We sat on either side of an old-fashioned globe, flipping through books—every time I looked up, I’d catch him quickly ducking his head, the tips of his ears flushed. Suddenly, a paper airplane tapped my shoulder. Unfolding the yellowed page, I found a drawing of a bespectacled penguin and wobbly handwriting that read: “Dear madam, may I exchange your smile for half a cup of afternoon tea?”
As twilight spilled over the constellation atlas, he pulled a tin box from his pocket. Inside lay twenty origami airplanes, their wings printed with silhouettes of libraries from around the world. “This one’s a century-old bookstore in Kyoto,” he said, pointing to a plane decorated with cherry blossoms. “When the maple leaves turn red, shall we go there to send postcards?” The sunset outside stretched his shadow long across the floor, where it landed among the scattered paper airplanes like a sprinkling of starlight.
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