Everything changes except the position of doors. Wandering down the road to the cafe, I try to remember which shopfront was which business a quarter of a decade ago. It all looks different now; palimpsests of signage peer down, but despite their gaudiness they cannot hide their spatial permanence.
Here, a door in the arrogant middle. There, one on the expectant corner. A sneaky step up into the main space, or the morning light catching the floor just so. Entrances and angles read like obvious hints, carved into time like wrinkles on a brow.
The remaining bookshop here looks to be reaching its final chapter. There were three or four here when I arrived, but now their memories of shelves are menus of snacks and drinks. I wonder who will take on the task of cleaning the dusty windows, and fixing the creaky step that leads down to the kids and science fiction rooms. Where all the books will go.
I want to break in, and usher them all out onto the street to run free. “Bring joy” I whisper as their pages flutter among the ankles of commuters. They will nest in corners and multiply like pigeons, their bindings flapping in both fight and flight.
I stand in the doorway watching them all go. As the last paperback disappears down a nearby alleyway, I pat the paint-chipped doorframe of the shop and, minute by minute, become one with the shop’s darkness.
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