Page 7 of Isaia

I slip between the bodies moving past, unnoticed, watching as she steps into a small bookstore.

Her pace slows the moment she crosses the threshold, her hand brushing the doorframe like she’s greeting an old friend.

She lingers at the entrance, her eyes scanning the shelves. She’s not just walking into the store—she’s sinking into it, like she’s shedding the outside world and stepping into one made of paper and ink.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I watch her trail her fingers along the spines of books as if she can feel the stories waiting inside.

A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth as she picks up a book, flipping through the pages, completely absorbed.

So, she’s a bookworm. Interesting. A layer I didn’t expect.

I wait outside the bookstore, keeping my eyes on the door. She’s been in there for a while now, and I’m starting to wonder if she’s really the type to lose herself in the smell of old books. Or if she’s waiting for someone.

Maybe that little smile was meant for someone else, someone meeting her inside.

My jaw tightens at the thought. I’ve seen this play out before—women hiding behind false innocence, luring men in like spiders waiting to pounce. But with her, it’s different. If it’s an act, it’s one I can’t tear my eyes away from.

Finally, Everly steps out, a book tucked under her arm, with Luna trotting beside her, completely unaware of the shadows closing in.

Her light brown hair catches the last bit of sunlight as it fades behind the buildings, and for a moment, she looks untouchable, like she belongs in a world that’s nothing but soft edges and warm light.

I push away from the lamppost, blending into the flow of people on the street, tracking her again.

She’s too carefree. Too…normal. And that’s what keeps nagging at me. This city is full of people rushing because their lives are shackled to time, every second fueling hard and fast to the next.

But her? It’s like time is chained to her, and not the other way around. She moves like the world works in her favor, like nothing could ever touch her.

It’s maddening.

She smiles at everyone—an old couple shuffling by, a kid wobbling on a scooter. It’s not forced, not polite. It’s real. Genuine.

Fuck, that smile. It’s not for me. It’s for her quiet life, her little bubble of peace. But I want it. I want to steal it, twist it, make it mine.

Jesus. Where the fuck did that come from?

She makes her way down the street, pausing briefly to step into a small coffee shop. Ember & Bean. It’s a small, cozy looking place. One I haven’t noticed until now.

Through the window, I watch as she hugs one of the waitresses, then orders a coffee to go, her dog sitting patiently by the door. It’s quick, casual, like she’s done this a hundred times before. She doesn’t even glance around, doesn’t notice anyone watching her.

I stay back, blending into the crowd. The night is creeping in, the air cooling. People are settling into their routines—grabbing drinks, heading home—but I’m not like them.

My world is always on alert, always two steps ahead of everyone else.

Everly steps out of the shop, holding her coffee in one hand and Luna’s leash in the other. She tucks the book under her arm again, sipping from her cup as she starts walking. She doesn’t break her rhythm, Luna still padding alongside her, a steady companion.

I stay back, watching the way she moves, how the dog never tugs on the leash, how her shoulders relax as if everything she carriesis weightless. It’s unsettling, the way she seems untouched by the grime of the city, like she’s somehow above it. Or maybe outside of it altogether.

If this is all an act, this woman will get the best actress award.

Everly turns onto a narrow street, leading away from the noise and fading light of the city. I pause, hidden in the growing dusk, as she reaches a small white house at the corner.

It’s modest, unremarkable—the kind of place that exudes warmth, as if it’s been holding on to its quiet existence for years. A porch swing sways gently in the breeze, flowerpots scattered on the steps. Some bloom, others still not quite ready to greet spring.

She pushes open the door, and Luna darts inside, tail wagging. For a moment, she lingers at the threshold, her gaze drifting down the street, soft and absent.

I stay still, tucked behind an old oak tree, my breath quiet.

Her gaze sweeps over me, but she doesn’t see past the shadows I’m hiding in.

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