For thirty years, Vera had sold secondhand books in a shop about as wide as an average living room. When the owner divided it with a partition, the other half went to a man who repaired suitcases. His drill interrupted her reading, and plastic wheels rolled beneath the poetry shelf. Vera wrote her first complaint on the back of a postcard. Harun returned it with a sketch of rubber padding to quiet his workbench and a question about whether the smell of glue bothered her.
They could not divide the display window equally. One side received afternoon sunshine; the other had a cracked pane. Vera proposed exchanging sides every week. Harun brought an old suitcase and arranged travel books inside it. Customers stopped to look. One woman bought a novel and ordered a new wheel. For the first time, Vera thought the partition might be more than a sign that her business was failing.
Harun made her tea in a cup with a chipped handle. He was a widower, five years younger than her, and could sense when a conversation needed to end. Vera had been divorced so long she told people it had happened in the previous century. One rainy Thursday, he admitted he had not traveled since his wife died. He repaired other people's departures, he said, while his own suitcase sat above the wardrobe. Vera did not offer consolation from a book. She simply poured more tea.
In December she received an invitation to a fair in another city. Usually she would refuse because of the heavy boxes and driving in the dark. This time she asked Harun whether he would rent her two suitcases. He offered his own and said he could drive if she wanted company. On the road they argued about the radio, bought too many rolls, and missed a turning. Neither tried to turn their awkwardness into a sign that they should never have started the journey. That evening they sat in separate hotel armchairs, their feet tired from the fair.
Vera said she would like to go somewhere with him again, even without a business reason. Harun studied the map on the table for a long time, then asked whether he could hold her hand. She did not mind being asked. On Monday they returned the old suitcase to the window, but removed the travel books. Inside they placed the books they had brought along and never managed to read. Beneath them, Vera wrote: For a journey where conversation lasts. Harun repaired the cracked pane before she opened the shop.