Lizzie Thorne had always been a woman of quiet strength – the kind of strength that didn’t shout or demand attention but the type that instead simmered subtly beneath the surface. At fifty-six, she had spent the better part of her life managing the small bookshop she inherited from her mother: it was a place where dust and memories gathered in equal measure for her.

The shop, Thorne & Pages, sat cosily between a famous café and a tailor’s shop in the heart of Oxford, its window displaying a carefully curated collection of antique hardcovers and first editions. Lizzie knew every crack in the wooden floorboards, every flutter of paper settling on the shelves. Yet, despite the familiarity, a restlessness had begun to gnaw at her—a sense that life had somehow passed her by, leaving behind only the echo of what might have been.

It wasn’t always this way. There was a time when she had dreamt of more; of love, of adventure, of distant shores beyond the narrow streets of her childhood. But dreams, she had learned, were delicate things—too easily misplaced in the day-to-day rhythm of reality.

Then came Thomas, a figure from the past who reappeared on an ordinary Wednesday afternoon, as though time had never touched him. He stood at the counter, tapping his fingers absentmindedly against the wooden surface, his presence filling the space with an unsettling familiarity.

“Lizzie,” he said, his voice like the turning of an old page, “You look… well.”

She studied him: his hair was now streaked with silver, the lines around his eyes more pronounced, but still the same sharp gaze, the same effortless charm that once disturbed her carefully built world.

“Thomas.” She managed a polite smile, though something in her chest tightened. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“No, I imagine not.” He offered a half-smile, his fingers lingering over the edge of a worn leather-bound edition of Wuthering Heights. “I heard about your mother. I’m sorry, Lizzie. She was a remarkable woman.”

Lizzie nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. “She was, indeed.”

There was a pause stretched too long, weighted with unspoken things. She wondered if he could sense the years of disappointment she had buried, the unfulfilled hopes she had once tied to him like ribbons around a gift book that was never opened.

“Do you still read poetry?” he asked suddenly, his gaze flickering to the small poetry section in the corner—the same corner where, years ago, he had once recited Yeats to her in his melodic, dreamy voice.

“No, not much.” The lie slipped out, making her realize how his presence threatened to expose her vulnerability.

Thomas could not, at first, figure out what words had actually reached his ears. “Oh, that’s a shame. You know how you always make words feel alive.”

Nostalgia and regret-filled silence settled between the two, and Lizzie felt the familiar pull of what-ifs stirring inside her, but she tamped it down. She had made her choices, hadn’t she?

“Are you back for long?” she asked, carefully composing her tone so as to not give her inner thoughts away.

Thomas hesitated, something flickering in his expression—something unsaid. “No. Just passing through. Thought I’d stop by.”

She nodded, understanding the transient nature of his visit, of his life. Thomas had always been like that—untethered and restless. She, on the other hand, had rooted herself so deeply in this shop, and her life, that the thought of leaving now felt impossible.

And yet, as he lingered by the poetry section, flipping through the yellowed pages of a volume she had once cherished, a thought occurred to her: Was it truly too late?

When Thomas finally left, the small brass bell above the door jingled softly, and the shop felt quieter than before. Lizzie stood for a long moment, staring at the space where he had stood, before walking over to the poetry section and pulling down a book she hadn’t opened in years.

The pages smelled of time and longing. Then, sitting by the window, she traced the words with careful fingers, her heart beating just a little faster than before.

Perhaps dreams, she thought, were not so easily lost after all.