Chapter 3: A Room That Doesn't Exist
The next day, I couldn't stop thinking about what Leo had said.
"There's a room in the back. For rare books. Not open to everyone."
It kept replaying in my head like a whisper. A small part of me wanted to forget it — pretend it was just something poetic he said to make the place sound magical. But another part… the bigger part… needed to know what he meant.
A room that not everyone could see?
I told myself I wasn't going back that soon.
I even made a list of things to do: laundry, finish a sketch, call my mom back. But around 4 p.m., I was standing outside A Chapter More again. This time, the door was slightly open, as if someone had gone inside just before me.
I pushed gently.
The chime didn't ring.
Strange.
Inside, the lights were dimmer than usual. The soft golden glow that made the place feel warm yesterday was missing. It wasn't dark, just… quieter. The air felt still.
"Leo?" I called out.
No answer.
I stepped in and closed the door behind me. There were no customers. No soft music. Just the sound of the wooden floor creaking under my shoes.
"Leo?"
A few seconds later, he appeared from behind a shelf. He looked startled, like he didn't expect me. His sleeves were rolled down today, covering the scar I'd noticed yesterday.
"Oh," he said. "It's you."
"Yeah," I replied. "Sorry, the door was open."
He looked at the door, then back at me. "That's odd. I always close it."
Something in his voice was off — tight, like he wasn't entirely here. He walked past me toward the front, turned the lock on the door, and flipped the "Open" sign to "Closed."
"It's only five," I said, frowning a little.
He glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah. Just needed a break."
From what?
But I didn't ask. I just followed him quietly as he walked back toward the shelves.
"You seem… different today," I said carefully.
"I could say the same about you."
"What does that mean?"
He stopped walking and looked at me.
"You're curious. I can feel it. About the room."
I froze. "So, it's real?"
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"It's real," he said. "But not in the way you're thinking."
"Can I see it?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned and walked toward the far end of the store, near the poetry section. I followed, my steps soft on the old floor.
He stopped in front of a plain-looking wall.
"There used to be a door here," he said quietly. "Now, only some people can find it."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Neither does the way you always come in when it's about to rain."
I blinked. "What?"
He looked at me, really looked, like he was trying to see something beyond my face.
"This place… calls to certain people," he said softly. "People carrying something invisible. Regret, maybe. Or grief. Sometimes loneliness."
I swallowed hard.
"Are you saying this bookstore is alive or something?"
Leo didn't answer. He reached up and pressed his hand flat against the wall.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, I swear, I heard something — a soft sound, like pages flipping by themselves.
And then a thin, almost invisible seam appeared in the wood.
He looked at me.
"You can go in. If you want. But only once."
That made my heart race. "Why only once?"
"Because once you see what's there, you can't unsee it."
"Leo… what's in there?"
His expression changed — not fear, but something close. Sadness. Deep and quiet, like a memory that had stayed too long.
"Things left behind," he said. "Things waiting to be remembered."
I took a slow breath. "You've been inside?"
He nodded. "A long time ago."
I looked at the seam in the wall. It wasn't glowing or magical. It didn't even look like a door. But something about it felt alive. Like it was watching me back.
"Is this some kind of test?"
He smiled. "Maybe. Or maybe it's just a room."
I should've walked away.
I should've said thanks and left with my questions and my ordinary life. But instead, I stepped forward. Just one step. Close enough to feel the air change — colder and older, like dust and dreams.
Leo touched my wrist gently. "You don't have to prove anything."
"I'm not," I said. "I just want to know why you seem so sad."
That caught him off guard.
He blinked, then looked away. "I'll wait here."
I reached forward.
But the seam was gone.
I touched the wood — solid and smooth. Just a wall now.
I turned to him. "It disappeared."
He gave a small nod. "Then not today."
"What does that mean?"
"It'll open when it's ready. Or when you are."
I took a step back, heart pounding for reasons I didn't fully understand.
"I don't get this."
"You don't have to," he said. "Not yet."
Then he reached into his sweater pocket and handed me something small.
A key.
Old. Bronze. With a tiny star carved into the top.
"What's this for?"
He looked me straight in the eyes.
"When the time comes, you'll know."