Chapter Text
The bookstore had technically been open for ten minutes, but inside, it still smelled like early morning: a little dust on the covers, a little old paper, a little new hope.
Lucio was standing on a step-ladder, adjusting the sign above a row of tall hardcovers.
Kult und körper. The body as text in German art.
The lower shelves were for the French, the middle for the Catalans, and the top — reserved entirely for titles he liked the sound of. He often said books had to sound right before they were even opened.
“You misspelled ‘Körper’ again,” came a voice from below. “Capital K, if we’re pretending to care.”
Lucio didn’t turn around.
“It’s better lowercase. We’re not the Vatican Library.”
“But we’re not a supermarket either.”
“We’re somewhere in between.”
“So we’re the divine Esselunga ,” Francis replied dryly.
Francis stepped into view, notebook and marker in hand. He was wearing his usual mix of deliberate disarray — vintage blazer, button-down shirt with the collar undone, and his dark felt hat slightly off-center like he’d just stepped out of a spaghetti western filmed in Berlin.
Lucio climbed down the ladder without comment.
“Did the new shipment arrive?”
“Five boxes. And I have no idea who thought three copies of Susan Sontag were a good idea, with not a single new Anne Carson.”
“I did.”
“Of course you did. Want coffee?”
“No, I want you to finally take down that stupid sign over philosophy that says ‘FIND YOUR INNER GLAMOUR SAND.’”
Francis raised one brow.
“You’re the one who said ‘Barthes and the desert’ was your favorite metaphor.”
“I said that during an aesthetic breakdown.”
“Well, every decision in this store is made during an aesthetic breakdown, no?”
He smirked, turning away toward the back room — presumably for coffee after all. Lucio stayed where he was, gazing at the wall of dictionaries as sunlight began to drift in through the high windows, licking softly across the spines.
Someone was supposed to come in today — the man who had asked about Hyperobjects yesterday. Lucio didn’t know his name. But he had delicate hands, a calm voice, and the kind of expression people wore when they read book covers like they were choosing keys to something hidden inside themselves.
The morning drifted on in fragments of sound: the click of a coffee cup on ceramic, a child’s voice from the street outside, the rustle of pages being turned somewhere behind the travel section.
Francis had returned with two espressos — one for Lucio, one for himself, though he claimed not to drink coffee before eleven. He’d placed both cups down with a slight theatrical flourish and now stood leaning against the register desk, phone in hand, filming a slow panning shot of the poetry table.
“You’re using the romantic filter again,” Lucio murmured, flipping through an order list.
Francis, without lowering the phone, replied:
“It’s not a filter. It’s who I am.”
“You filmed the Dante display with glitter stars.”
“And we sold all the copies within three days.”
Lucio didn’t argue. Instead, he slid the pencil behind his ear and watched the feed quietly, the way one watches a fire that doesn’t need tending.
The bookstore itself seemed to rearrange its silences around them. There were high ceilings and tall shelves that reached almost to the second floor mezzanine, accessible by a twisting iron staircase Lucio secretly loved. Two dark velvet armchairs lived under the history section, flanked by a soft mustard-colored couch someone once described as “inhospitable, but photogenic.” Francis had instantly put that in their Instagram bio.
The bell above the front door gave its familiar two-toned chime, and a young man walked in — their local, soft in presence, led by a small, curly-furred dog on a red leash. They moved together as if practiced, like this was a daily pilgrimage.
The boy nodded toward the counter and, without needing to speak, made his way to the couch near the fiction shelves. The dog jumped up immediately, curled into the boy’s lap with the kind of ease only bookstore dogs have, and Lucio felt his whole chest warm at the sight.
“He’s back,” Francis said softly.
“I see him.”
“Should we give them honorary cards already?”
“They don’t need them. They’re residents.”
Lucio stepped quietly across the space, crouched near the couch, and extended a hand. The dog — alert-eyed — reached toward him, tail brushing against the boy’s thigh.
“Ciao, piccolo,” Lucio whispered.
The dog licked his fingers and collapsed again with a sigh, eyes closing.
The boy — maybe nineteen, maybe twenty — cracked open a large-format book about Brutalist architecture and tilted it just enough to catch the light. He was already vanishing into it, half-reclined, knees pulled up, the dog in a perfect sleeping comma in his lap.
Francis caught it all on video. No commentary, no zoom — just a slow, steady shot of the moment, as if to say: This is what it looks like when time stops for a while.
He posted it instantly with the caption:
slow Monday — like a book that smells of bread and dreams.
Lucio, watching him, said nothing — just turned back toward the deliveries, toward the quiet orders and quiet hands that kept this place stitched together.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was already thinking about the event they were planning. A poetry night. Maybe next Friday. Maybe too soon. But there was something about the air — about the quiet that wasn’t empty — that made it feel like the right time to let the words gather themselves aloud again.
It was afternoon when the door chimed again — twice, soft, like a question.
Lucio looked up from the stockroom desk. He didn’t rush because it was him .
The man had returned — the one from the other day. Tall, but not intimidating. Loose in the shoulders, the kind of walk that didn’t ask for space, just moved through it. Today he wore a faded navy sweater under a long tan coat that looked like it belonged to a decade no one had quite agreed on. Something about him felt like 2013 — that in-between time of film grain and careless youth.
Lucio kept his posture easy, but his eyes were already tracing the lines. Hair slightly unkempt, but not unwashed. Hands in pockets. Head tilting slightly as he scanned the new arrivals, like he wasn’t just reading titles — he was listening to them.
He nodded politely toward the counter.
“Hey,” the man said, voice low but open. “I came back for the Morton book. Hyperobjects, remember?”
Lucio opened his mouth, but Francis was already there — leaning over the register with practiced charm.
“Of course. Still right where you left it in your imagination. I saved it for you, but if I hadn’t, I would’ve lied and said I did.”
The man smiled with genuine warmth. He leaned on the counter as Francis retrieved the book from the shelf behind.
Lucio stood nearby, still quiet, still half-pretending to be sorting receipts. He wanted to say something — I read it three years ago, it ruined my idea of permanence. But Francis was quicker, funnier, better at floating through conversation like a feather on caffeine.
Instead, Lucio made mental notes.
He has a left-handed posture.
He turns pages with two fingers.
His eyes catch mine sometimes, but not for too long.
His laugh starts in his shoulders.
And still, no name.
Francis handed him the book.
“You want a bag or just the raw, academic truth in hand?”
“I’ll take the raw truth.”
“Classic choice.”
Lucio stepped forward.
“Would you like some tea? We just brewed jasmine.”
The man blinked, surprised, then smiled.
“Sure. If it’s no trouble.”
“It’s no trouble,” Lucio said, already walking toward the back room. His heart thudded in ridiculous rhythm.
Francis watched him go, then turned to the man.
“He doesn’t offer tea to everyone. You must be aesthetically aligned.”
When Lucio came back, the man was flipping through the book. Lucio handed him the cup, careful not to touch fingers, though he wanted to.
“There’s a seat, if you want. Near the window — it’s the best light.”
The man nodded. “Looks perfect.”
Francis raised one brow, but said nothing. Because he knew exactly which seat it was — the one in the corner, angled just enough to be visible from the register. Lucio called it ‘the observation post’, but never out loud.
The man sat, book in lap, tea balanced on the arm of the chair. He read for nearly two hours. The dog on the sofa shifted once in its sleep. Francis posted two more photos of the store. Lucio moved through the day in slow rhythm — restocking, sweeping, pretending not to look.
The man left before closing. He waved on his way out. No name. No extra word. Just the memory of his cup, still warm.
Lucio was home, already half under the covers, scrolling without purpose. The bookstore’s Instagram had gained a few new followers today. He checked the new posts — habit, nothing serious.
One caught his eye.
The same man — sitting in golden light, book in hand, coat open just enough to show the worn edge of his sweater. Taken probably by Francis. He looked almost… cinematic. Still. Like he knew he was being watched but didn’t mind.
There was a comment.
The username of the account was unfamiliar, but the comment said:
@tommaso.ottomano finally a halfway decent photo of me. You have a great place, guys.
He clicked the username.
The account was public — just a few photos: books, records, light on brick walls, fragments of mornings. Tommaso . So that was his name.
Lucio didn’t like anything. Of course not. His own page was empty, save for one pinned post from three years ago that said simply “quella sensazione di carta viva.”
But still, he scrolled through every picture. Twice.