Tucked away on a quiet cobblestone street, hidden between bustling cafés and old antique stores, was a little bookshop that few noticed. It had no glowing sign, no modern window display—just a wooden door with a tiny golden bell that jingled whenever someone stepped inside.
It was in this very bookshop that Evelyn found herself on a rainy afternoon, seeking shelter from the sudden downpour. The scent of old paper and warm vanilla tea filled the air, wrapping around her like a cozy blanket.
She wandered through the narrow aisles, running her fingers along the spines of forgotten stories, when she noticed something odd—a small envelope, peeking out from between the pages of a worn-out poetry book. Curious, she pulled it free. The paper was soft with age, and in elegant handwriting, it read:
“For the one who believes in love stories.”
Her heart skipped a beat. Inside was a letter—beautiful words about longing, hope, and the belief that love, like a favorite book, always finds its way back to the right reader.
Evelyn smiled, enchanted by the mystery. Who had written this? And more importantly, who was meant to find it?
Lost in thought, she barely noticed the sound of soft footsteps behind her.
“Excuse me,” a voice said gently.
She turned and found herself looking into the warm, hazel eyes of a man about her age. He had dark, tousled hair, and his hands were tucked nervously into the pockets of his coat.
“I—I think you found my letter.”
Evelyn blinked. “Your letter?”
He smiled sheepishly. “I work here. I started tucking letters into random books, just to see if anyone still believes in a good love story.”
Evelyn held the letter closer to her chest. “And what if no one ever found them?”
His smile softened. “Then I’d still believe. But… you did find one.”
A silence stretched between them, not awkward, but filled with something unspoken—like the pause before the best part of a story.
“What’s your name?” Evelyn asked.
“Leo.”
She glanced back at the poetry book. “Then, Leo… tell me. How does this love story end?”
Leo chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether the girl who found the letter lets me take her to coffee.”
Evelyn laughed softly, shaking her head. “That’s a terrible ending.”
Leo’s face fell slightly. “It is?”
She smiled. “Yes. Because I think it’s just the beginning.”
And so, in a quiet little bookshop filled with forgotten pages and old love letters, a new story began—one written between coffee cups, stolen glances, and the gentle turning of pages side by side.
Read more bedtime stories for your girlfriend.
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