The Dust Jacket remained closed for the next two days. Elara told herself it was because she needed rest, inventory, cleaning any excuse that didn't involve the real reason: she couldn't bear to see Rowan walk in again and not remember.
Because Rowan had come back.
Twice.
And each time, she brought with her a gravity that pulled at Elara's soul like the tide to the moon.
The third morning, Elara stood in the center of the store, everything still and untouched. The air smelled like lavender, ink, and the ache of something unfinished.
She took a deep breath.
It was time.
She unlocked the back cabinet, where she'd hidden the journal and the pen both wrapped in cloth and sealed in a box marked "Staff Only."
The pen shimmered in her hand the moment she touched it, warm and alive, as if it recognized her touch. Magic hummed faintly at her fingertips, a soft vibration that traveled from her skin to her bones.
Elara sat at her desk, journal open, pen poised but unmoving.
She couldn't write.
Not yet.
The last time she'd written, she'd destroyed a love so precious it haunted her even in forgetfulness.
She'd rewritten her life and the blank space where Rowan had once lived was now unbearable.
Still, something pulled at her. A nudge from the journal's spine, a silent whisper from the pages.
The magic wasn't finished with her.
She flipped to the middle, where one phrase scrawled in someone else's hand appeared:
"What is forgotten will return when the heart is ready."
Her heart clenched.
A second line bled onto the page, letter by letter:
"But are you?"
Before she could even react, her phone buzzed.
A message.
From an unknown number.
"Hi. It's Rowan. You said your name was Elara. I hope this isn't weird, but… would you want to grab a coffee sometime?"
Elara stared at the screen, heart thundering.
She hadn't given Rowan her number.
Not recently.
Not at all.
She typed quickly:
"How did you get this?"
A reply came seconds later:
"You wrote it on a post-it. Inside the book I bought. But… I don't remember seeing you write it."
Elara's hands shook.
She hadn't written anything.
She hadn't even known what book Rowan had taken.
The journal pulsed on the desk beside her.
It's not warm this time.
Cold
Later that day, she met Rowan at a small café three blocks from the bookstore. Neutral ground.
Rowan was already there, waiting at a window table, stirring her tea with a tiny spoon. She looked up and smiled when Elara entered, and for a second, time folded in on itself.
That smile had once been Elara's favorite thing in the world.
"Elara," Rowan said softly. "Thanks for coming."
"Of course," Elara managed, taking the seat across from her.
For a few minutes, they talked about nothing. The weather. The café's weird wall art. The pumpkin muffins that somehow tasted more like gingerbread. But under it all, the pull between them was unmistakable.
"Can I ask you something?" Rowan said at last.
Elara nodded.
"Do you believe in… connections that don't make sense?"
Elara's breath caught. "Like déjà vu?"
"No. It's deeper than that. Like…" Rowan searched for the word. "Like your heart remembers someone even when your brain doesn't."
Elara couldn't answer.
Because yes.
Yes, she believed in that.
She had written the opposite into existence, and now she was paying the price for it.
"I feel like I know you," Rowan admitted. "And it's driving me a little insane. I had a dream about your store before I ever walked in. I see flashes when I close my eyes. Laughter. Music. Rain on glass. And you."
Elara swallowed hard. "Dreams are strange."
"But this doesn't feel like a dream," Rowan whispered. "It feels like a memory with the face ripped off."
Elara closed her eyes.
"I think…" she began carefully, "...some people are written into our stories long before we meet them. Maybe the universe leaves hints. Or maybe we just need to remember how to read them."
Rowan blinked. Then, she smiled quietly.
"That's beautiful."
---
They walked together afterward, slowly letting the breeze tangle their words. Rowan paused outside The Dust Jacket.
"This is going to sound crazy," she said.
Elara raised a brow. "Try me."
"I feel safer when I'm near this place. Like it's important."
Elara looked up at the storefront.
"It is."
Rowan glanced at her. "Can I ask one more thing?"
"Sure."
"If we've met before... would you tell me?"
Elara hesitated.
Her chest ached with truth.
But the magic wasn't done. Not yet. The spell could still unravel violently if broken too fast.
So she said the only thing she could.
"I'd tell you everything. If I could."
Rowan nodded slowly. "That's... honest. In a weird way."
Then she walked away, leaving Elara trembling.
That night, Elara opened the journal again.
A new page had filled itself:
"The threads are reconnecting. But beware: memory has a price. Truth opens wounds as much as it heals."
She flipped to the first page, the one that had started it all.
The one where she'd written:
"Let me forget her."
And beneath that line, in fresh ink:
"Do you still want that?"
Tears blurred her vision.
"No," she whispered. "Not anymore."
She picked up the pen.
And wrote:
"Let her remember me."
The pen flared with light.
Then went dark.
And somewhere, miles away, Rowan Rivera shot upright in bed breathless, shaking whispers of Elara's name tangled in her throat.
Because magic always listens.
And love?
Love never forgets.