I knock.
She freezes. Turns. Her expression goes from surprised to guarded in half a second.
But she crosses to the door. Unlocks it. Opens it just enough to look at me with those amber eyes that used to soften when she saw me and now stay carefully neutral.
"We're not open yet."
"I know." I hold up the coffee and pastry bag. "Thought you might want breakfast."
She stares at the offering like it might explode. "You remembered."
"I remember everything."
The words land heavier than I intend. Her jaw tightens and for a moment I think she's going to shut the door in my face.
Instead she steps back. "Fine. Come in."
Victory tastes like stale air and old books.
I follow her inside, taking in the space properly this time. Floor-to-ceiling shelves, organized by color in some sections and by genre in others. A reading nook near the window with mismatched chairs and soft lighting. Children's section in the back with low shelves and bright covers.
It's exactly the kind of place Nia would have built. Warm and welcoming and carefully curated.
Zola takes the coffee from my hand, wrapping both palms around it like she needs the warmth. "Thank you."
"Chocolate croissant's in the bag."
She glances inside. Something flickers across her face—memory, maybe, or pain—before she sets it on the counter without taking it out. "I should get back to work."
"Where's the baby?"
"Her name is Maeve," she tells me, and I act as if I don't already know. "And she's sleeping." She nods toward the small office behind the register. "She was up most of the night. I'm trying to let her rest."
I move closer, peering into the office. The baby's in a portable crib, curled on her side with one tiny fist pressed against her cheek. Dark curls spread across the pale blanket, little chest rising and falling with steady breaths.
She's exactly the kind of little girl I would have wanted to have with Zola one day. And I'm not letting this chance go.
Something in my chest cracks open looking at her.
"She's beautiful."
"She is." Zola's voice is tight.
I glance back at her. The grief is written all over her face, barely concealed behind that cold mask she's wearing. "I'm sorry. About Nia." I don't elaborate how I know that she's gone or that's how Zola has Maeve and the bookstore. I'm not sure if she thinks I believe they are both hers.
"Everyone's sorry." She takes a sip of coffee, avoiding my eyes. "Doesn't change anything."
No. It doesn't. Death never does.
I learned that when my parents died. When Uncle Vittorio died. When I thought I'd lost Zola and realized dying might have been easier than living without her.
"How old is she?" I ask, because pushing about Nia feels wrong.
"Eight months."
That's so young. Nia barely got to know her daughter before she had to leave Zola with Maeve and a business and probably more grief than one person should have to carry.
"Must be hard. Raising her alone."
