Rain pressed against the windows of Elara's bookstore like fingers begging to be let in. Outside, the world was gray and soaked, but inside, The Dust Jacket was warm, wrapped in the scent of aged paper and cinnamon tea. A slow jazz vinyl turned on the record player behind the counter, crackling faintly like an old memory trying to come alive.
Elara Quinn stood in the poetry aisle, staring at a hardback she must have shelved a hundred times. Her hand hovered above the spine but never touched it.
Something in her chest pulsed.
She didn't know why.
She only knew that lately, the silence in the store didn't feel peaceful anymore. It felt hollow. As if something had been pulled from the seams of her life, and the stitches hadn't healed properly.
"Miss Quinn?"
She turned at the voice. A college kid with an armful of books smiled at her, breaking the moment.
"I'm ready to check out."
Elara nodded. "Of course."
She rang him up, slipped the receipt into one of the store's signature lavender-scented bags, and thanked him like always. But as he left, she caught her reflection in the glass door. The same messy bun. The same tired eyes. The same smile she'd been wearing like a mask since…
Since when?
She didn't know. Couldn't remember.
But the ache in her chest said she had once known something—someone worth missing.
That night, after locking up and dimming the lights, she retreated to the back room. The small space doubled as an office and a graveyard for unsorted donations. A stack of leather-bound journals teetered dangerously near the edge of the desk.
Elara reached for one at random, pulling it open with the curiosity that always crept in after midnight.
The pages were blank except for the last one.
It held a single sentence, written in ink that shimmered like oil:
"To forget is mercy."
Her fingers tingled. She should have closed it. Tossed it aside. But instead, she flipped back to the front cover.
A pen rolled out.
Not an ordinary pen, this one was heavy, warm, etched with silver vines. The tip shimmered even in the low light, as if already dipped in memory.
Something in her gut twisted.
She didn't know why, but she felt it.
This was the thing that changed her.
It had started a month ago, during a thunderstorm that painted the city in sharp flashes. She had wandered the aisles late into the night, pacing like a ghost, restless, pulled by something she couldn't name.
The pain had returned first, a deep, soul-level grief she couldn't explain.
Then the dreams came. Dreams of warmth. Of laughter. Of soft hands brushing her cheek. Lips on her shoulder. The sound of someone humming in the kitchen.
But she could never see the face.
Never remember the name.
The dreams always ended with her whispering, "I'm sorry."
To someone who no longer existed.
Now, she held the pen again, and the truth unfolded in her memory like a rose blooming from ash.
She had used it.
She had written a sentence.
She had erased someone.
Elara stumbled back from the desk, breath catching. A flood of emotions surged in—grief, panic, love so strong it shattered through her ribs like lightning.
Rowan.
The name slammed into her mind like a tidal wave.
Rowan Rivera. Laughing in the rain. Holding her hand at Pride. Kissing her behind the counter. Crying on the kitchen floor after their last fight.
She remembered everything.
And it broke her.
The journal was a spellbook. The pen, a key. Somewhere between rage and heartbreak, she had scrawled one line on a torn page and sealed it with tears:
"Let me forget her."
And magic, real, raw, living had obeyed.
She had wiped Rowan from her mind. From the memories of everyone she knew. Friends stopped asking. Photos disappeared. Phone numbers turned blank. Even the universe bent to protect her from the pain she thought would kill her.
But now, the veil had lifted.
And Elara had never hated herself more.
The bell over the door jingled.
She wasn't expecting anyone. It was nearly midnight.
Her pulse quickened. She stepped back into the main store, keeping to the shadows between the aisles.
A woman stood by the display table near the front, running her fingers over the spines of new arrivals.
Elara froze.
It was her.
Rowan.
She hadn't changed much. Same honey-brown curls pulled into a loose braid. Same scar on her wrist from the time she broke a glass during a kitchen dance battle. Same presence warm and sharp and impossible to ignore.
But her eyes were distant. Searching.
She picked up a book, flipped through a few pages, then looked up—right at Elara.
"I didn't mean to scare you," she said gently. "I saw the light. Thought maybe you were open late."
Elara stared at her, mouth dry.
Rowan didn't recognize her.
Of course she didn't.
Because Elara had written her out of existence.
"I… we're closed," Elara finally said.
Rowan nodded, apologetic. "Sorry. I'll just wait, have we met before?"
Elara's breath caught.
"No," she whispered. "I don't think so."
But her heart screamed yes.
Rowan tilted her head. "You look… familiar."
Elara couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
Rowan smiled a little, and Elara felt like collapsing. "Nice place," she said. "I'm kind of new in town. Just… looking for somewhere to feel less alone."
Elara's voice cracked. "Books help with that."
"Yeah," Rowan said, stepping closer. "They always do."
She set the book down gently and turned to go.
"Elara," she blurted.
Rowan paused. "Sorry?"
"My name. Elara."
Rowan smiled again, softer this time. "Beautiful name."
And then she left.
Leaving Elara in the half-light, clutching the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
That night, she opened the journal again. But this time, she didn't reach for the pen.
She didn't write.
She just stared at the blank pages, letting the weight of her mistake fill the silence.
She had asked to forget to stop the pain.
But now that she remembered, she knew the truth:
Love is meant to hurt sometimes.
Because the moments that break you are also the ones that make you real.
She closed the journal and locked it away.
Because some things shouldn't be rewritten.
Some things deserve to be lived.
Even if they haunt you.