Wendy wasn't looking for him that day. Not consciously, anyway.
She'd stopped by the bookstore to return a borrowed novel-something about lost letters and second chances-but found herself drifting toward the poetry aisle anyway.
He wasn't there.
She should've been relieved. Instead, her chest sank just a little. She turned to leave-
"Try page 47," a voice said behind her.
She spun around.
William leaned against a shelf, holding a book she hadn't noticed him pick. "You always skip to the ending. Thought I'd intervene.
She took the book, opened it to page 47. It wasn't poetry.
It was a note-tucked into the page, written in neat handwriting.
"We only get so many chances to say what we mean. Don't waste yours being safe."
She looked up, heart thudding. "Did you write this?"
He shrugged, but his eyes held hers. "Maybe. Maybe someone else left it for you,"
Wendy didn't smile. But she didn't look away either.