My blood is humming with the familiarity and newness of this place, my throat closing with something caught between hunger and reverence. I haven’t managed to read a single book since Jenna died, but my whole body leans in to this discovery as an insistent gust of wind blows from behind and disappears into the store, ruffling the pages of a book propped open on a small table display.

Jenna brought me here. I can feel it.

My eyes are eager, frantically dancing around the room. To my left, beyond a patchwork assortment of welcome mats, is what looks like a beloved family living room. There are mismatched couches and plush armchairs. A stone fireplace sits unassumingly in the middle of the room, with framed pictures on the mantel. A low chaotic din fills the air, a buzz from the patrons draped in various levels of comfort across the homey furniture. They’re all holding the same book, some gesturing with wineglasses and others flipping idly through their copies. A book club. They are sirens lounging along the rocky seascapes of Orman. As I watch, an old man in a dubious plaid tank top says something that causes the entire group to break into laughter. The sight is storybook warm and makes my insides feel like Christmas and hot tea.

I can practically feel my camera back in the car, like a forgotten extension of my body, framing the photo in my mind as clearly as if it were already a print. Home Sweet Bookstore. It would be slightly cheesy and nostalgic and perfect.

The ping of a cash register draws my eyes to a woman behind the long wooden counter on my right. Her bright copper hair and white skin glow beneath the light of a rustic chandelier, giving her an ethereal look. She seems neither particularly young nor particularly old. She talks animatedly to a little boy who stands on tiptoe to pay for his small stack of books with a jar full of bills. Feeling my gaze, she stops midsentence and our eyes meet.

“Are you going to keep that door open all evening? We’re not here to cool all of Michigan, you know.” Her voice is both regal and exasperated, one of those people who make complete strangers feel like they belong. Someone like Jenna.

Sheepishly, I turn to close the door behind me, but before I can, the sound of clicking toenails rushes up behind me and a solid furry mass runs full force into my knees, pushing me forward. I manage to catch myself in a less-than-graceful scramble before my face hits the ground, but my palms and dignity are scratched, and my knees will most definitely bruise from hitting the lip of the door frame.

“Wally!” a male voice booms. “That’s a bad dog! For shame!”