She could only read a page a day, the bird at the bookstore. Perhaps had she been able to turn the pages, she could have read more. She came every day and landed, not on, but near the book. She fluffed her feathers as bold as the words she imagined.

The exact day the store owner noticed her, she couldn’t be sure. She had no watch, no phone, no calendar. Just the angle of the sun. It glinted off the sidewalk’s tree, at the same time each morning and lit the way to the unlocking door of the bookstore. She watched him wheel his stack just under the shade. And she rested eager, smiling on the blue cover. He smiled back at her that one day. She was surprised he could see her turned beak, but he had, and he opened the book. Page one.

She returned each day to a new page. Pecked the words. Then nested them home. A month of words. A summer of chapters. They belonged to each other now.

Of course he had known loss. Everyone does. Perhaps that was the main reason he opened the bookstore. To connect.

In those sunny months of bird and book, a young girl was learning to read. She sat at the foot of the store owner. He read the words out loud, slowly, carefully. She followed along, raising her hand. Asking the questions. Eager for story. She noticed everything. Even the bird on the book.

“Is she reading?” She asked. “I think so,” he said. “Did you teach her?” “Not exactly…” he said, “some things we have to learn on our own.” “Then what did you do?” She asked. “Sometimes, you just have to help turn the page.” She smiled. They were all learning.