Chapter 7

Isabella's POV

He seems caught off guard by my focus on this phrase, freezes for a moment, then quickly puts on that familiar gentle smile.

"Because I like it here," he says. "I like the time with you."

"Is that all?" I look into his eyes, not dodging or avoiding.

His expression imperceptibly stiffens for an instant, then immediately softens again.

"Of course." His smile unchanged. "Isabella, what are you suspecting?"

I stare at him, seeing that flash of alertness in his eyes.

"I'm suspecting," I say, slowly drawing a breath, "why you walked into my bookstore in the first place."

He's clearly stunned. After a second, he repeats almost identically what he's said before:

"I told you, I was looking for an out-of-print poetry collection." He answers. "Then... I was attracted to you. The way you restore old books, your quietness, your love for books... these all fascinated me."

"Really?" My tone is light. "Then do you remember which poetry collection you said you were looking for?"

A brief blankness crosses his face, as if the background process froze for a moment.

"Rilke's poetry collection." He answers, but that hint of hesitation is glaring as a needle.

"Which one?" I immediately follow up. "Duino Elegies or Sonnets to Orpheus?"

"Duino Elegies." He quickly adds.

I nod, pull an elegantly bound poetry collection from the shelf behind me, place it on the counter.

"This is the one I found for you two years ago." I look at him. "Do you remember?"

Marcus's gaze falls on the book, silent for a few seconds.

"Of course I remember." He says, but doesn't reach to touch it.

"Then do you remember," I continue, "what you said to me after you got this book?"

His brow furrows slightly, as if trying hard to recall. "I said... I said thank you?"

"No." I shake my head. "You said: 'Actually I just wanted an excuse to come see you again.'"

His pupils contract slightly.

Surprise surfaces on his face first, followed by an awkward smile of being caught.

"Isabella," his tone becomes gentler, carrying that soothing quality I once knew so well, "you're really overthinking. Back then I was just nervous, can't remember exactly what I said. But my feelings for you are real, every moment we've been together these two years is real."

"Really?" I abruptly shift the topic, pull out Crime and Punishment from under the counter, open the title page, turn it toward him. "Then what about this?"

Marcus's expression finally shows obvious change.

He stares at those numbers, brief panic flashing in his eyes, quickly suppressed.

"What is this?" He frowns, trying to look confused. "Just a string of numbers, probably marks left by the previous owner."

"Previous owner?" I pull out The Stranger and Andersen's Fairy Tales, open their title pages, place them side by side on the counter. "Then what about these? Why do the books you most often read happen to have such neat markings?"

Marcus is silent for a moment, as if weighing what to say. After a pause, he sighs lightly, adopting that "helplessly indulgent" expression.

"Isabella, you're really too sensitive." His voice softens further. "I just have a habit of jotting things in books. The numbers might be page numbers I recorded, or codes for some reading insights. You know I'm busy with work, sometimes I use abbreviations to save time."

"Page numbers?" I stare at him. "N40.7128 W74.0060, these are page numbers?"

"That might be some data I recorded," he adjusts seamlessly, "coordinates or parameters related to filming. Isabella, I'm an actor, I often encounter various coordinates, time codes and such at work. Sometimes when I don't have paper at hand, I just jot them in books casually, nothing special."

His explanation is barely logical, tone controlled appropriately—if I knew nothing, these words would be enough to dispel my doubts.

But looking into his eyes, there's something I've never seen in him before—an over-trained calm, like standing on thin ice while pretending the lake surface is unbreakable.

"Why do you make these marks in my books?" I ask, voice not loud but refusing to sidestep. "You could use your phone, use a pocket notebook. Why specifically these old books?"

"Because when I'm here, they happen to be at hand." He almost follows my question seamlessly. "And you know, I like the texture of old books. Writing on paper feels better than typing on a screen."

As he speaks, he steps closer, reaching out his hand, wanting to hold mine. This gesture is too familiar, so familiar I almost respond out of habit.

But my body steps back before my mind catches up.

His hand freezes mid-air, the hurt in his eyes not quite fully performed.

"Isabella," he lowers his voice further, as if coaxing a frightened child. "I know last night hurt you, but please believe me, there's really nothing between Olivia and me anymore. As for these marks, it's just my work habit. If you don't like it, I won't write anything in your books anymore. Okay?"

He looks sincere, attitude sufficiently "humble," this routine I know too well.

If it were the old me, I might have softened, believed him, told myself I was overthinking.

But Mom's diary words keep appearing in my mind—

"Someone is using old books to transmit information. The marking method is very concealed—coordinates, creases, author names..."

I slowly release my clenched jaw, my voice steadier than I expected when I speak: "Marcus, I won't continue with you."

His expression completely freezes in an instant. "What?"

"I said," I enunciate each word, "we're over."

"Isabella, what are you saying?" His tone quickly becomes urgent. "Just because of last night? I can explain—"

"Not because of last night." I interrupt him. "It's because I no longer trust you."

"You don't trust me?" His voice rises half a degree. "Just because of these baseless speculations? Isabella, I've already explained, it's just a work habit—"

"Maybe it is." I say. "But maybe it isn't. Either way, I don't want to continue anymore."

He stares at me, emotions in his eyes beginning to churn—first surprise, then disbelief, then slowly rising anger, and a deeper, harder-to-identify coldness.

"Are you sure?" He asks, the warmth in his voice gradually fading. "Are you sure you want to end our two-year relationship because of these unclear suspicions?"

"I'm sure." My voice doesn't waver. "And please, don't come to my bookstore anymore."

Silence spreads between us.

After a long time, Marcus takes a deep breath, the last bit of softness in his eyes slowly extinguishing, like someone personally turning off a lamp.

"Fine." He says. "Since you've already decided, I respect your choice."

He turns toward the door. Reaching the entrance, he pauses, looks back at me.

"Isabella," his tone flat as if stating something unrelated to us, "I hope you won't regret this."

The door closes behind him with a crisp sound.

I stand behind the counter, watching his figure disappear at the end of the street, hands gripping the counter edge so hard my fingertips turn white.

I won't regret it.

Whatever he's really doing, whatever these marks mean, I won't regret it.

The afternoon light shifts, retreating from the window edge bit by bit into the store's depths. Time moves forward as usual, I try to stuff myself back into routine: continue organizing newly arrived old books, reply to supplier messages, change the water for the dying baby's breath in the vase.

But whenever my gaze falls on the counter, those books I pulled out act like magnets drawing my eyes.

By the time night falls, pedestrians on the street are sparse, streetlights lighting one by one. I turn off most lights, leaving only the warm yellow reading lamp above the counter. The circle of light is like a small island, enclosing me, Mom's diary, and those marked books.

I spread open the pages, trying once more to find patterns in these numbers and creases—what locations do the coordinates point to? Is the crease distribution some kind of code? Do the author names hint at something?

The more I think, the more confused; the more I look, the worse my headache. These marks are like a locked door, without a key, can't even pry open the crack.

Maybe I should find Mr. Caldwell.

He's a retired detective, had a good relationship with Mom before she died. If Mom really discovered something, she very likely talked to him.

This thought barely forms when the doorbell suddenly rings.

I instinctively look up.

Outside the door, a small figure is peering in through the glass—

A child.