That was, until Imogen had spied a battered, dog-eared, tabbed copy of White Teeth that Imogen had sold her the week before in Madame’s expensive handbag.

Madame Auntie had found her love of literature. And even though she hadn’t found it until she was sixty-five, she’d been making up plenty for any lost time.

“Hello, Madame Bettache,” said Imogen when she reached the literary fiction section.

“Habibti,” said Madame, pinching Imogen’s cheeks like a proper auntie. Her scarf today was navy and yellow with nautical touches throughout. “This week, we read The Song of Achilles. Did you get my copy?”

Madame was constantly ordering copies into the store, and Imogen was constantly scrambling to find them. Half the time Imogen had to call the suppliers herself just to get the special order in. Otherwise, Madame wouldn’t get books. The scramble reminded Imogen of the way the books had been shelved recently. Like a strange scatter plot.

“Hamdullah, habibti.” Madame Auntie gave a catlike smile. “But you look sad. Are you sad? Have you been eating enough? Where is all your hair?”

That startled a laugh out of Imogen. “I’m eating plenty. Here, let me get your book.”

Imogen found the one copy of The Song of Achilles that had, magically, been included in the last shipment without Imogen having to yell at a supplier for the copy. She’d hidden it behind a stash of cookbooks on a display table especially for Madame. It was the only way to ensure Madame would have her book. Imogen didn’t understand how all the special orders were going missing in the past nine months.

After Imogen handed over The Song of Achilles and had her cheek pinched one last time, Madame Auntie simply said, “I keep looking.” And she ducked off to keep browsing for more books.

Sometimes Imogen wondered if there really was a book club anymore. Or just this woman, furiously reading the classics in her third language. It was tough to say.

A sinking sense of dread returned to Imogen. If she wasn’t able to figure out what was wrong with the store. If she wasn’t able to piece together everything that was broken, what would happen to people like Madame Bettache? Where would they go?

Not that Madame was a charity case. She clearly had money to burn. A home to live in. She was well provided for. But she seemed to come alive in the store, surrounded by stories. It was a feeling Imogen understood well. She often felt lonely around people. It was in this old store that she felt like she was a part of anything, really.

Imogen stood for a moment, as reality sank in. The store was closing. She’d broken up with her girlfriend of nine months. She should feel something. She was hoping to feel something. A regret, maybe. A pang of longing. Something, anything, to feel again.

But—nothing.