Leather-bound.

I wondered listlessly through the aisles, fingertips brushing over the worn leather spines of books.

I often wondered how people could part with a book. The thousands of lives lived through pages as disposable as the next, leaving them to grow dusty in dimly lit op shops.

A torn leather cover catches my eye, adorned with a faded copper foil. It's heavy in my hands, I can't even begin to comprehend the weight of it.

The pages are thicker and brown with age, I can feel the smile spread on my face as I take in the messy handwritten scrawl of black ink - from the library of august Beaugard.

I kindred soul, one who didn't discard their books, rather an unfortunate pass of hands.

I closed the book, nestling it into the nook of my arm as I made my way back through the maze of shelves to the counter.

The lady behind the counter eyed the book warily "are you sure? Looks a bit...tattered?"

"I find it quite charming."

"Right, $4, miss."

I dropped the money into her waiting hand before exiting the shop, the bell chiming softly, muffled as the door closed with a heavy thud behind me.

I pulled the collar of my coat tighter as the bitter morning air brushed against me, leaving a trail of gooseflesh over every inch of exposed skin.

I wound down the familiar cobbled streets, there was only once place I wished to be, and I only prayed that the morning rush had dwindled.

As though my prayers had been answered, I peeked through the fogged glass of my favourite cafe. The shop seemingly empty, bar a few students and a small group of avid readers, sitting huddled together next to a small fireplace.

I stepped in, letting the warmth envelop me. Quickly ordering, before settling into a plush armchair nestled in the very back corner.

I began to read then, I only noticed now that it lacked a title. Gingerly turning each page as I went, the story started somewhat sad, lovers that could not be. The protagonists struggle with his identity.

"Earl Grey?"

I jumped dropping the book at the sound of a voice close to my ear, I'd been so absorbed I hadn't heard footfalls approaching.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, I called you a few times, that book must be something special" he chuckled picking the book up from the floor and handing it back to me.

"No, please don't be, my mistake" my voice coming out as a nervous laugh as I took it "thankyou."

It had been quite some time since I found myself so enthralled by a story.

"Enjoy" he smiled, giving me a small nod before leaving.

I looked back down at the book for a moment and giggled to myself, only for it to be cut short as I noticed the edge of something black poking out from the pages.

Curiously I flipped to the back cover, strange enough the leather there was far thicker than that of the front. I was amazed to find a crudely carved hollow there, off-centre at best out and there sat askew, a tiny black book.

The contents were written in that same messy scrawl that had called to me. Dates without years littered the top of each page.

I stopped then, my fingers shook with an odd air of excitement, Yet the conflict of reading someone's journal laid heavy on my mind.

Despite it, curiosity bested me.

The first page dated may ninth, began to describe August's feelings towards his neighbour, An Older boy. He explained how the book felt like his own story. Quoting a particular page number he noted came from the third chapter 12 lines down I flicked through the heavy book and found it.

'I felt it then when his gaze met mine, it sent flames along my skin that settled in my bones'

I sipped the tea as I read, the entries grew sadder, more lonely as they referred to particular parts of the book, I couldn't help shed a few tears.

The last entry was incomplete, it seemed to have been cut off mid though

'How I wished for nothing more, though family can be harsh and unforgiving, he-'

I flipped the page, only to find the small book's back—no more entries just a blank page. At the very bottom, in barely comprehensible print was his name and an address.

I froze then, my breath caught as I reread it a third time.

My own address stared back at me, taunting almost.

I stood abruptly, the forgotten half-finished tea spilt from the cup in cold splashes; but I paid no mind to it and all but ran from the shop took clutched tight to my chest. It was darker now, I had no idea how long I had been sitting there pouring over the pages. I let my feet carry me there, ignoring the burn of my lungs as I ran.

The black iron gates of my tiny cottage came into view. The whites of the roses that wound through them a stark contrast.

I slowed my feet and leaned heavily along against the iron. Letting the cold of it bite into my skin.

To the left lay nothing but an empty plot of land littered with trees, both dead and alive.

My eyes wandered over to the right, a cottage almost identical to mine sat there. However, decay was evident even from this distance.

In my rush I had missed the silhouette of a man sitting in the porch, he gave off the airs that he was awaiting guest.

For the second time today, I found the overwhelming need to quell my curiosity. I had run all the way back, though I hadn't spared a thought as to why.

His gaze snapped towards me as the creak of his gate rang out, though he didn't utter a word he just watched as I walked the small path to his porch stopping at the first step.

I shifted my weight nervously.

"Hello, mister, I was wondering if I could ask you a question?"

He was far older than I had first guessed, his hair was thin to the point of baldness, his skin like crumpled paper.

"What is it you need, darling?" His voice was deep and scratchy from disuse.

"If it's not too rude to ask, I wonder how long you have lived here?" I couldn't keep the waver from my voice.

"What an odd question." though I didn't miss the twinkle in his eye, I briefly wondered how long it had been since he had someone to converse with.

"My father built both this cottage and the very one you live in." He said, pointing towards my home "though I grew up in that one.

My chest grew tight for a moment as I pieced the information together.

"August?" I asked tentatively.

"Now darling, how is it that you know my name?"

I didn't bother to answer; instead, I stepped closer and placed the book on his lap.

He froze for a moment, his hands shaky with age shook even more so as he flipped the cover, his name coming into view.

"Ahh, I see" he mumbled not bothering to look up.

He flicked to the back where the little black book was nestled back in its hollow.

"This is a book very close to my heart, I had thought it gone for a very long time... my I ask where you found it?"

"There's a small op shop not far from here..." I trailed.

"Ahh, how very fitting, how it ended up in the first place we met."

He placed the black book gently on the bench next to him before he tore at the hollow. The glue came unstuck, and a tiny key fell to the ground. I picked it up for him, yet he shook his head. Placing his hands over mine, folding my fingers over the brass.

"This book here is my heart, take this as a thank you."

"what's it for? "

"There is a small little door in the kitchen, old and built into the wall, this key will open that for you."

The key felt heavy in my hand, burdensome, though I didn't have the heart to deny his thanks, I could see it in his eyes he would not accept any other answer.

I hesitated for a moment "What was his name, the boy you wrote about?

"Spencer." His smile graced his feature, tinged with sadness.

"Did- no never mind, I'm sorry for prying." I inwardly cursed.

"Despite the words I penned, after, I was blessed to have loved him when I could, though our time together was short, it was full."

I smiled at that, watching as he stood.

"It's getting dark. Thank you, darling, I feel as though I can sleep with a light heart tonight" He shooed me off the porch with a glint of humour.

I waved and watched as he closed the door behind him. The soft click of the door locking rang sharp.

I walked straight to the cupboard once I got home, the brass lock stared back at me.

I hadn't thought much of it beforehand, just a quirk of the house. I slid the key into the lock it swung open on squeaky hinges.

I gasped at the piles of money that stared back at me, stacked neatly, my brain fogged as I lost count.

I couldn't accept it, I would not, I'd give it back to him first thing tomorrow morning.

My eyes caught on something at the back the cabinet before I closed the door. I reached in, pulling out a slightly marred sepia photograph.

Two men stared back, their brilliant smiles brought my own to the surface in August's unmistakable scrawl down the bottom 'August and Spenser.

***

The next morning voices carried through wind, and I stuck my head out of the window to see where they were coming from.

A small crowd had gathered around Augusts home, my heart dropped heavy in my chest, and I ran barefoot all but jumping the little fence.

"what happened? I asked a woman who hung at the back of the crowd.

"August passed last night, his nephew found him this morning" my tears fell then "he passed in his sleep." I walked back home, where I sat and sobbed for what seemed to be hours over a man I had know for minutes.

Though it felt like far more.

One year later :

I'd made it a weekly routine to stop by August's and Spenser's grave, his nephew, had listened when I relayed their story and laid him to rest where he longed to be.

I read to them every Saturday morning, paragraphs of books filled with adventures and love.

I Had tried to give the money August had left me back to his family, how a man of his age had kept $20,000 locked away and hidden was a feat of its own. Though I was met with more refusals than I could count. So I did the only thing that felt right at the time.

Something that I could honour them by.

My keys jingle in my hand as I walk the cobblestone streets into town.

I smiled as I took in the storefront of what had previously been the op shop. Now in green and gold foil, the store read August and Spenser book store.

I unlocked the door, flipping the sign to open and turning on The lights, and settled behind the counter. I had left the shop much the same, though the books stacked neater, some even new, blank journals lined the once empty wall.

Next to the door was a small glass display. Inside sat a rosewood frame holding a sepia photograph, a worn leather book and hidden inside, is that little black book.