The store smelled of old paper, dust, and something faintly medicinal. Rows of weathered books lined the walls, leaning against each other like tired soldiers. A single lamp glowed from a table near the back, casting long shadows across the cramped space.

Behind the counter, an old man sat in a wheelchair, his hands folded over a thick ledger. His face was weathered, his eyes sharp despite his age, scanning you as the door clicked shut behind you.

A young woman leaned against a bookshelf nearby, arms crossed. She had keen eyes and a quiet intensity, studying you like you were a page she was trying to read.