Chapter Four: The Call

I planned to be at the counter when the door first opened and meant it.

Then the phone lit up with one word that ends conversations.
“Stat.”

There are jobs you can ignore for an hour. Mine is not one of them. And when that call comes, you go. Fast. I started up the ’67 and it roared awake like a battle-dragon torn from its tether, hungry for the road. It took me to the city fast and loud, the kind of sound that turns heads and clears lanes.

I don’t talk much about the work I do outside the shop. It’s the kind of calling that demands all of you when it calls, hands steady, mind sharp, no margin for hesitation. It needed me, and you don’t ask if it can wait until after your grand opening. I choose to trust my team, my court as they like to be called and trust the magic I built into the shop.

Around noon, the tent outside The Velvet Chapter was too hot. They pulled the snack table inside, cold drinks still sweating in tubs of ice, little snacks turning the line into a moving picnic. The line wrapped through the shop, curling past the table where fantasy and romance kiss, voices low and warm, like the hum of a story being told in many threads at once.

I was two counties away, gloved and focused, while a different kind of story opened without me.

When I finally pulled back in and parked at the shop, I cut the engine and felt the fatigue from the hours before still in my bones. Beneath it, though, ran a current of anticipation, an electric buzz to see what had unfolded here while I was gone. The Petaluma sky was clear and brushed with a soft pink from the setting sun, and for a moment, it just felt good.

The tally someone marked by the register read 422.

Four hundred and twenty-two people had come through the door!

I took it in piece by piece, like a post-op check. The counter. The stacks. The snack table now half-empty. The air still smelled like sawdust and candlelight and new paper. I wanted to be sad I missed the first hour, the first sale, the first everything. I wasn’t. Not exactly.

Because the pull that had yanked at me for months had changed. The ache that sent me searching through other shops felt quieter now, like a muscle that finally unclenched. Opening the doors did something I cannot explain. It set something right.

The silver hairpin sat above the checkout. Right where I placed it. Waiting. I touched it with two fingers. Cool metal. Familiar weight.

If she had walked in, I think she would have noticed. That is how I know she has not come. Not yet.

There is a wall in the shop with sticky notes in all colors. People wrote wishes, thank-yous, and inside jokes. Some were simple: “Congrats.” “This store is gorgeous.” “This place is magical.” Others made me smile for different reasons: “Save a horse, ride a cowboy.” “STFUATTDLAGG”… if you know, you know.

One note in particular made me pause. It didn’t give a name. Just a few words about magic.. I caught myself wondering if whoever wrote it felt the same pull I do. The sense that this place was meant to be, that it’s already becoming something larger than me, larger than her. A community. A living, breathing thing that’s only going to grow. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the path that will lead her here.

I found myself hoping that people would share what they saw here, the photos under The Velvet Chapter signs, the videos of the shelves, the notes on the wall, until they traveled so far they landed on her screen. I imagined those pieces of this place finding their way into her feed, filling it with velvet and paper and light, until she couldn’t help but come see it for herself.

I’m full of a different kind of happiness now.. watching strangers show up and make this space their own, seeing the shelves empty and the walls fill with color, knowing this story is already bigger than the one I started.

And still, I find myself glancing toward the door, listening for footsteps I’ve never forgotten. Every day this place grows, the chances grow with it. Maybe she’ll walk in next week, or next month, or on some ordinary afternoon when I’m not expecting her. Until then, the shelves will keep filling, the walls will keep speaking, and I’ll keep waiting…

Chapter Three: The Door

I didn’t know it would feel like this.

Like the moment before a story begins, not the first line, but the breath before it.
The shop is finally real. The paint has dried, the shelves are full, and the air smells like sawdust, fresh paper, and the kind of candlelight that keeps secrets.
And yet… it still feels like I’m waiting for something.

For her.

I never learned her name, but I remember everything else.
The way her eyes lingered on the fantasy shelf. The way she smiled like we shared a story only we knew. The silver hairpin.. forgotten, fallen, now resting in my drawer like a promise.

For weeks, during business trips across Northern California, I wandered through bookstores in every town I landed in.
I told myself it was casual. That I just liked the quiet.
But it wasn’t the stories I was looking for. It was the moment.. the one I’d lost too soon.

And when I almost gave up searching… this idea started whispering to me.
Not just a bookstore. A signal. a keeper’s Flame. A chapter written in velvet.

So I built it.
The Velvet Chapter.

Most days, I pulled up in my green '67 Mustang.. its engine growling like a dragon that refused to be tamed. I told myself I was just here for the buildout, the paint, the shelves… but I think I was always listening. Always hoping I’d look up and see her standing in the doorway.

Every detail was for her.
The shelf where fantasy and romance kiss.
The softest music, the warmest light.
And beneath the counter… her silver hairpin. Waiting.

And maybe it’s foolish, romantic in the most ridiculous way.
But there’s a part of me that believes she’ll walk through that door.

Maybe not tomorrow.
Maybe not next week.
But someday.

Maybe this whole thing is just a romantic notion, something people roll their eyes at and say “he got carried away,” that “bookstores are a bad business move.”

But I’ll be here.

Watching the door.

Because some chapters don’t begin with introductions.
Some start with a feeling.

And if she ever finds her way to this little shop in Petaluma,
she’ll know..

this was always our next page.

Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction, written not by a novelist, but by someone with a bookstore full of dreams and a soft spot for spellbinding stories. Ashen isn’t real (probably). But the magic that inspired this place absolutely is.

I don’t claim to be a writer. I just believe in stories that leave the lights on in your heart a little longer.

If you're curious about the real story behind this shop, the less dramatic, but just as romantic, all you have to do is ask when you visit. I’d love to tell you. -Matthew

Chapter One: The Bookstore

I wasn’t looking for anyone that day. Honestly, I was just killing time. The little shop in the San Francisco Ferry Building was tucked between a florist and a baker, lit like a secret. Smelled like rain, flowers and a dozen unread stories.

She didn’t rush either.

She came in like she belonged there, dripping coat, flushed cheeks, fingers already unfastening the top button like she needed to breathe. Her eyes flicked across the titles like they were old friends. She moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly where to find what she needed. And yet… she lingered.

Near the fantasy shelf, she reached for the same book I had just started to extend my hand toward…

Our fingers brushed. She didn’t flinch.

She looked up, met my gaze, and smiled like we were in on the same joke. “Everyone thinks they’re the first to find this one.”

“I wasn’t,” I said.

“But you wanted to be.” she replied quickly.

She let go of the book, letting me take it. Her fingers, warm from her gloves, brushed mine again, felt intentional this time.

“Do you ever think about how characters meet?” she asked, eyes lingering on mine. “Like… if the timing had been off by a second, the whole story wouldn’t exist.”

“All the time,” I said. “Those first pages matter more than people think.”

She nodded, thoughtful. “I like when they meet by accident. Like fate had to shove them together.”

“Even if it’s only for a chapter?” she asked curious.

“Especially then.” I replied, noticing how she was drawing me in with every question.

She smiled.. something secret tucked behind it.

“I don’t usually talk to strangers in bookstores,” she said, almost like she was trying to convince herself it was a bad idea. Her cheeks flushed a soft pink. “But there’s something about you that makes it feel like I’ve met you before.”

I smiled. “Maybe in a past life. One with better weather.”

She laughed lightly, then caught herself and cleared her throat. “I’m not actually from here. I’m just in the city for the day. My uncle passed, and I have to go back home… to Petaluma.”

She paused.. looking slightly embarrassed for a second. As if she'd shared too much, but then continued anyways, “Apparently he left me his little farm. Chickens. A fig tree. I don’t know the first thing about either.”

Her voice trailed off into a quiet laugh.

I waited. Gave her space to decide what came next.

She blinked, then smiled like she’d forgotten why she came in at all. “Sorry, I didn’t even tell you my name, did I?”

“No,” I said, gently. “But I’m Ashen.”

She opened her mouth like she might respond, but a voice called from across the store.

“Honey, we need to go if we’re going to make the ferry!”

A woman, older, elegant, urgent, stood at the door, holding an umbrella.

She looked at me again, eyes dancing somewhere between regret and curiosity.

“I should go,” she said.

Then, just before stepping away, she leaned in with a smirk. “If this is a book,” she said, her voice just above a whisper, “maybe we’ll meet again in Chapter Two.” She took one step back, with a twinkle in her eyes. “You know where you could find me.”

She turned, buttoning her coat as her mother reached for her hand, tugging her gently but urgently toward the door. In her rush, she moved too fast—and something small slipped from her head.

A silver hairpin. Ornate. Velvet. Something that looked like one of a kind.

It hit the floor with the softest clink, but neither of them noticed.

By the time I realized what it was, she was already stepping into the storm, pulled along by urgency, by time, by a ferry that wouldn’t wait.

And just like that, she was gone.

I didn’t get her name.

But I got the feeling that this is a beginning.

Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction, written not by a novelist, but by someone with a bookstore full of dreams and a soft spot for spellbinding stories. Ashen isn’t real (probably). But the magic that inspired this place absolutely is.

I don’t claim to be a writer. I just believe in stories that leave the lights on in your heart a little longer.

If you're curious about the real story behind this shop, the less dramatic, but just as romantic, all you have to do is ask when you visit. I’d love to tell you. -Matthew

Chapter Two: The Next Chapter Calling Me

I didn’t get a chance to say it in the moment, but I live in Petaluma too.

And I know how this sounds, like I got swept up in a moment and didn’t know how to let it go. But it wasn’t like that. I’m not some hopeless romantic chasing a ghost. It wasn’t obsession. It was... a pull. Something deeper. Quieter. A feeling that wouldn’t loosen its grip, no matter how I tried to shake it. Like the world had nudged me, gently but firmly, toward a moment that wasn’t finished yet.

I told myself I’d go back to the city bookstore, just once more. Then again. And again. I passed it every week during my commute, sometimes stepping in, pretending I needed something. But it was always the same. Same hum of quiet music. Same soft light. But she wasn’t there.

I kept the hairpin in my coat pocket. Not out of sentimentality, at least not at first. But touching it reminded me it wasn’t all in my head.

Eventually, I stopped going.

Instead, I started searching closer to home.

Sonoma County has a few bookstores. Bigger ones. The kind where it’s easy to miss someone, and even easier to forget them. I went to each of them. Browsed the romance section. The fantasy shelves. The newer releases. Sometimes I bought something just to stay longer. Other times I brought a book and pretended to read, hoping I could turn the page to the next chapter.

I even embarrassed myself once or twice, trying to explain the story, describe her, the way she looked. The flushed cheeks. The silver hairpin. They wanted to help. But none of them could say they had seen her.

Still, I kept going.

I’d sit with a coffee, rereading old stories and pretending they were signs. Hoping to bump into her again. But deep down, I knew… I couldn’t keep waiting in doorways hoping fate would bring her through.

And then, one evening, it came to me, not like an idea, more like a calling.

A way to bring her to me. To bring anyone like her to me.

The Velvet Chapter.

A bookstore not just to sell stories, but to create one.

Mine.

Ours.

If she ever finds it… she’ll know.

And I’ll be there.. waiting, watching the door..

Every month, I’ll leave her a letter. Tucked between the pages. Behind the counter. Somewhere only she would think to look.

A story within the story.

A way to say what I never got to.

Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction, written not by a novelist, but by someone with a bookstore full of dreams and a soft spot for spellbinding stories. Ashen isn’t real (probably). But the magic that inspired this place absolutely is.

I don’t claim to be a writer. I just believe in stories that leave the lights on in your heart a little longer.

If you're curious about the real story behind this shop, the less dramatic, but just as romantic, all you have to do is ask when you visit. I’d love to tell you. -Matthew