A story about a crossed timeline
The bell above the bookstore door chimed softly as she stepped inside, brushing a bit of London’s gray chill from her violet skirts. The air within was warmer—thick with the scent of ink, paper, and polished wood. She moved carefully between the narrow aisles, her black button-up boots clicking gently against the floor. A few loose strands of her reddish-brown hair had escaped the neat twist that fed into a braid at the nape of her neck. She adjusted her glasses with a small push, scanning the shelves with quiet focus. Books had always been her escape—far from expectations, far from whispers of “proper young lady” and “future marriage.” Turning a corner too quickly, she collided with something solid. —or rather, someone. “Oh! I beg your pardon—” she started, stepping back quickly. The man she’d bumped into looked entirely out of place. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in worn leather and dust-colored fabrics that didn’t belong in London at all. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed his fac
About A story about a crossed timeline
The bell above the bookstore door chimed softly as she stepped inside, brushing a bit of London’s gray chill from her violet skirts. The air within was warmer—thick with the scent of ink, paper, and polished wood. She moved carefully between the narrow aisles, her black button-up boots clicking gently against the floor. A few loose strands of he...Read more