The old bookshop at the end of the street smells exactly as it did the first time I stepped inside — like damp pages and dusty memories. Shelves, once towering, now bow under the burden of centuries poured into ink and paper. Each creak of the floor beneath chronicled soles past and present. They sift through tales like leaves in autumn, shedding their whispers as they go.
Wisps of conversations float, tethered to forgotten epochs, waiting for the next breath to carry them. The walls mindlessly absorb a patchwork of stories, patched holes in reality with unspeakable recounts of life and regret. You’d think such things could understand time’s relentless march, yet here they persist, obstinately clinging to an existence half-shared with those who would never speak them aloud.
In this sanctuary of decay, the sound of rain outside feels like an echo of the inevitable—a promise that such places, too, must someday surrender, their legacies mere specters in the mist. I often wonder if the shop watches over them, protective as a parent, as it watches over me.
Follow the trail of the unseen: Dusk's Reverie | Echo's Remnant