The Bookstore
The meeting went as expected.
His colleague had been fifteen minutes late and unusually chipper. They talked about roadmaps, deliverables, the usual friction between engineering and product. Dæmon said all the right things. Asked the right questions. Nodded in the right rhythm.
But the words didn’t feel like his. They came out hollow, like reciting an old monologue he’d long since stopped believing.
Afterward, he didn’t go straight back to the hotel.
He walked. No destination. Just movement.
The city had warmed slightly. The air felt less like mist and more like breath. And then he saw it.
A bookstore.
Wedged between a dentist’s office and a used clothing consignment shop, the windows were smudged with age. A paper sign in the corner read Used • Rare • Trade Welcome in faded ink.
He stepped inside.
The bell above the door jingled—not cheerfully, but like it hadn’t been used in a while. The air smelled of paper, wood, and something older.
It was bigger than it looked.
Rows stretched back farther than should have fit between the buildings. The lighting was soft, golden. Books leaned like tired elders against each other, as if they’d long since given up trying to stand on their own.
He wandered.
Science fiction. Esoterica. Forgotten psychology. One shelf labeled simply Belief. Another: Uncatalogued. No one stopped him. He wasn’t even sure anyone else was there.
Then he saw it.
At the far end of the back row, beyond a crooked freestanding mirror, was a narrow passage—not quite a hallway, not quite a gap. Just space. He wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t shifted slightly to the left.
There was a flickering light inside.
And what looked like... shelves. But different.
He hesitated.
Then took one step forward.
Just one.
