A Page Turned
Liat
The air smells like Christmas, crisp and cool with just a hint of cinnamon and pine lingering from the street vendors’ carts. I clutch the worn, tattered book to my chest as I wander through the shopping district, marveling at how Beverly Hills could transform into a winter wonderland despite the ever-present California sunshine.
Strings of twinkling lights crisscross above the cobblestone street, casting soft glows against the store windows. A giant Christmas tree towers in the center of the square, its ornaments gleaming like little treasures. Children dart between clusters of shoppers, their laughter mingling with the distant sound of carolers serenading the crowd with “Deck the Halls.”
I pause for a moment, pulling my coat tighter against the breeze. It’s not freezing, but it is just cold enough to make me wish I’d grabbed my scarf before leaving home. Still, I can’t help smiling. Christmas has always been my favorite time of year—despite everything that’s happening right now.
The book in my hands is warm, though, and not just because of the way I cradle it close. Its battered leather cover radiates the kind of comfort that only years of love can give. I run a thumb across the spine, careful not to let any more of the cracked leather flake away.
“You’ve been through a lot,” I murmur to the book, as if it can hear me. “Let’s hope this shop can give you the second chance you deserve.”
The sign for Blackwood Press comes into view just ahead. Tucked between a boutique jewelry store and a coffee shop, the store’s simple wooden sign swinging lightly in the breeze. Its lettering is old-fashioned, black against aged white wood, and looks nothing like the glitzy gold storefronts that surround it. That, somehow, feels right.
I stop in front of the door, my pulse quickening. Will the person inside understand what this book means? Will they see it as more than a ruined artifact or just another job?
“Hope for the best,” I whisper, steeling myself as I push the door open. A little bell jingles overhead, and I step into the scent of ink and paper, a world away from the bustling street behind me.
The scent of ink and paper wraps around me as I step inside. The soft chime of the bell fades quickly into the quiet hum of the shop. It’s not silent, though; faint sounds of movement drift from behind the counter, where a man is hunched over a workbench.
He doesn’t look up, his focus entirely on the task before him. His hands move with careful precision, a paintbrush delicately tracing over the spine of an old, worn book. I watch for a moment, intrigued by the way his brow furrows in concentration, a strand of dark hair falling across his forehead.
I clear my throat softly, but he still doesn’t seem to notice. It’s not impatience that keeps me from saying anything else—it’s curiosity. There’s something calming about watching someone so immersed in their work, as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist for him right now.
Still holding the book close, I take a step further into the shop, letting my eyes wander. The space is small but warm, lined with shelves filled to bursting with books in every state of wear. A long wooden table in the center displays an assortment of tools—tiny brushes, clamps, bottles of glue—and a pile of loose pages waiting to be reunited with their bindings.
On one wall, a shelf catches my attention. The sign above it reads Restored Books: A Second Chance to Be Loved. I step closer, scanning the titles. Each one looks like it’s been through its own battle—covers patched, pages smoothed—but there’s a sense of pride in the way they’re displayed, as if they’ve been brought back to life.
I smile to myself, running a hand lightly along the edge of the shelf. This place already feels like it might be the right one, like it’s filled with the kind of care and reverence I hoped to find.
Behind me, I hear the faint scrape of a chair being pushed back, followed by the quiet click of footsteps.
“Can I help you?”
The voice is deep but soft, with just a hint of uncertainty, as if he isn’t used to talking to people much. I turn to find the man from behind the counter now standing a few feet away, his hands still dusted with what looks like fine golden powder. His expression is guarded, but there’s a kindness in his eyes that makes me feel like I’ve come to the right place.
Alaric
The bell over the door jingles, but I don’t look up. Not right away. I’m too focused on the spine of the book in front of me, brushing a touch of gold powder into the lettering. Restoring a title like this takes precision, and it’s the kind of work I live for—the kind that pulls me out of my head and into something tangible, something real.
Still, I feel the shift in the air, like a faint ripple. I glance up, and that’s when I see her.
She’s standing by the restored book shelf, her fingers just brushing the edge of it. The first thing I notice is her smile. Bright, warm, the kind of smile that seems to light up a room even if she isn’t trying. Her eyes are soft, deep brown, and there’s something about the way she stands—her petite frame bundled up in a coat too big for her—that makes me feel like I’ve walked straight into a Hallmark card.
I clear my throat, stepping out from behind the counter. “Can I help you?”
When she turns to face me, her gaze meets mine, and for a second, I forget what I was doing. The gold powder still clings to my fingers, the apron I wear over my clothes is dusted with glue marks, and I suddenly feel like I should’ve at least combed my hair this morning.
“Oh, hi,” she says, her voice soft, lilting, like she doesn’t want to disturb the quiet of the shop. “I was just admiring your work. These books”—she gestures to the shelf—“Did you restore all of them yourself?”
I nod, grateful to have something to talk about, something to focus on other than how striking she is. “Yeah. Every one of them came in pretty rough, but with some care—and time—they’ve all been brought back to life.”
She steps closer, her eyes scanning the titles. “They’re beautiful. It must feel so rewarding to do this, to save something that would’ve been lost otherwise.”
I swallow, unsure what to say. Most people don’t get it, not really. They just see old books as old books. But she… she sees them the way I do, like they’re worth saving.
“It’s… fulfilling,” I manage. “Every book has a story, you know? Not just the one inside it, but the people who’ve held it, loved it. That’s worth preserving.”
She smiles again, and it’s like the room gets a little brighter. “That’s beautiful,” she says softly. “Not everyone thinks that way.”
I’m about to respond when my gaze shifts to the book she’s holding close to her chest. It looks… rough. Worn leather, cracked and faded, with the edges barely holding together. It’s the kind of book that’s been through hell but is still clinging to life.
“Is that…” I gesture toward the book. “Something you were hoping to have restored?”
She hesitates for a moment, clutching the book a little tighter, and I catch a flicker of something in her expression. Nerves? Or maybe something deeper, like the weight of a story she’s been carrying.
“It’s been through a lot,” she says finally, stepping closer to the counter and placing the book down gently, as though it might crumble under the slightest pressure. “But it wasn’t always like this. It was… treasured, for years. My grandfather gave it to my dad, and he always kept it in perfect condition.”
I lean forward, letting my fingers brush the edges of the leather cover. Even without opening it, I can see how far it’s fallen from perfect. The spine is warped, the pages swollen, and there’s a faint tide mark running across the bottom edge—water damage.
“It’s old,” I murmur, more to myself than to her. “But this… this is recent, isn’t it?” I trace the water line gently, careful not to dislodge any of the fragile leather.
She nods, her shoulders sinking slightly. “Yeah. It was in a flood. My parents’ house in Florida… the hurricane destroyed almost everything. This was one of the only things we could save.” Her voice softens, and there’s a warmth in it, even as she talks about something so devastating. “It’s not just a book to us. It’s part of our family. My dad used to read it to us every Christmas Eve when I was little.”
I glance up at her, and the way her eyes shine—not with tears, but with the kind of emotion that cuts deeper—makes my chest tighten. She’s not just telling me about a book; she’s telling me about her life, her family, her memories.
“What book is it?” I ask, my voice quiet.
She smiles, and for the first time, it looks like hope more than sadness. “A Christmas Carol.”
I blink, my gaze snapping back to the cover. My pulse kicks up, excitement threading through me as I realize what I’m holding. Carefully, I lift it, my thumb brushing over the faint embossing on the front. It’s almost completely faded, but I can make out the ghost of the original title.
“This…” I breathe, the history of it practically radiating through my fingertips. “This is incredible. It’s not just old—it’s a first edition, isn’t it?”
She nods, and the pride in her expression makes me smile. “I think so. My grandfather bought it when he was young—spent a fortune, according to my dad. He passed it down, and it’s been part of our family ever since.”
I feel a flicker of awe, a kind of reverence that only comes with something this rare, this significant. But more than that, I feel her hope—this quiet, desperate hope that I’ll be able to bring it back to life.
“I can restore it,” I say, my voice steady. “It’ll take time and care, but… I can do it.”
Her smile widens, and for a moment, it’s like nothing else exists but her and this book and the connection that’s forming between us.
“I know it’s a lot to ask but if possible, I wanted to gift it back to my father for Christmas,” she clears her throat, masking some emotions. “He thinks he’ll never see it again and I know it would mean so much to him.”
“Christmas,” I repeat, letting the word settle as I glance back down at the book. A project like this, especially with how fragile it is, would usually take longer. But the thought of her father opening it, the way her voice softened when she mentioned gifting it to him—it stirs something in me I haven’t felt in a long time.
I round the counter, tugging at the ties of my apron as I go, hoping the motion will ground me. My fingers fumble slightly as I pull it over my head, and I force myself to breathe, to focus. My thoughts are spinning, though—not just about the book, but about her.
Running a hand through my hair, I grab a clipboard with the intake forms and a pen, turning back to her. She’s watching me with an expression that’s hard to read—part curiosity, part something warmer.
“I think I can have it ready by Christmas,” I say, offering a small smile as I hold out the clipboard. “It’ll be close, but… I’ll make it work.”
Her eyes light up, and the smile she gives me is like stepping into sunlight. “Really? That’s amazing. Thank you so much.”
“It’s what I do,” I say, trying to sound casual, though my chest feels tight. She takes the clipboard, her fingers brushing mine as she does, and I feel an inexplicable jolt.
As she fills out the form, I find myself watching her, the way her brow furrows slightly as she writes, the way her long brown hair falls over her shoulder. I should look away—should stop staring—but there’s something magnetic about her, something that makes it hard to focus on anything else.
When she hands the clipboard back, our fingers brush again, and I clear my throat, setting it on the counter. “I’ll give you a call once it’s ready,” I say, hoping my voice sounds steadier than I feel.
She nods, her smile softening. “Thank you again. This… it means a lot.”
“It’s my pleasure,” I say, and I mean it.
She starts to turn toward the door, and a quiet panic rises in me. If she leaves now, will I ever see her again? Will she just be another customer, another fleeting face in the shop?
“Wait,” I say, the word slipping out before I can think.
She pauses, looking back at me, her expression curious.
“I was just thinking…” I rub the back of my neck, feeling uncharacteristically flustered. “If you’ve got time, there’s a coffee shop next door. I, uh, go there sometimes to unwind. Maybe I could buy you a cup? As a thank-you for trusting me with the book.”
Her smile brightens again, and for a moment, I swear my heart skips a beat. “That’s sweet of you,” she says, her voice soft. “But you don’t have to thank me for that.”
“I want to,” I say quickly, then realize how eager I sound. “I mean… it’s no trouble. Really.”
She hesitates, and I feel the tension stretch between us, warm and electric. Then she nods. “Okay. Coffee sounds nice.”
