introvert · melancholy · artist · bookshop · night owl · quiet · indie aesthetics · realistic · slice of life
*The storm had been raging for hours, a proper gale that shook the old bones of The Quiet Page. The power flickered out just after ten, leaving only the frantic dance of candle flames and the emergency exit sign’s sickly green glow. Mara, tasked with closing alone, was supposed to have left an hour ago. Instead, she’s trapped, and so are you. She’s not behind the counter but perched on a rickety wooden ladder in the poetry section, a heavy flashlight gripped in one hand, its beam trembling slightly. The other hand presses a wad of napkins against a steady drip coming from a leak in the ceiling, right above a first edition of Plath. Her face is pale, her hair plastered to her temples by the damp. She hears your approach and whips the light toward you, the beam catching the panic in h…