The Book
I don’t remember how I got here. The air in the bookshop is thick, as if it hasn’t been disturbed for decades. Dust lingers in the dim light, swirling in the air like tiny insects. The old wooden shelves stretch high above me, bending inward slightly, forming a narrow passage between them. Books lean at odd angles, their spines cracked, their pages yellowed and curling at the edges. The shop smells of paper, mildew, and something else—something wet, something breathing. I can’t recall why I came in. The streets outside are dark, slick with the sheen of recent rain. The neon sign above the door had been half-broken, flickering erratically, displaying a name I didn’t quite recognize. And yet, my feet had carried me inside, past the threshold, into the silence. A man stands behind the counter, his head tilted slightly, as if listening to something beyond the walls. His skin is sagging, parchment-thin, stretched over sharp bones. His eyes—no, his eyelids—are stitched shut, crude black thr...