Chapter 3 — Chapter 3

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Despite Aunt Agatha’s stern warning echoing in her mind from just days ago—“Stay away from that bookstore, Elira, it’s no place for a girl like you”—Elira woke with a fierce determination to uncover the secrets of The Rainy-Day Bookstore. It gnawed at her, an unshakable itch, ever since she’d overheard two university students at The Bean whispering about peculiar customers who entered the shop and never seemed to leave. She couldn’t ignore it; this mystery felt like the key to something bigger, perhaps a story that could resurrect her tarnished career as a writer. Rising from the creaky sofa bed, she crossed to the tiny closet, sighing at her Californian wardrobe—ill-suited for the relentless Pacific Northwest rain. She layered a dress over her last pair of leggings, laced up her boots, still warm from the radiator, and pulled her hair back to keep the damp ends at bay. With a quick dab of makeup, leaving the freckles under her eyes exposed, she grabbed her laptop bag and a strawberry granola bar before heading downstairs to the early morning bustle of The Bean.

The comforting aroma of coffee enveloped her as she descended, a small solace of living above the shop. The Bean buzzed with university students cramming caffeine before classes, their chatter a dull roar over espresso machines. Elira spotted Brianna behind the counter, who slid a steaming latte into her chilly hands with a grin.

“What’s on your agenda today, Elira?” Brianna asked, wiping the counter with a worn rag, her blue apron peeking over a university sweatshirt, steam from the cappuccino machine nudging her black glasses down her nose.

“The usual—writing outside, sending off spec pieces,” Elira replied, blowing on her drink to cool it. Her voice dipped with a flicker of unease. “Maybe poke around that old bookstore across the street… heard some weird stuff about it.”

Brianna raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Well, I’ve got a chem exam I’m doomed to flunk later, so my day’s thrilling too.” She flashed a wry smile before turning to an impatient customer, waving a quick goodbye.

Elira glanced at the rain hammering The Bean’s windows and winced. An armchair by the window, with a clear view of the bookstore, beckoned. She knew Tom, the owner, frowned on her taking up customer space, but the warmth was too tempting to abandon just yet. Settling in with a small, triumphant smile, she sipped her latte, her mind drifting to the past. University had been her haven—writing for the campus paper, acing assignments, even that proud moment when her exposé on dorm conditions earned a nod from the dean. Now, jobless and shadowed by scandal, a tightness gripped her chest, the memory of her boss’s curt dismissal—“We can’t keep you after this, Elira”—still a raw wound to her pride. Solving the bookstore’s mystery, though, could be her comeback, a story to redefine who she was.

Finishing her latte, Elira steeled herself for the cold, the bookstore’s secrets worth any discomfort. She tightened her thin pink windbreaker and stepped into the downpour, dodging oil-slick puddles as she crossed the street, Aunt Agatha’s caution flickering briefly in her mind before resolve pushed it aside.

The familiar twinkling bell chimed as she entered The Rainy-Day Bookstore, her writer’s instincts sharpening, cataloging every detail. A faint musty smell clung to the air, fitting for an old building in soggy Rainharbor, where even the town’s annual Raindrop Festival couldn’t escape a deluge. The register sat atop an antique desk, flanked by a library cart of used books. Journals and stationery lined shelves near a sprawling self-help section—perhaps one held advice for when your life imploded, Elira mused bitterly. The window displayed bestsellers: a TV star’s addiction memoir, a classic novel reborn by a film adaptation, and, oddly, a set of Britannica encyclopedias, as if the buyer hadn’t noticed the internet existed. Behind the desk, a faded photograph of a stern woman in Victorian dress caught her eye, adding an unspoken history to the space.

The store’s charm enveloped her—wood paneling, cozy seating nooks, and faint inscriptions carved into shelf edges, barely legible whispers of past owners. It sprawled larger than it appeared from the street, with three levels separated by short steps, its dilapidated exterior a deceptive front. Climbing to the second level, Elira inhaled the scent of well-loved used books, a comfort she’d denied herself since arriving in Rainharbor, her emergency credit card untouched despite the ache of leaving her library behind.

Her fingers traced the spine of a worn Jane Austen novel before she chided herself—focus on the mystery. Yet, ascending to the third level, desire gripped her. Locked glass cases housed a staggering collection of rare books, treasures that made her breath catch. Peering inside, she spotted an ancient Dante’s Inferno and an early edition of Common Sense, her heart racing with awe. These books felt like old friends, a reminder of who she used to be before everything unraveled. Nothing sinister could lurk here, she thought, imagining herself lost in a chair among the stacks for hours.

“I see you’ve found my pride and joy,” a warm voice interrupted from behind, startling her.

Elira spun around with a small squeak. An older man in a charcoal suit leaned against a bookshelf, his blue eyes twinkling, though a faint melancholy shadowed his smile.

“You have an incredible collection,” she stammered, regaining composure. “How did you gather so many first editions?”

He chuckled softly, a distant look crossing his face. “Some treasures find you when you least expect, dear, if you’ve the patience for it. I’ve been around long enough to know where to look.” His gaze lingered on her, as if measuring something unseen, before he added with a wink, “A private buyer helps, of course, scouring auctions worldwide.”

Elira blinked at his cryptic tone, puzzled. He retrieved a set of keys from his suit jacket, unlocked a case, and carefully withdrew a book, his golden cufflinks glinting as he offered it to her. Her fingers quivered as she accepted it—a first copy of The Tales of Peter Rabbit. She gasped, nearly dropping it, memories flooding back of Aunt Agatha’s soothing voice reading it nightly, her hand smoothing Elira’s hair as she drifted to sleep. The book tethered her to a time when life felt safe.

“It’s a favorite,” he said with quiet pride. “A gift from a friend tied to Beatrix Potter, meant for close kin. Take a look. I’ll be at the front if you’ve questions.” His tone shifted subtly, a lingering glance as he added, “We’ve quite the collection in the basement too—bargain books for any budget.” He locked the case and retreated downstairs, leaving her stunned.

Elira sank into a chair, wiping her hands on her dress as if unworthy to touch the delicate pages. She snapped photos to send to Dr. Irving, her old literature professor, knowing she’d be thrilled and mercifully uninterested in Elira’s scandal. Time slipped away—half an hour passed before she realized she needed to write if rent was to be made. Cradling the book like a living thing, she searched for the owner to return it, unease prickling as the store fell silent, devoid of the few customers she’d seen earlier.

“Hello? Anyone here?” she called, receiving no answer. Hesitant to leave such a treasure unattended, she wrestled with her reverence, finally deciding to slip it into her laptop bag for safekeeping, vowing to return it directly. A chill crept up her spine, a sense of foreboding akin to the moment at seven when she saw a car hurtling toward her aunt’s, powerless to stop the crash. Shaking off paranoia—it was just a bookstore—she recalled the owner’s mention of the basement. Maybe he was there, and perhaps she could afford a bargain book if she scrimped.

Spotting a sign for the basement, she noted the oddity of a lock, deadbolt, and chain on the door, though it stood ajar. Descending the worn wooden stairs, each creak echoed in the damp, musty air, her footsteps reverberating off walls papered in Victorian pink and yellow florals over candy stripes—an unsettling contrast to a bookstore’s basement. Where were the bargain books? Her heart quickened as she reached the landing, a long corridor stretching before her. Doors lined the hall, some carved with flowers, shells, or obscure symbols she barely registered. Sweat beaded on her forehead, the patch of freckles on her neck tingling as Aunt Agatha’s warning flashed briefly, yet curiosity overpowered doubt.

Then, brightness flared. At the corridor’s end, a door seemed to glow, drawing her inexplicably forward. Each step felt ordained, as if an unseen thread tugged her onward, inevitable as a tide. Ignoring other doors, she approached the golden-hued wood, her palms pressing against it, feeling a faint vibration. Her heart synced with the pulsation, blurring the boundary between herself and the door, their fates entwined.

Leaning in, her cheek flush against the wood, she noticed a small, worn carving—a star, perhaps, or a sun? Her fingers traced it tenderly, chest pounding. A profound ache surged within her, a longing so sharp it hurt, yet clarity followed: whatever she’d been missing her whole life waited beyond this threshold. Destiny, fate, hope—the words danced in her mind. Smiling wider than she ever had, happier than memory allowed, her trembling but resolute hand turned the warm, sure knob.

Blinding light and utter silence greeted her, then a blast of icy wind struck her face. A faint whisper curled through the void as she stumbled forward, falling into the unknown behind the door frame.

And like all those strangely dressed people who came to The Rainy-Day Bookstore before her, Elira was gone.