The shop was warm, smelling of old paper, leather bindings, and the faint, sweet note of pipe tobacco. Shelves rose to the ceiling, crammed with volumes, their spines a tapestry of faded colors. A single lamp on the polished counter cast a pool of golden light.

Behind the counter, a man looked up from a large, open ledger. He had dark hair, graying slightly at the temples, and wore a pair of thin, wire-framed glasses. He was in his late thirties, with a quiet, settled presence. His expression was one of mild, polite inquiry.