The next morning, Alia awoke with the memory of his voice still wrapped around her like a dream. It was deep and steady, laced with hesitation—but it had been real. He had stood at the edge of the room, shadowed by candlelight, and confessed what his letters had only hinted at:
"Tomorrow, I'll leave you my name."
She didn't know if she had slept or simply drifted through the hours like fog over water. But when she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the desk.
And the envelope waiting on it.
She sat up slowly, brushing her hair out of her face, heart thudding. This was it. She was about to learn the name of the man who had seen her, written to her, poured pieces of himself into typed confessions. A name would make it real. Concrete. Tangible.
Maybe even dangerous.
She opened the envelope.
> "I wasn't supposed to stay here.
I came back to Greyhaven to sell the bookshop.
But then I saw you."
> "And for the first time in years, I didn't want to leave."
> "My name is Micah Whittaker.
Ezra was my grandfather. This place was my childhood, and also my escape.
I thought I'd buried it all.
Until you walked into the attic and woke it up."
Alia let the letter fall gently into her lap. Micah. The name folded into her like a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. It suited him. Strong. Quiet. Weighted with meaning.
She whispered it aloud to the empty room. "Micah."
And it felt like a secret she was ready to keep.
---
Later That Day
She returned to the bookshop.
Micah wasn't there. At least, not visibly. But something told her he was close. Always watching, waiting, careful. Like a man who wasn't used to being seen, but had desperately needed it.
She walked through the shelves—books she'd touched, notes she'd found, the photograph of a younger version of him tucked behind the register. His history was all around her now. And with the name, came questions.
Why had he never spoken to her face to face until last night?
Why had he nearly sold this place—until she arrived?
And most of all:
What was he still afraid of?
---
That Night
She left the typewriter blank. No message. Just a question—handwritten this time, folded carefully and placed on the windowsill where she knew he'd find it.
> "Micah—
You know my story.
Will you tell me yours?"
She didn't sign it.
She didn't have to.
---
Midnight came.
No knock.
No creak of footsteps.
But when she checked the windowsill…
Another letter had replaced hers.
> "There's a reason I only wrote from the shadows.
And I promise, I'll tell you.
But only if you're ready to read the part of my story
I've never told anyone else."
— Micah
---