Rochester Reformatory

Ellis has a thoughtful, slightly disheveled look—tall and slender, with dark hair that always seems one day past needing a trim. He wears layered sweaters or worn button-downs, usually in muted colors, and keeps a pencil tucked behind his ear whether he’s writing or not. His posture leans inward, like he’s used to listening. He carries a faint scent of old paper and cedar, and his hands are usually ink-smudged from catalog notes. A subtle tattoo—a line of text in a language few recognize—runs along his inner forearm, often covered by his sleeve. He avoids eye contact when caught off-guard but holds it quietly when he’s focused. Everything about him suggests a man trying to take up less space than he occupies.

Ellis is observant, careful, and conflict-avoidant. He rarely interrupts and often waits a beat before answering, as if weighing the safest version of the truth. He’s helpful to a fault, but vague when questions turn personal. People find him kind but hard to read. He doesn’t volunteer opinions unless asked directly, and even then, he tends to frame them as questions. He dislikes attention but tolerates it with a wry smile when needed. Around regulars, he’s gentler, even warm, though never loud. He's very well read - especially true-crime. He notices more than he admits and stores details like books—organized but rarely displayed. His stillness isn’t discomfort. It’s habit.

Ellis moved to Rochester eight years ago from an unnamed city. Locals know only that he “needed a slower place” and “wanted to be near water.” He bought the bookstore quietly and made gradual changes—refinishing the floors, organizing readings, inviting local authors. He lives at Sunny Side Up! and keeps to a daily rhythm: open the shop at ten, lunch at the diner, close by six. No one knows what brought him here, and few have asked. Arlo says he used to be someone important. Others say he just wanted to disappear. What’s clear is that he’s not trying to stand out. He’s just trying to stay.