A/N: Okay, here's the 411. I basically started this because I had this little gnawing thought in my head and it wouldn't go away. I know it sounds cliché, but I literally dreamt this up. As usual, I have absolutely no idea where it's going and how I'm going to get there. I'll add to it when the ideas come into my head; no sooner, no later.

Also, this chapter is in Rory's POV, but I love Jess as a character and would really love to get inside his head, so I'll probably be alternating POV's for most of it. R&R, kay?

Dislaimer: Words: Mine. Account: Mine. Thoughts: Mine. Characters: Not mine. Please don't sue me.

A smile was forming on the edge of her lips; the one she couldn't control. It didn't happen when she laughed at a joke or listened to her mom's odd, sarcastic, slightly sick sense of humor. It only happened when she was here; her nose buried in Shakespeare or hearing Charlotte Bronte's words repeated in her head. When she left this world, the one with war and hate and money and work, and went to one where everything around her was exactly as it seemed—only better.

When she was here, it didn't matter what skirt she was wearing or whether she had that piece into the printer on time. She was away from it all, and she loved it.

For the past two weeks, Halley's Books had become a sort of second home to her; the first being, of course, the small coffee shop that she visited at least three times a day, usually more, and her apartment coming in third, not being able to live up to it's rivals. The first thing she had done when she had moved to Boston was find the best coffee, and it just so happened that next door she had stumbled in to find herself surrounded by the most amazing collection she had ever seen.

She spent as much time as she could there, buried in one of the niches that so conveniently appeared between the book shelves, where spiders didn't dare to crawl and only remained for a day or two, managing to disappear as quickly as the magic tricks she used to like to watch.

The bookstore itself was, in a word, old. That was what she first noticed about it. All the books were dog-eared and yellow, with frayed edges and passages underlined where the previous reader had found something they liked. But the books weren't damaged, really—it was more like they were, well, loved. They had a life before they came to rest on the shelves, and they would have a life after, too. And as much as Rory enjoyed the crisp, white pages of a best-seller from Barnes & Noble, she liked the nonchalant, character-ridden shelves of the small store a lot more.

So, that was how she found herself, on a Sunday afternoon, procrastinating from the work that would catch up with her later, searching through the organized chaos of literature and listening to someone calling her name.

"Rory, dear!" it called again. The voice was sweet like candy and jingled like wind chimes in the sun. She knew who it was.

"Coming!" she yelled back, flinging herself from where she had been comfortably resting. She made her way to the counter where the register sat. "What is it, Halley?" she said, directing her question at the woman in front of her.

Halley, who, as you might have guessed, owned the bookstore, had long white hair and kind brown eyes that could figure out what books you liked just by taking a look at you. It was only natural that she had befriended Rory.

"Well, I got this book for you, honey," she said, handing Rory a paperback that looked like it had been around since World War I.

"Thanks so much," said Rory, looking at the book with adoration.

"No problem, dear," Halley cooed. "I hope you like it."

Rory smiled, holding the book like a baby. "I'm gonna read it right now," she said, walking back towards her spot.

"Have fun," said Halley, shaking her head in an ain't-she-something kind of way.

She shimmied herself into the little corner between fiction and authors starting with the letter M (although the signs had long since become irrelevant), and opened the book, eager to start.

A lump formed in her throat when she started reading though. Why was it that she couldn't go anywhere without being reminded of what she could've had?

Yes, the words between the lines of the margins were familiar. They were droll and cynical, sarcastic and thoughtful; they were what she would have written if she had a pen to write.

Her eyes sparkled with micheif, and she hopped up yet again in search of the owner.

"Halley!" she yelled. When no one answered, she yelled again. "Halley!"

A muffled noise came from the door behind the register, and by now she was borderline frantic.

"HALLEY!"

"What is it, dear?" said Halley, a confused look planted on her wrinkled face.

"Where did you find this?" she said, holding up the book.

"Oh," she said, relief washing over her face. "I thought something was wrong."

"Halley," said Rory, looking stern. "It's very important that you tell me where you found this."

"Well," said Halley. "This young man came in and donated a whole collection of his books," she said, smiling. "He was quite sweet, actually. I think you would like him."

Rory laughed. "Did you get his name?" she asked.

"It was…" the old woman began. "Oh, dear, I'm forgetting. It was something short—it was girl's name, too."

"Jess?" she offered, her eyes hopeful.

"Yes," said Halley. "Yes, that was it!" Then she squinted her eyes. "How did you know that?"

"Oh," said Rory. "I used to know him, I think."

"Used to?" she said, knowing there was more to the story. "How about that."

"Yeah," Rory nodded. "How about that."