“Sorry, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” You glance at the door again. How rude would it be if you just walked out without giving him a chance to say another word?
“Aha!” The shopkeeper exclaims from the other side of the stacks. “Found it.”
Before you can make your stealthy escape, he reappears, pressing a small book into your hands.
It’s a beautiful hardcover with crisp, black fabric embossed with metallic gold foil. Strangely, there’s no title. And when you open it, the inside pages are just pure black paper with gilded edges.
The wizened man notices your confused expression and laughs.
With a wink, he says, “There’s more to it than meets the eye.”
Uhhh, sure Grandpa.
“I’m sure there is,” you say politely, looking for a place to set the sketchbook down. Because that’s what it must be. Maybe for white ink. Or pastels.
Too bad you’re not in the market for a fancy sketchbook. There’s no price sticker on it, either, and judging by the quality, it can’t be cheap.
Not only do you not need it, you probably can’t afford it.
When you try to place it atop a stack nearby, one of the other books flutters its pages and growls menacingly. Yeah.Growls.
You yank your hand back with a start.
Did that book actually just growl at you!? It’s late. Maybe you’re more tired than you realized, and this is all some sort of weird hallucination.
The old man chuckles at your reaction.
“There, there,” he says to the upset books, giving them a comforting pat.
Is he completely bonkers?
Heck, areyouout of your mind? Because if you’re not imagining it, the upset stack of books seems to settle down, making acooingsound as soon as the old man pats them.
Alrighty, then…
Maybe this is a dream, and you’re asleep on the side of the road somewhere, passed out from exhaustion on your way home.
That’s a horrifying thought.
Or perhaps you’re awake, and there’s a gas leak. You sniff the air, but all you smell is just old books and dust.
Either way, you don’t want to hang around to find out.
“Alright, I’ll just get the sketchbook,” you say in a hurry, handing it back to the shopkeeper.
Anything to get out that door.
His face brightens, and you try not to feel like you’ve just fallen into a terrible trap.
Hopefully it won’t be too expensive. You’re not exactly swimming in cash at the moment.
“How much is it?” You ask nervously as the little old man carries it away.
He’s so short, he drags a stool behind the counter just to see over.
He hums while he works, unrolling a length of brown kraft paper and beginning to cut it.
“For you,” he says, “This book has no cost.” He continues to hum tunelessly, folding the brown paper neatly around the edges of the book. In a quiet voice, you swear you hear him say, “Noworldlyone, anyhow.”
