#71 Short Story
The sky was filled with wires, clouds, and the sun. The street was filled with smoke — a freshly blended scent of nicotine, exhaustion, and fuel. Tiny men of grey hurried along, both the exhausted and those who wished to live slowly. They were all unaware of both their monotone and their greatness.
A quaint bookshop stood too old on a street uncommon to ink and paper. Its glass, dusty from the outside, remained pristine within thought. Displays of titles bore names too foreign for the world the shop stood in. It was an alien to the street filled with men of soot, calloused hands, sweat, hard work, and collars of blue.
There were books, papers, bundles of letters, splatters of spilled ink, bottles of ink both filled and empty, a pen, a quill, a pencil, rulers, compasses, clips, weights, a lamp, a calculator, and whatever clutter could gather upon the table owned by a man too busy to take even a moment to clean it. Instead, he remained seated near the open window, looking at whatever there was to look at — scenery unbound by feet.
The old door rang. A customer visited the shop. The pages, the bounds, the tables standing erect holding multitudes of ideas, and even the bookseller himself were all unfond of the sound.
The customer wiped the grime from his shoes on the rug that said welcome inside the store. A good manner. The store immediately knew it was either a patron or an acquaintance.
“Hello! Good evening,” a familiar voice disturbed the quiet store. It was an acquaintance of the bookseller.
The bookseller moved into view. He was carrying a ton of ideas bundled and compressed into books of assorted titles. With a glance, he bid the visitor to commit to his usual: window shopping, browsing, and with great, unnegligent respect for the books.
But that was not the visitor’s reason for coming.
He went near the bookseller and offered help. The bookseller refused.
“The owner of the bread shop next street have—” the visitor whispered.
“I heard,” the bookseller replied.
“To be honest, he was already too old,” said the visitor.
“He lived a long life,” replied the bookseller.
“Quite tragic for the ones he left actually. His son specifically.”
“With that fortune? If the son plays his hands right, I am sure he’ll be fine.”
“Perhaps you're right. Their elder sister is fond of the prodigal son.”
“Quite a title you give the boy,” the bookseller glanced at the visitor and gave him a smirk.
“Isn’t he?”
“Was the end the same?”
The visitor paused.
“Was it not?”
“Hold on,” the bookseller said, placing the books he held upon the table. His gaze froze. His thoughts wandered elsewhere. “That bread shop. The house in front of it is the flower shop, right?”
He seated himself. His hands were shaking.
“Yeah. Their family is acquainted with them, though they don't really have a connection with the bread shop family.”
“No! I mean, the kid in the flower shop,” the bookseller stood up. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked straight into his visitor’s eyes. “How is the boy?”
“The son of the bread shop owner—”
“No! You idio— No! I meant the young boy in the flower shop. The son of the owner.”
“Young boy?” the visitor asked, brow arched. “You mean the idiot of the flower—”
The bookseller tried grabbing the visitor by the collar. But he stopped. He realized it was only he who knew the boy.
“What?” the visitor asked, backing away.
The bookseller lowered his shaking hands.
“I—” he trembled.
“What is it with you?” the visitor asked, irritated at the sudden lunge. “What is it with the kid of the flower shop?”
The bookseller understood the word kid meant differently to his visitor. It was an insult. He sighed.
“Forgive me. It’s nothing,” the bookseller said, his gaze falling upon the visitor’s feet.
They were glistening. Brand new. No sign of being polished. No sign of wear. Fresh. Well kept.
“Why are you concerned with the kid, anyway?” asked the visitor.
The bookseller sighed. He looked his visitor in the eyes and smiled.
“It’s nothing. I’m sorry. It’s probably my age catching up to me.” The bookseller chuckled. It was a lie. “Oh! If you mind me asking, is this why you came here?”
“I guess that's all,” replied the visitor. “And I wanted to talk to you. People were asking about you in the town center. They were— We've been wondering where you were and why you stopped visiting.”
“I’m sorry, my friend,” he interrupted, meticulously checking the books on the table and stacking them into neat columns. “I’m too busy with more important matters and couldn’t find the time to visit you all.”
The bookseller picked up a stack of books and hurried off. The visitor followed.
“I heard you were in the flower shop… was it last night or the other?” the visitor asked.
“Oh? You saw me visit the flower shop?” asked the bookseller, his eyes busy searching for the correct shelf.
“No, not me. Someone from the center,” replied the visitor.
The bookseller found the right spot — a shelf about politics. He balanced the books on one knee, looked along the row, picked the proper title, and placed it carefully on the shelf.
“And so?” asked the bookseller.
“We’re…” he paused, wondering why. “We’re worried about you.”
The bookseller checked the books resting on his knee one last time. Seeing none belonged there, he lifted the stack again.
He turned around but stopped midway and faced the visitor.
“I’m sorry, but why should you be concerned about me?” the bookseller asked in a monotone voice.
He paused briefly and, without waiting for an answer, walked away.
The visitor followed.
“Come on, Professor. We’re genuinely worried about you. And aren’t we all friends there in the center?”
The bookseller sighed. He turned to the visitor and smiled.
“Fine. I’ll visit tomorrow.”
Then he turned his back once more, busy with trivial matters, though the heaviness in his thoughts weighed far more than the books he carried.
The visitor noticed the hints but shrugged them off. Soon enough he began the usual routine of every patron and acquaintance who visited the store.