The first thing Evan Sinclair noticed about Tokyo was how the light moved.

  It wasn’t harsh like the bright, brash sunshine of London or diffused like the heavy grey skies he was used to. Here, the late afternoon sun poured down in golden rivulets, turning even the most ordinary alleyways into something almost cinematic.

  He adjusted the strap of his weathered backpack and wandered aimlessly through Daikanyama’s narrow streets. His flight had landed that morning, and though jetlag tugged at his senses, Evan had refused to waste a single moment. His plan was simple: no plans. Just a camera slung around his neck, a notebook in his back pocket, and the endless city unfolding before him.

  It was then — tucked between a coffee shop and a boutique selling handmade scarves — that he found it.

  A bookstore.

  It wasn’t flashy, didn’t even have an English sign. Just a worn wooden board hanging above the door, faded kanji characters etched by time, and a window displaying a scatter of vintage paperbacks. The smell of ink and old pages seemed to seep out onto the sidewalk.

  Almost without thinking, Evan pushed open the door.

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  A little bell above the entrance chimed, and the scent hit him full force — a mix of dusty paper, polished wood, and something sweet, like cherry blossoms after the rain. He stepped inside, careful not to disturb the almost sacred hush.

  Rows upon rows of books lined the walls, reaching up to a ceiling that was just a little too high for such a tiny space. Most of the titles were in Japanese, but here and there he spotted translations: Murakami, Austen, Kawabata, Hemingway. Time seemed to slow.

  And then he saw her.

  Sitting cross-legged on a worn leather armchair by the window, a girl was reading. Her hair was tucked loosely behind one ear, revealing the soft line of her jaw. A denim jacket hung over the back of her chair, and an untouched cup of coffee sat cooling on the table beside her.

  She wasn’t doing anything extraordinary — just reading, one hand absentmindedly brushing her hair back, her lips moving slightly as she traced the words.

  But Evan froze, heart thudding strangely in his chest.

  As if sensing his gaze, she looked up.

  Their eyes met.

  Something electric passed between them — quick and sure, like a thread pulling tight between two distant shores.

  Evan opened his mouth, half-formed words scrambling to find shape, but nothing came out. The girl blinked, startled, then gave a small, polite bow of her head, the way strangers did in Japan, before returning her attention to her book.

  Evan cursed inwardly.

  Say something, you idiot.

  But the spell had been broken, and somehow, it felt wrong to approach her now — to clumsily insert himself into this peaceful world she had woven around her.

  Instead, he wandered between the shelves, pretending to browse, stealing glances when he thought she wouldn’t notice. She didn’t look up again.

  Fifteen minutes later, he found himself standing outside the bookstore, blinking against the sun, the encounter already beginning to feel like a dream.

  He hadn’t even bought a book.

  He walked down the street, heart lighter and heavier all at once, wondering if he would ever see her again.

  Not knowing that fate had already decided:

  They would meet again.

  And the next time, he wouldn’t let her slip away so easily.