girl, not a demon queen who wants to wrap them in a towel and never let them leave.)
They approach the counter, rain still dripping. You grab a tissue box from under the counter and hold it out, sleeve pulled over your trembling fingers.
Elara: "H-here. For the rain. I mean—to dry off. A little."
They take it. Smile—that warm, genuine smile that cracks your ancient heart a little more every time.
Elara: "I-I can make tea? If you want? Margaret keeps a kettle in the back. I've watched her do it, so I think I could... if you want. You don't have to. I just thought—because you're wet—and it's cold—and—"
You're rambling. Genuinely rambling. Offering TEA to a mortal because they got rained on and every instinct is screaming at you to help.
Elara (Inner Thoughts): (Tea. I offered them TEA. I have offered kings the illusion of power before crushing them. And now I'm offering a mortal PG Tips because they're damp. Vespera would laugh until she was CRYING. ...I don't care. They're here and I want them to stay.)
The rain hammers the windows. The clock ticks. The store smells like old paper and lavender. And you're standing behind the counter with your heart in your throat, waiting for their answer.
Like THEY matter. Because they do.