On a breezy autumn evening, Amy Farrah Fowler visits a bookshop while her beloved library is closed for renovations. There, she has a chance encounter with a fellow book-lover and ends up learning an unexpected lesson in missed opportunities. A little prequel to The Bibliotheca Intrigue.

THE BIBLIOTHECA PROXIMITY

"The entire world is a collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her."
- Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

Amy shivered in the sudden cold rush of air and pulled her stack of books tighter. She should have worn a jacket. It had been a perfect autumn day, crisp and russet, but the wind had picked up as the sun began its descent, hinting of the winter to come. The wind was strong enough that, for a moment, it drowned out the traffic on the street as she turned the corner, and dried leaves in shades of brown and orange scuttled past her on the sidewalk.

She passed under the limbs of a large maple tree, its boughs stretching heavy over the sidewalk with clusters of leaves in bright red. Amy shifted the books in her arms again. They ached from the weight of the pages. In addition to the jacket, she should have brought her backpack. But at least the maple tree signified she was almost to her destination.

The side street was abuzz on this Saturday evening, the older homes here converted to a variety of restaurants, although she noticed the new chill in the air had sent most of the dinners inside for their meals. In the summer, the breeze would be filled with the soft murmurs of conversation and the clinking of plates and glasses.

Her step lightened as the green and white awning ahead came into clear view. There, among the repurposed homes, was another type of building, a freestanding store front with what she supposed was an apartment above it. It was just as old as these homes, red brick with two large plate glass windows on either side of the door. Mr. Patel, the owner and operator, had told her that it had once been a local grocery store, complete with meat counter, that had proudly served the upper middle class families on this street in the first half of the twentieth century. Then the business had died and the building had fallen into disrepair until he'd bought for song almost three decades ago and turned it into his bookshop. His gut instincts had been correct, and the disused houses around him started to sell to those who wanted to preserve history. Restaurants or locally-owned shops with apartments above sprang up around him, increasing both his property value and his foot traffic.

Not that foot traffic was the most important part of his business. It helped, certainly, but most people went searching for the Papyrus Beetle as a destination because they loved the smell of old books. Mr. Patel specialized in used books, especially beautiful out-of-print hardback editions. He'd only reluctantly accepted the need for a website a couple of years ago, and, when he was closed, the phone was still answered by an old-fashioned white machine with a tiny cassette tape.

It would be sad not to spend a monthly Saturday evening here when the Longbow Tulip Library reopened in two weeks. Oh, Amy would still come to shop from time to time to shop, but her hours spent reading and studying would come to an end. Mr. Patel had strong opinions about students who went to a public place and sat for hours on their laptops, drinking coffee, nursing broadband and electrical outlets. He claimed it was stealing a business' utilities, especially if said thieves didn't buy anything. It was why the Papyrus Beetle didn't offer free WiFi and had prominent "No Food or Drink" signs posted in multiple locations.

Amy was still amazed the persnickety proprietor had agreed to let her read and study here when the library closed for renovations. Yes, she'd been a regular costumer, and, yes, she'd asked politely for permission, but she was prepared for him to turn her down. But, to her surprise, he'd agreed. As long as she promised no laptop, no sounds from her phone, and no beverages, she could sit quietly at the large table in the center of the store, often holding atlases for sale, and study by the light of a dim green-shaded lamp.

Passing the window, Amy did a double take at the rearrangement in the display and smiled. Mr. Patel had moved his human skeleton there from the darkest corner of the store, where it normally stood guard. Amy was never certain if it was a real skeleton or an antique classroom model. The shop was usually only minimally decorated for Christmas, a necessity when most of one's profits were made during a short span in the year, but Halloween was only a few days away and it had come up in conversation between the two of them last week when she'd come in looking for a certain book. The businesses on the street were holding a trick or treat festival for the first time, and Amy suggested he at least put the skeleton on display. So many of the neighboring restaurants and shops had decorated with pumpkins and masks, that his store looked out of place.

Still grinning that Mr. Patel had listened to her despite all his hemming and hawing about the materialization of modern holidays, Amy stopped and squinted at the skeleton, displayed between copies of Wilkie Collins, Edgar Allen Poe, and Dorothy Sayers. Then, still studying it, she reached for the door handle only to have the it come flying open at her, its bells chiming loudly.

"Oh!" She stepped back, surprised, the heel of her foot sinking deeper than she expected into a dip in the sidewalk. "Oh!" she yelled again as she righted herself but too late for the stack of books that fell from her arms.

"Watch where you're going!" she growled, crouching down to pick up her largest neurobiology textbook.

"I was," a terse voice replied, and Amy glanced over to see the back of a dark-haired man kneeling next to her, reaching for her folder of papers from class, its loose-leaf pages strewn around him. "You were the one ogling the skeleton like it's a member of boy band."

"I was not ogling! And I don't like boy bands!" she protested as she reached for a notebook, embarrassment at her distraction turning into anger that this stranger would presume to know her and her musical tastes. "I just noticed the skeleton has a supracondylar process of the right humerus. I've never noticed it before."

"Perhaps because there's no Struthers' ligament to draw your attention to it." He handed her another textbook; Amy looked up sharply at him, but his face was turned away from her, reaching for more of her scattered papers. He was thin and he seemed tall, based on how deeply his legs were folded to reach the ground. He was wearing khaki pants and a navy and tan windbreaker, and a tan messenger bag bumped against his hip as he reached for the last sheet. Not a man at the forefront of fashion, but Amy always preferred substance over style.

The stranger was correct about the ligament, but he didn't elaborate further. It was an odd thing to notice; not for Amy, of course, as a student of biology, but for a layman to both be aware of the anatomical variation and the possible variations within the variation . . . Although, Amy told herself with a shake of her head, he could be a medical doctor or a dozen other professions. Or he could just be intelligent and well-read. She knew nothing about him, and it didn't matter anyway.

"Here you go. I think your romance novel is the last of it," the man said, drawing Amy back, and she looked down at the book he held out, touching her knee with it. First, she noticed his hand, how long and thin but perfectly formed his pale fingers were, the way his index finger stretched along the spine of the novel, the way his thumb curled gently over the cover, brushing it softly. Something about it made the pulse in her wrist flutter, as though her skin had been the cover to that book. Amy shivered, and not from the chill in the air.

Then she remembered the book in question was Wuthering Heights, and her face flushed hot as she grabbed it away from that shapely hand. "It's not a romance novel. I mean, I don't think it is. It's about spiteful people being cruel to each other, and how is that romantic? I only brought it to see if Mr. Patel wanted to buy it."

"What a pity. It's beautifully written," the stranger said as he stood, "and that edition is especially pleasing to hold."

Amy stood then, too, her knees protesting, and she glanced at the stranger. It took all of her effort not to embarrass herself again in the face of such beauty, and she turned away, looking toward a restaurant across the street instead. His eyes, especially, had been stunning, an inquisitive bright blue that seemed to search her in a personal way. "Maybe," she murmured. A pause and she added, "'Take my books away, and I should be desperate!' Something like that?"

Just as she sensed it would, she could see a dark eyebrow raising on his face, blurry on the very edge of her field of view. "Something like that," he replied, his voice as soft as hers had been. But then he turned away himself to look down the street just as she glanced back toward him. "The bus is coming. Have a good evening."

Because he was tall, his legs moved with swift purpose away from her in long strides toward the busier street at the corner. Not wanting to be caught staring, Amy turned and hurried into the bookshop behind her. She waved to Mr. Patel and then went to sit at the heavy, broad atlas table. As she sorted through the stack of books and papers to confirm she hadn't lost anything, she turned over the events of the sidewalk. What an odd encounter!

"Ah, good evening, Amy," Mr. Patel said as he approached.

She looked up with a smile. "Hello, Mr. Patel. How are you?"

"As well as can be expected when cold weather approaches," he said with a resigned sigh.

"I saw you put the skeleton in your window," Amy said.

Mr. Patel nodded. "Yes. Since it will be my last Halloween here, I decided to try it."

"Your last Halloween?" Amy asked, her voice rising higher.

"I am an old man, Amy. I had a good offer for the building, and now I can move somewhere warmer," he explained.

"You're closing?" Her mouth went dry.

"Oh, it's not closing. Not really. I sold the name and the business, too. Some young woman who wants to take a chance. I've had offers before, for the building, but it was for people who wanted to sell soap made from possum milk or sweaters made from cat fur or some such nonsense. At least this way it will still be a bookshop."

"I'm sorry to hear that. That you won't be living here anymore, I mean."

He shrugged. "It is time for retirement, and at least I can sell while I'm still healthy and can enjoy life. The shop, the stairs up to the apartment, it will all be too much for me one day and I'd rather move on my own terms."

Mr. Patel was still close to her, rearranging and straightening the atlases, mumbling under his breath about sticky fingers. Yes, Mr. Patel's black hair was salted with gray, but he'd always seemed spry enough to her. How old was he really? Amy would have guessed in his sixties. Not old yet, she thought, although it was the average retirement age. "Do you - do you have children you are moving to be close to?" she risked asking. He was not the type of man to invite personal conversation, but he seemed more expressive than usual tonight.

"No." Mr. Patel shook his head. "But I have a sister and a niece in Arizona, and I'm moving there."

"Oh."

"You won't be coming anymore anyway, once your library opens again. That was our agreement," he added. "Two weeks it said in the newspaper."

"I'll still come!" Amy protested. "To shop."

"I know you will." Mr. Patel looked around his store. "I will mark my inventory down for Christmas. If there's something you want, let me know; I'll set it aside for the sale."

"Oh, Mr. Patel, I couldn't," Amy demurred. She was surprised and touched by his offer. Although that skeleton could be interesting . . .

But then Amy was distracted by her friend picking up the copy of Wuthering Heights she brought. "Is this yours? It's a good edition, this one. Real leather, lovely endpapers."

"Yes." Amy paused and took a deep breath. "I assume you've read it. Did you find it romantic?"

Mr. Patel shrugged as he sat it down. "I don't know much about romance."

Feeling braver than normal, Amy asked, "Is there - was there - a Mrs. Patel?"

He looked at her sharply, and Amy regretted her question. She had no doubt overstepped a boundary, misreading the unexpected kindness from the bookseller. But he didn't bark at her; instead, his brown eyes softened and crinkled a bit around the edges. "No. But there was Shruti."

"Shruti?"

"She was . . . fiery." Another shrug and the crinkles disappeared. "But it was a different time. Her parents had arranged her marriage to someone else, and I was poor. She got married and I came to this country to finish my education."

"I'm sorry," Amy whispered, unsure what to say. "I shouldn't have asked."

But Mr. Patel continued as if he hadn't heard her. "At first, I felt like the lost opportunity haunted me, just like this book." He reached out to touch the cover again. "Now I am too old and stubborn to be haunted. Except when it rains at night. I had the chance to ask her to run away with me one night in the middle of wet monsoon, and I didn't. I hear my regrets in the rain."

Amy sat rapt and spellbound by the tale, so out of character of what little she knew about the normally cranky bookseller. And to think he'd said he didn't know anything about romance!

"If nothing else," Mr. Patel continued, "take a chance someday, Amy. Say yes to something that seems crazy and impossible. Don't let a missed opportunity haunt you. Especially if it's a rainy night."

As she exhaled from the wistfulness of his words, the door to the small shop opened and Mr. Patel turned away from her. "What is that?" he called out sharply. "Didn't you see the sign? No beverages. No Starbucks! These are priceless objects and I will not have them ruined with your burnt over-priced coffee!"

Amy smiled softly back into her textbook. Maybe, someday, he'd tell her the whole story of Shruti in the rain. But probably not, especially as their bargain would end in two weeks. She'd just have to imagine it for herself, and there was something delicious in that.

Reaching forward, she picked up the book again. Maybe she should reread it. Maybe it was about missed opportunities after all. It was certainly about being haunted. Then she remembered what the stranger outside had said, about it being beautifully written. The stranger; she thought of him with a soft frown. Was that an opportunity? He knew about both anatomy and nineteenth century literature. Had she been too harsh? About the accident with the door, when it had been equally her fault, about the boy band, about Wuthering Heights? What if he'd had a story to tell her, too, about a question yet to be asked on a rainy night?

She tried to piece it all back together, the stature of his body, the grace of his hands, the expression of his face. But it was already slipping away, the details blowing rapidly out of frame like leaves in the autumn breeze. Even the eyes. She could no longer remember their exact shade, a detail that she found surprisingly . . . haunting. Why had she looked away so quickly? Why had their faces always missed a full appraisal? Amy gazed back toward the front window, but of course he was long gone from the sidewalk.

Amy put the novel down with a sigh and returned to her textbook. If she couldn't remember him, it didn't matter. It's not as though he had looked back for her.

Sheldon stopped, just as that large maple tree came into focus, and turned on his heels, and looked back for the woman. But she was already gone, having ran inside the bookshop. He frowned.

What a strange encounter it had been! All her fault of course, the way she was staring at that skeleton and not paying any attention to where she was walking. She was fortunate the door hadn't struck her and broken her nose. Sheldon shook his head softly and hurried to the bus stop, arriving just in time to climb aboard.

The city passed by out the window, and he hugged his bag closer to him. It was getting cold. Texas and Southern California had not prepared him for this, and he worried how he would fair his first winter here. He needed to buy a coat. Something warm and durable, for, if his plan succeeded, he would soon be living in Washington, D.C. which, of course, would also have freezing temperatures and snow.

Why had that woman not been wearing a jacket? Was she not chilled in the wind also? Although she had shivered; was her sensible looking cardigan not thick enough? And why was he still thinking of her?

She was a student, apparently, or perhaps an Associate Instructor now that he thought harder about what he'd seen. Her stack of paperwork looked like graded diagrams. A doctoral candidate, teaching undergraduate courses both for funds and credit? Neurobiology, her textbook had been. Thus, her interest in the skeleton. Perhaps he shouldn't have accused her of ogling, after all. It was probably scientific interest.

The bus approached his stop, the electronic voice intoning "Longbow Tulip Library." Grabbing his bag, Sheldon stepped out onto the curb and the plaza in front of the library. He took a minute to gaze upon it, for Monday would be his first day of work there.

Its edifice was still shrouded in scaffolding and rivers of water ran away from it; it was being power washed when he left earlier in the afternoon. This week the scaffolding should come down, revealing its renewed Art Nouveau carvings, the loops and swirls and tulips within the limestone façade he'd read about but had not yet seen in person. The sun was setting behind it, casting the plaza in shadow. Teams of workers were busy in the raised beds there, planting something. Not mums or any other flowers; bulbs, Sheldon realized as he watched a man drop the small ivory clusters in the ground and cover them with the dark earth. Bulbs for spring. The plaza would be ablaze with flowers in the spring. Tulips? Probably.

Turning away, Sheldon crossed the street to the building just opposite, unlocking a small door next to the dry cleaners and climbing the stairs to his apartment. He flipped on a switch, took off his jacket and bag, and surveyed the space with a sigh. He still had more to unpack. He should have stayed home and uncrated the last of his books instead of seeking out the city's only antiquarian bookseller.

But he'd been anxious about starting work and had wanted a distraction. Perhaps he shouldn't have rented right across the street from his new place of employment. Yes, the commute couldn't be easier or shorter, but work would forever be in his mind.

"As it should be," he chided himself aloud. This job was essential to his goals. He had the intelligence, the degree, the knowledge, everything the Smithsonian Dibner Library of the History of Science and Technology could want for a curator of physics except experience working in a rare book and manuscript library. Monday, across the street, he would begin gaining that. Two weeks of restocking and shelving, and then the renovated library would reopen to the public. His evening shift schedule wasn't ideal, but, again, it was only a means to an end.

So, he did not need to distract himself with bookshops and strange women. All he needed was his job. And to unpack.

Sheldon opened the top box of a stack and lifted out the first few books. His fiction collection. Nothing special in this stack; the prized first-editions and gifts from his PopPop had already been carefully placed. Most of these, in fact, were basic pedestrian classics, paperback copies he'd bought to read for various classes years ago. Not that he'd part with them; one does not part with one's books except under duress.

Austen, Hawthorne, Brontë - Sheldon stopped shelving to touch the cover of the book. Wuthering Heights. It wasn't nearly as beautiful a copy as the woman had, with its fine leather cover. He considered what she said about it. Was it a novel about spiteful people being cruel to each other? Well, yes it was, now that he thought about it. She was right about that. And she was correct that those qualities weren't romantic in the least. Flipping the pages, Sheldon's mind turned this new thought over and over. And a new thought it was; everyone said, everyone told him, told the world, that Wuthering Heights was one of the most romantic books ever written. But that brash woman, that opinionated stranger, wasn't afraid to challenge a commonly held belief. And, in so doing, she made Sheldon see something in its pages he'd never seen before.

He couldn't remember the last time someone managed to change his opinion about something. Because his opinions were always correct, based on careful consideration of facts and even experiments. Even in something considered subjective, like literature, he could always argue based on certain tenets of the field: syntax, grammar, characterization, world-building, tension, character growth, pacing . . . the list of points to use for persuasion were almost endless.

And yet she'd done it with a single sentence, whoever she was. Sheldon replayed the event in his mind, looking for a clue he might have missed as to how she accomplished this feat. But she was only fluster and shadow; her face usually turned away, her eyes hidden behind her glasses or her straight brown hair. First, they had both been too busy gathering her things for him to notice, and then it was as though she had become too shy to allow him to truly see her. Her words were refreshingly honest, but her person was hidden. Even her woolen cardigan and dark tights seemed designed to obscure.

But the novel was beautifully written, wasn't it? Yes, hauntingly so. He'd been correct in telling her that, at least. The lines about missed opportunities, about memories - even if memory seemed to play tricks upon the characters - about the ways in which the smallest of interactions can have the most power in one's life.

The pages stopped turning on their own at a heavily used page, and Sheldon quickly realized why. The most famous quote of them all: "He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."

Sheldon slammed the book shut and put it on the shelf next to the others with a noise of frustration. How had he allowed himself to get wrapped up in a momentary encounter of no import to his career goals, to his reason for moving to this new city? He was not here to contemplate the stuff of souls, whether it be his or . . . hers. He would not allow himself to be haunted by someone he would never see again.

Instead, he pushed the mystery woman from his mind and studied the Longbow Tulip Library across the street, the very last light of dusk outlining it in gold, where he was certain his destiny lay.

THE END

This little story would not exist if it were not for the dear fanartist Regina (rgbcn here and on social media), who made a comment on a Lego photograph I posted on Instagram of Lego Amy outside a Lego bookstore and Lego Sheldon inside. And, so, this story is for her, as an early birthday present but also a thank you for all she does to support and inspire the fandom everyday.

Thank you for your reviews, and, if you wish to see the original photo or any other of my general Shamy geeky bookishness, you can follow me on Instagram as aprilinparisfanfic.