Chapter 180: Chapter 180

Morning sunlight spilled through the open window, warm and gold, catching the edge of the wooden kitchen table.

Billy moved around the kitchen barefoot, sleeves rolled up, flipping a stubborn pancake that refused to cooperate.

From behind him came a low, sleepy voice.

"You’re burning it again."

Billy glanced over his shoulder. "You’re burning it again," he mimicked, then stuck his tongue out. "Why don’t you make it, Mr. Pancake Perfectionist?"

Artur stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his bare chest, hair still messy from sleep. He grinned. "Because I’m not the one who insisted I had it under control."

Billy turned back to the pan, muttering, "Well, I mostly do..."

Artur stepped forward and slipped his arms around Billy’s waist from behind. "Mm, smells like charcoal and pride."

Billy laughed, swatting at him with the spatula. "Let me focus before you end up eating shame for breakfast."

"Wouldn’t be the first time," Artur teased, but he kissed the back of Billy’s neck before pulling away to grab plates.

A few minutes later, the table was set—slightly uneven pancakes, scrambled eggs, and toast that leaned too close to golden brown.

They sat across from each other, and Billy raised a brow. "So... not the worst breakfast you’ve ever had, right?"

Artur cut into the pancake, chewed, and gave an exaggerated pause. "Still chewing. That’s a good sign."

Billy threw a piece of toast at him.

They were mid-laughter when the front door creaked open. Mr. Dand stepped in, brushing dust from his shirt.

"Morning," he said, eyes sweeping toward the table. "Ah, I see pancakes made a comeback."

Billy blinked. "Hey! That sounds suspiciously like doubt."

Mr. Dand raised both brows as he pulled out a chair. "No, no. Just—fond memories of last month’s pancake incident."

Artur tried to hide his laugh behind his coffee.

Billy narrowed his eyes at them both, muttering, "Betrayed in my own kitchen..."

Dand settled down, then leaned forward. "Anyway—just came to tell you two. Festival prep is officially starting this afternoon."

Artur looked up. "Already?"

"Mm-hmm," Dand nodded. "They’re starting with the banners and flower strings. If you’re less busy today, the village committee could use some extra hands."

Billy perked up. "Decorating?"

"Balloons, ribbons, banners," Dand confirmed. "The usual. I told them I’d ask you both. No pressure—unless you want Mrs Meri chasing you with a ladder again."

Artur groaned. "That woman nearly made me paint the school roof last year."

Billy laughed. "Sounds fun."

"You say that now," Artur muttered.

Dand stood again, stretching. "Just drop by the square when you’re ready. I’m heading over to help them move supplies."

As he left, Artur leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "There goes our quiet day."

Billy smirked. "You love it."

Artur tilted his head. "Maybe."

Billy stood, grabbed the last pancake, and leaned down to kiss his forehead. "C’mon, Mr. Pancake Perfectionist. Let’s go get em."

The late morning air was soft and quiet, the kind that hinted summer hadn’t quite let go yet.

Billy tucked the last pancake into his mouth, chewing as he reached for his bag.

Artur was lacing his boots near the door. "You sure she said today?"

Billy nodded, grabbing his cap and flipping it backward. "She said tomorrow, and that was yesterday. So unless she’s counting village-style time..."

Artur smirked. "Village-style time means three days from now."

Billy waved him off. "Too late, I’m already hopeful."

They stepped outside, the sunlight falling gently across the narrow path leading down to the row of old shops at the edge of the village square. Roosters crowed lazily behind them.

Billy adjusted his pace to match Artur’s, fingers hooked casually in his back pocket.

"You think she’s actually selling it?" he asked after a pause.

Artur shrugged. "Maybe. She didn’t say no. She just said come back today."

"That’s not a no," Billy said, then gave Artur a quick grin. "That’s at least a ’maybe, but I want to see how serious you are.’"

Artur chuckled. "So what’s your plan? Charm her with your pancake-making skills?"

Billy clutched his chest dramatically. "Ouch. That’s twice today."

"Just being realistic," Artur said, smiling into the distance.

They turned the corner, the narrow road curving past a small fruit stall and the old tailor’s shop.

The bookstore sat in its quiet corner, just like before—small, faded blue sign above the door, and potted plants that looked like they hadn’t been watered in weeks.

Billy stopped in front of it. "Still looks the same."

Artur gave him a look. "It’s been one day."

Billy snorted. "Still. Let me have my poetic moment."

The little bell above the door chimed as they stepped in.

The familiar scent hit them immediately—dust, paper, and something warm underneath it all.

The same woman from yesterday stood behind the counter, rearranging a stack of paperbacks.

Her glasses were perched at the end of her nose.

She glanced up, not surprised. "Right on time."

Billy straightened a little. "Didn’t want to risk Mrs Nora chasing me instead."

Artur lifted his brow toward him. "She’s really using that line today."

Mrs Nora smiled. "I remember what I said. You wanted to know if this place was for sale."

Billy nodded. "Yeah. Or lease. I’m not picky. I just... I don’t know. I think I could do something with it."

She stepped out from behind the counter, her cardigan sleeves pushed up, revealing ink-stained fingers. "It’s not much. But it’s got shelves, light, and a back room that used to be a little café. Not that it ever worked."

Billy blinked. "A café?"

She nodded. "Coffee, tea, a few old tables. Kids from the school used to come by after class. That was years ago."

Billy pictured the shelves full, the back wall bright with new paint, a single table by the window catching the morning light.

Artur watched him silently.

The woman studied Billy’s expression. "You look like someone who already sees it."

Billy looked back at her. "I think I do."

She exhaled. "I wasn’t planning to let it go. But you’re not just anyone, are you?"

Billy hesitated. "No. I guess not."

Artur finally stepped forward. "He’s serious. Even if his pancakes say otherwise."

The woman smiled again, then nodded slowly. "Alright. Let’s talk numbers."

She led them toward the back, pushing open a creaky wooden door that revealed a small, dust-lined room.

The air shifted—slightly warmer, as if it still remembered the scent of cinnamon tea and half-finished essays.

"This was the café," she said, gesturing to the old counter with a chipped edge and a forgotten stool in the corner. "Nothing fancy. Just somewhere quiet."

Billy stepped inside, running his hand along the worn surface of the counter. "It still has something."

Artur leaned against the doorway, arms folded. "Could use a fresh coat of paint."

"And new pipes," the woman added. "The last time anyone made coffee back here, I think my son was still in school."

Billy smiled faintly. "Good bones, though. Like the place is just waiting to be used again."

She watched him carefully, noting the way his eyes traced the walls, the way his fingers lingered where the paint had peeled. "You’re not from here. But you speak like someone who wants to stay."

Billy turned to face her. "I don’t have a long list of answers. But I know how this place made me feel yesterday. It wasn’t just the books or the dust or the quiet. It felt like... something I’d been missing."

There was a pause. Then she pulled out a folded envelope from the pocket of her cardigan. "Here. A rough breakdown. Lease, not sale. I’m not ready to give it up entirely—not yet. But I’ll step back. It needs new hands."

Billy blinked. "You were prepared?"

"I’m old, not blind," she said. "I saw the way you looked at the shelves yesterday. That mattered."

He took the paper, scanning it briefly before glancing up. "This is fair. Really fair."

"I’m not interested in squeezing every last coin out of something that was meant to bring peace to people."

Artur finally stepped inside, resting his hand on the doorframe. "Looks like you’ve got yourself a place."

Billy looked over at him, something soft passing between them. "Looks like I do."

She walked toward the window and opened it, letting in the breeze. "If you want it... I’ll start clearing out this weekend. The old keys are still in the drawer."

Billy stepped closer. "Then I guess I’ll be back tomorrow—with cleaning gloves."

She smiled. "You’ll need them."

As they walked out together, she locked the door behind them and handed Billy a temporary key. "You’re part of this village now. Even if you don’t realize it yet."

Billy took it gently, fingers closing around it like it was more than just metal. "Thank you."

She nodded, then turned and walked down the opposite lane, leaving the two of them alone in the sunlight.

Artur shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing at him. "You good?"

Billy looked down at the key—cool metal warming in his palm—and then at the old bookstore behind them.

For the first time in a long while, the word ’stay’ didn’t feel heavy.

’Yeah,’ he murmured. ’I think I am.’

They started walking back toward the village square, the scent of fresh bread drifting on the air, laughter echoing from down the road.

The festival preparations had begun—but something else had quietly started too.