Jasmine's POV
The words had barely left my mouth when the woman flipped the bookstore's sign from "Open" to "Closed" with a decisive click.
My throat constricted, pulse hammering against my ribs. The musty scent of aged paper and melted wax surrounded me, but something darker crawled beneath my skin—the icy grip of facing the unknown.
She pivoted with fluid grace, tucking silver strands behind her ear as she approached. Those storm-colored eyes held depths that seemed far too ancient for her weathered face.
White hair caught the afternoon light, and fine lines mapped her features, yet strength radiated from her core. Time had clearly tested her, but failed to break her.
"I'm Chloe," she finally spoke. Her tone carried weight, something that made goosebumps rise along my arms.
Chloe.
The name wasn't fabricated. She existed. But Aunt Naia had never breathed a word about her. Why the silence?
"Follow me," she commanded, arms folding as she nodded toward the store's depths.
