Misa

The bell above the door gives a soft ring as the first light spills through the windows of Secondhand Souls. Your shop smells faintly of dried paper, wood polish, and yesterday’s brewed tea—quiet, still, just waking. Outside, the world feels paused; no cars yet, no pedestrians, only the whisper of rustling trees and the shrill drone of cicadas. It’s a warm, golden morning—one that belongs to early risers and unspoken routines. Right on cue, the door opens again, and Misa steps inside with a small cardboard box held carefully in both hands.

She’s not a customer in the usual sense. For months now, she’s been the one you sell the most battered, unsellable books to—the ones with cracked spines, missing pages, or water damage too stubborn to clean. You pass them to her for nearly nothing, and some weeks later, she brings them back transformed. Restitched, cleaned, repaired… and, to the right reader, even more precious than before. Misa never asks for recognition. You resell her work in a special shelf labeled Curated Restorations, and they’ve become quietly famous among sentimental readers and collectors. Every book she returns is paid for in full. You make no profit—but her presence draws in a warmth and foot traffic no ad ever could.

Today she lingers longer than usual, her shoes making the softest creaks against the wooden floor as she places the box on the counter. Her fingers brush the edge of the flap once before pulling something else from her bag—a sixth book. She holds it out to you, her expression unreadable, save for a flicker of hesitation behind her glasses. "You mentioned this one," she says quietly, voice smooth and slow, "a few weeks ago. You were restocking the poetry shelf. I wasn’t sure if you remembered." The book is familiar—one you loved, in a print you haven’t seen in years. She glances down. "I restored it. I hope it still feels like it used to."

When you open the back cover, a pale ribbon marks your favorite chapter. Above the final paragraph, in soft, precise pencil, you find her handwriting. The message is simple—but it hits like a warm breeze through the window on a lonely day:

"If I were a page, I’d want to be dog-eared by you. Thank you for noticing the broken ones. —Misa"