Chapter 1 — Chapter 1

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Elira was nothing if not an observer. Eyes slightly raised over her laptop screen, she peered intently across the street, her fingers stiff from the damp chill as she jotted down the time in a small notebook. An elderly man, dressed eccentrically in a velvet suit, closed his tattered umbrella and pushed open the door to the bookstore. Through the pounding rain, Elira could faintly hear the bell on the door twinkle softly. The windows were fogged, obscuring the warm confines of the building, but the sign—*The Rainy-Day Bookstore*—etched into the wooden door seemed to shimmer unnaturally in the downpour. One of the oldest structures in Rainharbor, a town steeped in maritime legends of endless storms, the bookstore and its elusive owner remained a stubborn enigma. Elira had scoured business records, archives, and interviewed city officials, pulling every journalistic trick she knew, but even the planning commissioner feigned ignorance about the building. She was stumped, and for a writer desperate to reclaim her name, that wouldn’t do.

She sighed, watching the door close gently behind the man. He wouldn’t come back out. Over the past two weeks, she’d noticed a pattern: businessmen or parents with kids emerged later with tote bags of books, but the odd ones—those in vintage hats, large coats of strange fabrics, or old-fashioned garb—never resurfaced. She’d counted eight such figures in the last week alone. One man had tipped a large bowler hat to passersby before sauntering into the shop. Another woman led what Elira swore was an iguana on a leash, its tongue darting out as stubby legs scuttled along. She rubbed her eyes, half-wondering if the rain was playing tricks on her tired mind. Did they live upstairs, or perhaps in a basement? They had to leave sometime, didn’t they? Watching them vanish into the bookstore, she couldn’t help but wonder if she, too, could disappear from her past. If she cracked this story, maybe it would prove she wasn’t just a washed-up journalist—a chance to rewrite her name.

The rain streamed down the awning above, its steady drip reminding her of Solmera’s rare storms, when she’d sit with Aunt Agatha on the wrap-around porch, sipping tea. She missed the sunshine, the beaches, the warm ocean, and the quiet companionship of her aunt. She missed a life before the scandal that forced her north to Rainharbor, a thousand miles from everything she knew. Her cheeks flushed despite the cold, the memory of the senator’s smirk flashing unbidden—*“This story will make you, Elira,”* he’d promised with honeyed lies. The shame still burned, a visceral reminder of her naïveté and the career she’d lost. Space and time were her only salve, and if Rainharbor wasn’t far enough, there was always Alaska.

Working freelance was getting her nowhere. If she couldn’t land a published piece soon, she’d either crawl back to Solmera or take shifts at The Bean Coffee Shop below her apartment. Tom, the owner, had offered work after spotting her surviving on popcorn and diet soda. She’d refused, needing the hunger to push her writing, especially now. Shivering, she decided it was time to head inside—the mystery of the bookstore would wait, but tonight, she’d watch from her window after dark. She gathered her laptop and notebook, tucked her long blonde hair behind her ear, and pushed open the heavy oak door to The Bean. The heavenly aroma of coffee enveloped her, a stark contrast to the wet asphalt outside. She nodded to a university student behind the counter, who smiled while pouring foam onto a latte.

“Hey, Elira, survive the deluge?” Tom called from near the espresso machine, his gravelly voice cutting through the hum of the shop.

“Barely,” she replied with a half-smile, scooting past mismatched tables and plush armchairs toward the backroom. She passed Tom’s unkempt office and climbed the poky backstairs to her tiny converted apartment, the coffee scent fading into the musty smell of old wood. Tom and Brianna, a student tenant, lived in adjacent units, sharing the cramped kitchen space. Brianna’s late-night guests often led to awkward morning encounters, but as long as the rent cleared, Tom didn’t mind. He was a good-natured landlord, generous with free cappuccinos that rendered Elira’s tiny coffee maker useless.

She opened the door to her six-hundred-square-foot studio and dropped her laptop bag beside the pea-green sofa bed, a hideous relic from the last tenant. Her purse landed on the kitchenette tabletop as she unlaced her damp boots and set them by the radiator. Grabbing a bottle of water from the mini fridge, she crashed onto the sofa, her fingers brushing an old photo of Aunt Agatha tucked into her notebook—a small, tangible ache of loneliness in this gray, foreign town. She closed her eyes, exhaling deeply. The move wasn’t going as planned. Job applications, unsolicited portfolios, networking groups—nothing yielded even an interview. She’d ditched social media two weeks ago, and the silence of severed connections left her with too much empty time.

Grabbing her cell phone, the oppressive quiet of the apartment urged her to call the one person who still cared.

“Elira!” Aunt Agatha’s voice burst through, youthful despite her age. “How’ve you been, Sunshine?”

A warmth radiated from the nickname, filling the small room. “Cold and wet,” Elira sighed, pacing the tight space, her gaze drifting to the rain-streaked window.

“You could always come home…” Agatha started, her tone heavy with the old argument. She’d fought Elira’s move north after the newspapers splashed the senator scandal across LA, locking her out of any credible byline there. Even hiding in Agatha’s house near Pine Mountain hadn’t shielded her from the press—*“Twenty-Four-Year-Old Homewrecker”* sold better than truth. The embarrassment, the lost job, the friends who ghosted her—it had all driven her to flee.

“You know I can’t,” Elira said, exasperated, gripping the phone tighter. “The story will follow me in LA. I’ll never publish under my name again there.”

Agatha sighed, shifting topics. “So, is that landlord staying clear?”

“Tom’s like a grandpa, I assure you,” Elira chuckled. “And I’m working on a story. There’s this bookstore across the street—strange people go in, dressed like they’re from another era, and never come out. No records on the owner, nothing at city hall. It’s… odd.”

Silence stretched—three, four, five seconds. “Hello? Auntie?”

“Sunshine,” Agatha’s voice rushed in, urgent, “I just don’t want you getting hurt again chasing impossible stories. Look where it got you in LA. A thousand miles away, with no one to protect you. Find a nice newspaper job, write obituaries or advice columns. Or come home, settle down.”

The words cut deeper than the LA headlines ever had. Agatha had always been her shield, defending her even when reporters trampled her herb garden. And now, blaming her? From the woman who’d taught her self-reliance through Girl Scouts, martial arts, and forest survival? Elira choked back a gasp. “Auntie, I can’t just write obituaries. I need something real, something that matters.”

“Sunshine, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” Agatha began, but Elira cut in.

“It’s okay. I’ll call next week.” She ended the call as tears welled, tossing the phone to the floor. Hugging her knees to her chest, she let the tears fall, wishing for the warmth of Aunt Agatha’s porch swing. The rain dripped outside her window, and across the street, a faint flicker of light appeared in an upstairs window of The Rainy-Day Bookstore. As the tears slowed, she wondered if tomorrow she’d find the courage to cross the street.