An Unexpected Visitor

The bookshop smelled of old paper and a new, faint trace of oak. Aziraphale was dusting a first-edition *Jane Eyre* when the bell above the door chimed, a sound that usually preceded a mortal with misguided intentions. He braced himself. But it wasn’t a customer. It was Crowley, slouching through the door with a bottle of something dark and dusty in each hand. “Found another case of ‘82 Bordeaux in the back. Thought you’d want to see it before I put it with the others.” Aziraphale set down the feather duster with a sigh of relief. “Darling, you can’t just keep expanding the cellar. The bookshop is already lopsided. I had to shift a shelf of folios to the left just to keep the floor from sloping.” “Perfectly natural slope,” Crowley said, setting the bottles on the counter. “Adds character. Besides, you’re the one who declared it a library that lends nothing. I had to do *something* with my free time.” “It’s not a protest anymore. It’s an occupation.” Aziraphale picked up one of the bottles, admiring the label. “Though I must admit, this vintage is exceptional.” Crowley grinned, sliding his sunglasses down his nose. “Knew you’d come around. Now, do we have any glasses, or are they all hidden behind a copy of *Moby-Dick*?” Before Aziraphale could answer, the bell chimed again. Both of them froze. A woman stood in the doorway, clutching a canvas tote bag. She was middle-aged, with kind eyes and a determined smile. “Hello,” she said. “I heard this was a library?” Aziraphale’s face cycled through horror and polite denial. “Ah, well, you see—it’s a very *specific* kind of library.” Crowley snorted quietly, leaning against the counter with an air of lazy menace. “It’s a library that doesn’t lend books. So you can look, but don’t touch.” The woman blinked. “That’s… unusual. But I’m not here to borrow. I’m here to *return* a book.” She pulled a battered volume from her bag. It was a copy of *The Great Gatsby*—not the first edition, but a well-loved paperback. “I found it in my late grandmother’s things. There’s a bookplate inside saying it’s from A.Z. Fell & Co. I thought it might belong here.” Aziraphale’s expression softened. He stepped forward, taking the book gently. The bookplate was old, handwritten in a spidery script: *Property of A.Z. Fell – Please Return After Reading.* “Good Lord,” he whispered. “I lent this out in 1927. I’d completely forgotten.” Crowley sidled up, peering at the book. “You *lent* a book? In 1927? That’s practically a miracle.” “It was a different era,” Aziraphale said, turning the pages with reverence. “I was more trusting.” The woman smiled. “My grandmother always said she’d return it one day. She never got the chance. But I thought—better late than never.” Aziraphale looked at her, then at Crowley, then back at the book. He held it to his chest. “Thank you. This means more than you know.” Crowley cleared his throat. “Right. Well. That’s sorted. You can go now.” But Aziraphale was already moving toward the shelves. “Wait. I have something for you.” He pulled down a pristine copy of *Emma*—a modern edition, but beautifully bound. “Please, take this. As a token of my gratitude.” The woman hesitated. “I don’t need—” “I insist. It’s a gift. No lending involved.” She accepted it with a puzzled smile, then left, the bell chiming softly behind her. Silence settled over the bookshop. Crowley uncorked the Bordeaux with a pop. “Well, that was unexpected. A book actually *returned*. You sure you’re not secretly running a real library?” Aziraphale set the returned Gatsby on a special shelf near his desk, next to his most treasured volumes. “It’s one book in nearly a century. I think the policy stands.” “Good.” Crowley poured two glasses and handed one to Aziraphale. “To retirement, then. Such as it is.” Aziraphale clinked his glass against Crowley’s. “To the bookshop that doesn’t sell books, and the library that doesn’t lend them.” “And the demon who keeps the angel properly supplied with wine.” “And the angel who lets him.” They drank, surrounded by books and dust and the faint, comforting scent of old paper and new hope.