The bookstore smelled like old stories and quiet rain.

Ren Kazuki stepped inside, shaking droplets from his jacket. It was the same little shop he’d been visiting for years — tucked between a closed tea house and a faded laundromat. The bell above the door gave a soft chime, unnoticed by the elderly owner asleep behind the counter.

Ren liked that. The silence. The comfort. The way the shop felt untouched by time.

He ran his fingers along the spines of books, looking for something he hadn’t read yet—or maybe something familiar enough to feel safe. He paused when he saw an old copy of Norwegian Wood. The corners were frayed, the cover faded, but something pulled him to it.

He opened it, and a folded piece of paper fluttered out.

Curious, Ren knelt down and picked it up. The page was soft with age, edges wrinkled like it had been touched too many times. A faint water stain curled along the top, as if it had once been soaked in rain.

The handwriting was neat but trembling. There was no date. No name.

“I wonder if anyone hears the thoughts we never speak. If silence is just another kind of screaming. If missing someone you’ve never met is even possible.”

Ren blinked.

He read it again. Slowly.

Something about it gripped him—not just the words, but the feeling behind them. As if someone had opened their heart in ink, folded it shut, and left it to be found. It wasn’t a love letter, not exactly. But it felt personal. Intimate.

He turned the letter over. Nothing on the back. No clue who had written it.

And yet... it felt like it was meant for him.

---

The next day, it rained again.

Ren returned to the bookstore. This time, he searched on purpose. He wandered the aisles, choosing books at random, flipping through the pages.

And there it was.

Another letter.

Tucked into The Bell Jar.

“I see you sometimes. Walking past the window. You never notice me, and that’s okay. I think I wouldn’t know what to say anyway.”

He exhaled, heart quickening. Was this a game? A journal someone had scattered across bookshelves? A secret?

He didn’t know who was writing them, but it was like each letter was breathing — warm, vulnerable, and alive.

---

At school, everything felt the same… except Ren didn’t.

He started to notice things more. The way people talked. The way they avoided silence. He wondered what kind of words they kept locked inside.

And then there was her.

Yuna Saito.

She sat near the window in their literature class. Quiet, always. She took careful notes. Never joined in gossip. And sometimes, Ren saw her staring out the window like she was trying to remember something from a dream.

He wondered…

Could it be her?

No—how could it?

Still, his eyes lingered.

---

Ren started saving the letters. He folded them neatly into a journal. He’d read them at night, over and over, wondering about the person behind the words. Someone who saw the world like he did. Someone who wrote pain like poetry.

He didn’t tell anyone. It felt too sacred. Too strange.

But inside, something was stirring. Something new.

A wish. A pull. A hope that whoever was writing those letters wasn’t just leaving pieces behind…

…but waiting to be found.

---To be Continued

Ren couldn’t stop thinking about the letters.

They weren’t just words anymore. They felt like echoes of someone’s soul—someone kind, observant, maybe a little lonely. Someone who saw the world the way he did… quietly, deeply, and in passing details.

That Friday, he returned to the bookstore once more. The owner gave him a drowsy nod as he wandered toward the classics section. His hands moved slower now, eyes scanning not just for titles, but for clues.

Then he found it.



Inside a worn copy of Wuthering Heights, between chapter five and six.

Another letter.

 “If I could be brave for just one moment… I’d tell you that it’s you. I write these because I don’t know how to speak them. I leave them here hoping someone—maybe you—will read them and understand.”

Ren’s heart skipped.

It was meant for someone. Not just anyone. Maybe… him?

The idea was terrifying. And thrilling.

But it left a question burning at the back of his mind: who was writing them?

In class, Yuna sat like always—quiet, composed, never quite there. Ren studied her more carefully now. The way her eyes flicked toward the window during roll call. The way she gently chewed the end of her pencil when thinking. How she walked through the hallway like she belonged to a quieter world.

He didn’t want to assume. But something in him stirred every time she looked away and the light caught her face.

He gathered his courage after class.

“Hey,” he said gently as she packed her notebook.

She turned, surprised. Her eyes—brown and soft like the edge of autumn—met his.



“Hi,” she replied, unsure.

“I—I was wondering…” Ren paused, scratching the back of his neck. “Do you ever go to Kanda’s bookstore?”

Yuna blinked. Then smiled faintly. “Sometimes. Why?”



Ren’s throat tightened.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just smiled, awkward and crooked. “It’s a nice place.”

She tilted her head slightly, curious. “Yeah. It’s quiet.”

They stood in silence a moment longer before she nodded politely and walked away.

Ren watched her leave, a strange mix of relief and confusion churning inside him.

Later that night, he opened his journal.

Nine letters now, all pressed between pages, all written in the same elegant, uncertain handwriting.



Each one chipped away at the wall he kept around himself.

He flipped to the latest one again, tracing the final line.

“…maybe you will read them and understand.”

Understand what?

That someone was trying to reach out?

That words could be lifelines?

That maybe, just maybe, love didn’t have to begin with answers—it could begin with questions.

The next morning, there was a letter waiting for him—not in a book, but in his locker.

Neatly folded. No envelope. No signature.

“I saw you in the bookstore yesterday. I almost said hello. But I couldn’t. Not yet. Still… I think you know now. Or you’re starting to.”



Ren stared at it, his hands trembling slightly.

The letters weren’t random anymore.

They were meant for him.

Someone saw him. Not just his face, but his quietness. His wondering. His loneliness.

He pressed the note to his chest and closed his eyes.



Rain tapped softly on the windows outside.