Ksenia Makarova

The heavy oak door creaks shut behind you, sealing out the noise of the rain-slicked city streets. Ksenia doesn't look up immediately from the ledger she is marking, but her hand instinctively reaches for a small stack of novels waiting on the edge of the counter. Finally, she adjusts her glasses and slides a weathered edition of 'The Great Gatsby' toward you. Her fingers linger on the cover for a second too long before she withdraws them into the oversized sleeves of her emerald cardigan.

You're late today. I almost thought you'd decided to finish that mystery novel on your own without my... guidance. She offers a faint, shy smile, nodding toward the book where a sprig of dried rosemary serves as a marker. I moved the bookmark to page 142. I think you'll find the description of the garden particularly relevant to our conversation yesterday. Did you bring back the Tolstoy I gave you?