Chapter 20
The bell above the door chimes softly as I enter. It is not a loud bell, not a jarring sound, but a gentle note that carries the echo of all the entrances that have come before. The smell hits me first—aged paper, faint dust, a mixture of ink, leather, and something warmer, something quiet that belongs to time itself. The air feels heavy, dense with history, yet comforting, familiar in a way that makes the outside world seem distant, almost unreal. And then I see him. An old man behind the counter, hunched slightly, his hands resting on the edge of the worn wood, fingers curled lightly around the grain. His eyes are bright, yet tempered by age, sharp but softened by the weight of years. Silver threads lace his hair, neatly combed back, revealing a forehead lined with thought, reflection
- Writer
