Chapter 6

Isabella's POV

I lean against the bookstore door, listening to the footsteps fading outside.

The guests are gone. Katya helped clean up most of it before leaving: plates stacked neatly, champagne glasses washed and inverted by the sink, only that half-cut cake standing alone on the table. A note is pressed beside the cake:

"Isabella, rest well. Call me if you need anything. —Katya"

I clutch the paper, fingertips tensing, throat feeling blocked by something.

How do I explain this to them? How do I say—"sorry, the relationship you witnessed might have been a joke from start to finish"?

My phone still lies on the counter, screen pitch black. Marcus hasn't sent another message, hasn't called. Maybe he's busy "catching up" with Olivia. Maybe he's certain I'll do what I always do—wait for him to reach out first, then soften, forgive.

But not this time.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself away from the door, standing straight.

Clean the bookstore first. Put things in order. Everything else... tomorrow.

I start mechanically tidying what's left: pack the cake into the fridge, smooth and fold the tablecloth, return chairs one by one to their places. Each movement precise, practiced, yet hollow as if disconnected from me—as though by cleaning away tonight's traces piece by piece, this night could be neatly torn from memory.

Halfway through, I stop.

My gaze falls on a row of bookshelves—the section near the window, next to Marcus's usual spot, those old books he always casually flipped through, sitting quietly in place.

Crime and Punishment, The Stranger, Andersen's Fairy Tales...

He said he liked these books, said they had "depth." But now, thinking about it, was he really reading them?

I walk over, pull Crime and Punishment from the shelf. The cover is frayed, spine severely worn—one of Mom's collection. I instinctively lighten my touch, carefully opening the title page.

A string of numbers catches my eye:

N40.7128 W74.0060.

I freeze for a moment.

What is this... coordinates?

I pick up my phone, fingers slightly unsteady. Search results quickly appear—New York's latitude and longitude.

Why would there be coordinates on the title page?

I continue flipping. Page three, line five has an almost imperceptible crease, page twelve, line eight has another. After careful examination, I discover these creases are distributed too "regularly," not like marks left from casual browsing.

My heartbeat becomes irregular.

I pull out The Stranger. Same format, same strangely aligned creases in similar positions, title page also bearing a string of coordinates.

Then Andersen's Fairy Tales—the title page reads "Andersen," below it a seemingly random string of letters and numbers.

These don't look like ordinary reading notes. This is... what?

I realize my hands are trembling slightly. Mom taught me many book restoration techniques before she died, including how to identify information hidden in old books—some collectors hide secret messages between pages, some antique dealers use invisible ink to mark authenticity. But these markings are unlike anything I've seen.

They look more like some kind of systematic code.

Why would Marcus make these marks in my books? What is he really doing?

I spread the books on the counter, brighten the lamp, pull out a notebook from the drawer, recording every number, every crease position. Halfway through writing, Mom's voice suddenly flashes through my mind—

"Isabella, old books speak. You need to learn to listen."

Old books speak.

This thought pulls my mind toward the storage room. Mom's diary is still there, kept with her restoration tools.

The storage room is small, packed with books awaiting repair and cluttered toolboxes. The air carries a stale mixture of paper, glue, and metal. Squeezing to the very back, I find that dark blue notebook in an old wooden box. The cover slightly faded, but corners still well-preserved.

I sit cross-legged on the floor, open the first page, seeing that familiar handwriting:

"Old books don't just carry stories, they carry secrets."

I flip through page by page, most recording restoration methods, paper types, ink formulas, occasionally mixed with observations and complaints about the old book market. Reaching a certain middle page, I stop.

"The old book circulation in Maple District is somewhat abnormal. Certain books frequently come and go, but the buyers' identities are suspicious. I need to record this."

My stomach tightens. I continue to the next page.

"Confirmed. Someone is using old books to transmit information. The marking method is very concealed—coordinates, creases, author names... This isn't ordinary collecting behavior."

My fingers brush across the paper, I hear my breathing grow heavy.

Another page:

"I can't make this public. If my suspicions are correct, the forces behind this are too dangerous. But I must leave a record, just in case."

The last page, ink seems slightly smudged, handwriting visibly trembling:

"If something happens to me, tell Isabella—old books speak, learn to listen. The notes will protect her."

The notebook slips from my hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Mom, what did you discover? And why would you "have something happen"?

Three years ago, the doctor said sudden heart attack. But thinking back now, she was indeed abnormal in the time before her death—always looking tense, often staying alone in the storage room until late, sometimes suddenly going downstairs at midnight to check doors and windows; when asked, she'd only say "too tired."

Back then I thought it was too much stress. Now these details seem newly illuminated.

If Mom discovered something; if Marcus is also using the same method...

I crouch down to pick up the notebook, fingers gripping its edges tightly.

Then did Marcus approach me with ulterior motives from the very beginning?

This thought is like a cold knife, slowly piercing into my heart.

I close my eyes, force myself to take a breath, make myself calm down.

Can't jump to conclusions. I need more evidence.

I close the notebook, gather those marked books, carry them into the storage room, lock them in the innermost safe. After confirming the door is secured, I turn off the bookstore lights and go upstairs to my apartment.

That night, sleep comes with particular difficulty. Every time I close my eyes, I see those numbers, those creases, and the final trembling of Mom's handwriting. By the time dawn breaks, I'm exhausted, but a certain resolve has become clear.

The next day passes with unusual slowness.

I try to fill myself with daily work: dusting shelves, organizing inventory, helping a few scattered customers find books and check out. But whenever I look up, my gaze uncontrollably drifts to the clock, watching the hands slowly crawl toward two o'clock.

At two o'clock sharp, the doorbell rings.

Marcus appears at the entrance. He's still wearing last night's dark blue suit, but the tie is loosened a notch, his usually impeccable hair slightly disheveled. He pushes through the door, instinctively scanning the bookstore before finally settling on me.

"Isabella." He approaches a few steps, voice carrying cautious inquiry. "Are you... okay?"

I stand behind the counter, hands folded, fingertips pressed against the wooden edge, trying to appear composed.

"I'm fine." I say. "You said we should talk, so let's talk."

He stops at the counter, seeming to search for an appropriate opening.

"About last night..." he begins. "I know you misunderstood. Olivia and I did have something, that was three years ago. This time she came to Nova City for work, happened to contact me to catch up. That's all."

"Catch up." I repeat the phrase, as if seriously examining its meaning for the first time.

"Yes." He nods. "There's nothing between her and me anymore. You're my girlfriend, that's never changed. We can continue together, just like before. I'll still come to the bookstore often, help you restore old books, help you run this place. Nothing will change."

"Come to the bookstore often."

The moment he says this, that string in my heart suddenly tightens further.

"Why?" I ask. "Why must you 'definitely' come to the bookstore often?"