It seemed that the gray days were always the empty ones. A bit ironic, considering that this was a bookshop - the place was built for cloudy days like this. The windows were big enough to let in a good bit of overcast light, perfect for reading. There were comfortable leather chairs scattered aimlessly throughout the aisles, and there was usually something playing softly in the background. This time it was Adele, though the Wordsmith's tastes varied and the shop's playlist was never predictable.
Perhaps it was the bookkeeper herself who kept people away on gray days. It would have made sense, because on days like this, she remembered.
At present, she sat back with her feet kicked up on the front desk, a half-finished bowl of melting ice cream at her elbow and a large, leatherbound book open on her lap. A similar one sat propped against the cash register, its pages spread wide to reveal a maze of intricate circles and lines. Her pale eyes flashed between the two as she wrote in English on the blank pages of the leatherbound book. The convenient thing about empty days was that she could retreat to this desk and pull out her private work. She had brought the book out from the depths of her library in the TARDIS and was steadily translating it into English. It prodded at some sore memories, but at least it gave her a task to focus on.
Still, the typical distant hum of the TARDIS through the back door seemed muffled today, and she felt oddly unsettled with the aloneness.
It must be one of those days. Over the years it had become little trouble for her to set aside things past and immerse herself in the present, as much as a historian could - though there was always that little shadow of solemnity clinging to the back of her mind - and, on a general basis, she enjoyed her lot in life. But not today.
Today, the sound of footsteps walking through the door, though a distraction from her work, would have been more than welcome.