The bookstore down the street was anything but contemporary. There were no rubberized chairs but instead wooden stools that had been scattered among the aisles like Easter eggs through wet grass. I often made a game of speed-walking down the hallways, searching for that perfect seat. Today’s spot was a cozy little nook lit by two adjacent windows.

There were no computer catalogs, book signings, or free WiFi, as other bookstores of the century commonly boasted. There were no cash registers: in their place stood a middle-aged woman with long blonde hair that was braided down her back. Each number she tapped into her rickety calculator gave a resounding “clack” that broke the religious silence of the small store.

Finding a book to read was a bit of a struggle, for the shelves were lined with a fine layer of dust. Each book required a sharp shake to rid it of any accumulated cobwebby residue.

I couldn’t help but visualize myself in her place — my short blonde hair grown out, a few golden bracelets on my arms. Just twenty more years, and I could take her job. Perhaps I would grow up to be a cat lady after all.

But for now, I was still young enough to be fangirling over old books. (I much preferred books to male actors. Perhaps I could join this ramshackle store in its rebellion against time.) The copy I held now was a 1960s printing of L. M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables that delighted me to no end.

I closed my eyes and inhaled. But its usual mustiness was overpowered by a more delicate scent. It smelled of October.

Anne’s influence was stronger than ever. I sighed happily and flipped open the book.