The sandwich was dry. She'd told Maria she would eat it, but halfway through, Niah had already started regretting her life choices. The bread was soggy from the tomato, while the lettuce had given up totally.
She ate it anyway.
By the time she returned to the counter, Maria was knee-deep in a heated argument with the printer.
"You need to stop threatening the printer," Niah said, as she sat down.
Maria glared at it. "It's possessed. You'll see one day."
Niah chuckled under her breath. "You've been saying that for two years."
"And I'll keep saying it until someone performs an exorcism." Maria retorted, still glaring at the printer.
Just then, the bell above the door rang, and in walked a burst of sunshine in the shape of Jules, her childhood best friend.
Jules was an orphan who managed to built a life from the ashes of her loss and now owns a flower shop just a street away from Greenbell. She usually drops in during her lunch breaks or during off-hours just to check in on Niah, bringing in the occasional pastry or chaos; sometimes both. Jules is fiercely protective of Niah and sees Greenbell as a second pit stop, particularly when things are slow at her flower shop.
Maria likes her, though she'd never admit it directly, and Niah relies on her for those little moments of loud, chaotic friendship she otherwise lacks.
Bright red scarf, matching lipstick, and her signature energy that made Niah's quiet feel less lonely and more… okay.
"Hello, my moody bookworms!" Jules declared dramatically, throwing her arms wide as if she were stepping onto a grand stage.
Maria groaned, rubbing her temples as if Jules enthusiasm had physically manifested into a headache. "Why are you yelling?"
"I have had three coffees," said Jules, grinning unapologetically, "and I'm living my truth."
Maria fixed her with a deadly stare, her eyes narrowing like she was mentally filing a complaint. "You're giving me a migraine."
Totally unconcerned, Jules whipped out a paper bag with flair and let the inside scent of warm pastries drift into the air.
"I brought pastries," she said sweetly, like she hadn't just caused auditory chaos moments before.
Maria perked up so fast it was almost suspicious, her expression morphing in an instant from suffering to outright delight.
"You're forgiven." declared Maria, waving her hand off, with a small smile on her face.
Niah smiled, already feeling lighter. Jules always did that, burst into a moment like a warm breeze. She didn't ask questions which Niah wasn't ready to answer. She just…existed beside her like a support system.
They sat tucked behind the counter, the smell of buttery croissants curling through the warm air, crumbs gathering between their fingers as they swapped stories half-nonsense and half-complaints.
Maria was dramatically gesturing mid-rant about customers who completely disregarded the 'DO NOT TOUCH' signs. "I swear, they see the sign and think it's a suggestion instead of a warning."
Jules snickered, popping a bite of pastry into her mouth. "Maybe we need stronger wording. Something terrifying like... 'Touch and face eternal judgment?'"
Maria snorted. "Not a bad idea."
Meanwhile, Jules leaned over, nudging Niah's elbow. "There's an art exhibition this Friday. You're coming."
Niah didn't even look up. "Too many people. No."
Jules raised an eyebrow, smirking. "You don't even know how many."
Niah finally met her gaze, utterly deadpan. "Any number above three is too many."
Jules laughed, shaking her head. "You might be beyond saving."
Maria lifted her croissant in a toast. "Welcome to the club."
* * *
By the time the sun began to dip behind the hills, Greenbell was closing.
Niah flipped the "OPEN" sign to "CLOSED," wrapped up the returned books, and turned off the small lamps. The bookstore took on a magical quality in evenings: warm glows in quiet corners, the scent of old pages, and Maria humming softly to herself in the backroom.
She didn't want to leave but she did.
* * *
Her apartment was a short walk, tucked up on the second floor of an old stone building smelling of dust and someone else's curry. It wasn't big in there. A kitchen that tried its best. The sofa was older than she was, and the bed creaked if you so much as looked at it.
By the time Niah had made it to the creaky stairwell, a shrill voice emanated from the bottom floor like clockwork. "Miss Niah! You didn't lock the garbage lid again! You'll invite rats and revolution!"
She winced. "Sorry, Madame Hellen," she called back with practised guilt, and swiftly quickened her pace.
Madame Hellen was a fixture in the building, part landlady, part surveillance system, and part unstoppable force of nature. Her floral muumuus were louder than her voice, and that was saying something. Rumor had it that on one occasion she chased a burglar out of the building with nothing but a mop and her husband's war medals.
Niah reached her door, twisted the finicky key and slipped inside.
She dropped the bag, kicked her boots off, and stared into the kitchen like it was a battlefield.
"Right," she muttered, shaking her head "Dinner."
She tied her hair up like she was preparing for war and pulled out a pan. Eggs? Or...maybe pasta. With a frown on her face, she checked the pantry.
"Spaghetti it is."
Fifteen minutes later, the kitchen was filled with smoke, the pasta glued to the pot, the sauce suspiciously burnt, and Niah waving a towel at the smoke alarm as if it had personally betrayed her.
"Okay, okay! I get it, I suck!" she yelled at it. The alarm stopped.
She glared at the pasta, now a tragic blob in the sink. She poured cereal instead.
Lounging back on the couch in her pyjamas, bowl in lap, Niah let out a sigh. "Gourmet, as usual," she muttered.
Then softer, to no one in particular, "Why do I even try?"
* * *
Later, she lay under the weight of blankets, staring at the ceiling. Her room was small, filled with stacks of books and one flickering string of fairy lights she refused to take down. The rain had returned, gentle now, like a lullaby.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
But just before she slipped under —
A whisper, heard near her ear. "You are safe."
Niah didn't move nor react. She just merely whispered back, half-asleep, "...Thank you."
And the rain kept falling.
* * *