Stories

Rain in this city does not soak: it varnishes.

It turns the asphalt into a neon mirror, drags the reflections of the adverts through the puddles and makes the streets look longer than they are. Drones pass overhead trailing a steady hum, driverless cars glide down the avenues like luminous fish and, between one building of steel and another of glass, you walk along with your coffee half-finished and your umbrella left at home.

It is an ordinary night.

Until it stops being one.

You turn a corner you know by heart.

And you find a street that was not there yesterday.

You stop.

It is not a new street. It does not look recently built. Quite the opposite: there is something old about it, almost worn, as if it had spent decades waiting for somebody to notice.

You look back.

The avenue is still there.

You look ahead again.

So is the street.

It appears in no guidebook. The GPS insists you are standing in the middle of a building which, as far as you know, ought to be a car park. You check your phone twice.

No signal.

You sigh.

“Perfect.”

You could turn back.

You probably should.

But at the end of the street there is a warm light that does not belong to the rest of the city.

And beneath it, a wooden sign.

No neon. No holographic advertising. It does not even appear to have electricity.

Only one word, carved by hand.

BOOKSHOP.

Below it, almost worn away by time, there is a small gold paw print.

You walk closer.

The door is ajar.

You do not know why, but you have the feeling it was waiting for you.

When you push it open, the noise of the city disappears.

It does not fade.

It disappears.

The drone-hum stays at the threshold, quite politely. The rain stops striking the windows. Even the distant murmur of the traffic seems to belong to another world.

Inside it smells of dry paper, old timber and fresh coffee.

There are warm lamps between the shelves. Worn rugs. Small objects you would not know how to name. A pocket watch beside a stack of novels. A decorative sword propped against a column. A little plant growing in a porcelain cup.

And books.

Hundreds.

Perhaps thousands.

Some have titles you recognise.

Others are written in alphabets that do not exist.

And others seem to have no title at all.

Behind the counter, a cat in glasses looks up.

She watches you.

She does not seem surprised to see you.

In fact, she seems mildly amused.

“You're late.”

You blink.

“Sorry?”

Nyla closes the book she was reading and sets it down on the counter.

“Nothing.”

She smiles.

“The door is open.”

As if that explained the rest.

You do not know what to answer.

“Was this bookshop here before?”

Nyla tilts her head slightly.

“Before what?”

“Yesterday.”

“Ah.”

A pause.

“Then no.”

She says it with complete naturalness.

Before you can decide whether to leave, a timid voice reaches you from the back of the shop.

“Nyla…”

Elowen appears between the shelves.

She is carrying a volume in her hands.

She looks worried.

Not very.

Just enough.

“What's the matter?” Nyla asks.

Elowen looks at the book.

“I don't remember cataloguing it.”

“Maybe you missed one.”

“No.”

The answer comes out too fast.

Elowen runs her thumb along the edge of the cover.

“I don't forget books.”

That seems to settle the discussion.

You come a little closer.

The cover is black, though not exactly. When the light falls across it, bluish reflections appear, like those of a puddle beneath a neon sign.

There is no title.

No author.

No publisher.

Not even a date.

Only a small gold paw print in the centre.

The same one you saw on the sign.

“May I see it?” you ask.

Elowen hesitates.

She looks at Nyla.

Nyla does not answer.

She only watches you over the top of her glasses.

At last, Elowen hands you the book.

It is cold.

Too cold.

You open it.

The pages smell of rain.

But not the rain outside.

Of rain that has not fallen yet.

You run a finger across the paper.

The first pages are blank.

So is the second.

And the third.

“It's empty.”

“No,” says Elowen.

You look up.

She is staring at a page you would have sworn was blank a second ago.

Now there is a sentence on it.

Just one.

Rain in this city does not soak: it varnishes.

The coffee goes cold in your hand.

You look towards the door.

The rain is still falling on the other side of the glass.

“What…?”

Elowen takes a step back.

Nyla, on the other hand, seems calm.

“It's starting.”

From the far end of the counter comes a metallic sound.

Clang.

Tsuki.

You had not seen her until now.

She is sitting there with all the calm in the world, headphones on and a small tower of records beside her. She lifts one earcup.

“What's starting?”

Nyla points at the book.

Tsuki looks at it.

Then she looks at you.

“Ah.”

A smile appears on her face.

“That one.”

“What's special about it?”

Tsuki shrugs.

“Nothing.”

A pause.

“Yet.”

She puts her headphones back on.

The metal goes up a notch.

You turn another page.

This time a description appears.

Of the street.

Of the bookshop.

Of Nyla.

Of Elowen.

Of Tsuki.

Of you.

You read a few lines and a chill runs through you.

The book knows things it should not know.

It describes the coffee in your hand.

The clothes you are wearing.

It even mentions the umbrella you left at home.

You look up.

“Is this a joke?”

Nyla shakes her head.

“I wish.”

“Then what is it?”

“A book.”

“I can see that much.”

“Then you know as much as we do.”

Elowen comes closer.

“There's something else.”

She points at the page.

Right at the bottom there is a line that has just appeared.

The reader does not yet know that the door is no longer behind them.

You turn round.

The door is there.

But the glass no longer shows the street.

On the other side there is a wall of shelves.

Books.

More books.

And no way out.

“Nyla…”

“Yes.”

For the first time, the cat looks genuinely serious.

“I think we should let them finish.”

“Finish what?”

Nyla points at the volume.

“The story.”

You look at the pages.

A new line appears slowly.

As if an invisible hand were writing it.

If you are reading this, the volume has already found you.

You swallow.

“And what am I supposed to do?”

Tsuki takes off her headphones.

“Turn the folio.”

“And if I don't want to?”

Tsuki smiles.

“Then it'll be a very short story.”

Elowen looks at her, horrified.

“Tsuki.”

“What? It's true.”

Nyla laughs softly.

Then she leans across the counter.

“Don't worry. The books that arrive here never force anyone.”

You look at the page.

The sentence goes on appearing.

They only wait.

A drop of water falls on the paper.

You do not know where it came from.

The ink spreads.

The letters change.

And then you read your own name.

You do not say it out loud.

There is no need.

Nyla already knows it.

“Welcome.”

The rain strikes the windows again.

For the first time since you came in, you can hear the city.

The neon.

The cars.

The drones.

Everything seems normal.

Too normal.

You close the book.

The cover is warm now.

“Can I take it with me?”

Nyla smiles.

“No.”

A pause.

“You can let it decide whether it wants to go with you.”

You open your mouth to answer.

But the book is no longer in your hands.

It is on the counter.

Open.

At a new page.

There is only one sentence.

Tomorrow there will be a door where yesterday there was none.

You look up.

Nyla is reading.

Elowen is shelving books.

Tsuki has turned her music up again.

As if nothing had happened.

You walk to the door.

Before you go out, you look back.

“Will I come back?”

Nyla does not look up from her book.

“If you find the street.”

You step outside.

The rain soaks again.

The city makes noise again.

And when you look behind you…

The bookshop has disappeared.

All that is left is a wall of damp brick.

You stand in front of it for a few seconds.

Then you smile, without quite knowing why.

And you keep walking.

The next morning, somewhere in the city, someone finds a black volume on a table.

They do not remember buying it.

They do not remember finding it.

When they open it, they discover that almost every page is blank.

Almost.

On the first one a sentence appears:

Rain in this city does not soak: it varnishes.

And on the last page, a small gold paw print.

The same one that was on the sign.

The same one you saw that night.

The same one that, perhaps, somebody is looking at right now.

Because if you have made it this far…

perhaps the story did not end in the bookshop.

Perhaps it began with you.

No need to bring the volume back.

Just turn the folio.

The workshop is still writing on the other side.