THE BOOK SHOP by Nitya

The Book Shop At the right turn of the street, under the morning rays, sat a quiet bookshop basking in the warm radiance. Granite steps led up to the shop, lined with fresh dew. They glistened under the sun. The wooden door stood wide and welcoming, with a new-spun sign that read ‘Open’. It creaked every so often due to its rusted hinges. It faltered between open and shut, .yet it never really closed The shop was small, wrapped in brown walls. Despite the light of day, it rested in the peace of dim light. Books waiting to be read crowded the back and the front of the counter. They were neatly arranged in piles of History, Literature, and Philosophy. Only a few selected ones, with leather-bound covers and golden edges, had the privilege of being organized on .the shelves A newly lit candle spilled its waxy tears from the wick onto the weathered counter. The counter was rough from the edges of all the books it handled, yet strong from all those it carried. Scattered papers hid its woody demeanor under business charts and order .numbers Freshly dusted books exuded biblichor into every nook and mixed with the dew—a smell sweeter than flowers that hypnotized the early day into a wave of romanticized hush. Jolts of cold wind barged through the door, yet the warmth of the store was stronger. Pages flickered and fought the counter while the curtains swayed and swept the floor. One meagre candle .went against the chilly force The wind finally got tired and lulled in exhaustion. Its impatient nature grew wise. The bookshop sat in dusk, no longer radiant. The granite steps were dulled with dirt and mud .’filling the craters of their roughness. The door was shut with a muted sign that read ‘Closed Inside, the floor was filled with the empty presence of footprints. Books were flung wide across the array of the store, fingerprints ingrained on their covers. It was a mess of books over books, with no decency to at least keep them shut. The piles collided against each .other like weary soldiers. Works of Kant lay upon those of Dickinson The candle spilled all its tears and had no more to give. Nevertheless, warmth still remained inside the little brown room. Even more order numbers poured across the counter, but now they had their very own corner, giving just enough room for the table’s ruggedness to be .exposed Sweat, weariness, and dirt replaced the biblichor—the scent of hard work. The silence no .longer carried peace but the heaviness of the day