Chapter Text
The first thing Eiji did when opening the bookstore — every single day, without fail, like a ritual of emotional survival — was to greet the crooked skeleton that lived tied to the classic horror shelf. He didn’t know exactly when it had become a habit, or why. He just knew there was a strange need, almost a silent pact, to say good morning to that cheap plastic figure, whose fake bones gleamed under the amber light of the old lamps. Maybe it was loneliness, maybe mild madness. Maybe it was just Eiji being Eiji, with his unwavering devotion to anything that smelled like comforting strangeness.
— Good morning, Harold. — he muttered, tossing his backpack carelessly behind the counter and letting out a yawn. His voice sounded sleepy, but there was a curious affection in it, the kind reserved for imaginary childhood friends. — Did you dream of any wandering souls last night?
Harold, as usual, didn’t answer. He simply remained there, skeletal and indifferent, with his loose jaw and the hand-written sign hanging around his neck. “Harold,” it said, in crooked letters drawn with a pen that had clearly failed on the “H.” Even so, Eiji smiled, reaching for the dummy’s skull for a light pat — an automatic, almost affectionate gesture, like greeting an old coworker who’s long lost count of the years on the job.
The bookstore was small and charmingly decaying. Its narrow aisles were dominated by shelves that rose to the ceiling like the columns of an abandoned literary temple, and the prevailing smell was a persistent mix of damp wood, friendly mold, and reheated coffee. On certain days, depending on the humidity and the position of the sun, Eiji swore he could also catch a faint note of ancient mint, as if some librarian spirit had forgotten a candy in the pocket of their blazer. The upper floor was permanently closed to the public, sealed by a sign that said “under renovation” for so long it had become part of the décor. Downstairs, however, everything belonged to Eiji: the carefully curated ambient sound — usually some melancholic compilation or soundtracks from obscure 80s movies — the badly made coffee from the French press inherited from the previous manager, and the sweet certainty that no one would show up to bother him before eleven a.m.
It was his favorite routine. A private world where books talked to him more than people, where Harold was his most loyal companion, and where Eiji, with his ink-stained cardigans and permanently sleepy eyes, could pretend he was living inside a story.
That day, the rain fell with the monotonous gentleness of an existentialist soundtrack. It wasn’t a real storm, nor a downpour capable of causing damage. It was that kind of fine, persistent rain that blurred the world, tinting everything gray, leaving the sidewalks shining like sad mirrors and rooftops whispering wet secrets. It was, in short, the perfect kind of weather to not get out of bed. But, for Eiji, it was also the day a new box of used books had arrived — and inside it, hidden between pulp crime novels and outdated encyclopedias, was a relic he had been waiting months for.
A rare edition, hardcover, spine intact, and — like a nostalgic cherry on top — a bat-shaped bookmark, made of laminated paper, clearly rescued from the 90s. It was painfully ugly. And therefore, perfect.
Eiji pulled the volume from the box as if handling a museum piece, holding it with both hands and the reverent gaze of someone who has just found a secret clue to escape an invisible labyrinth. His eyes sparkled, his heart sped up just a little.
— It’s today, Harold. — he announced, lifting the book like a trophy. — Nothing’s going to ruin my day. Not a grumpy delivery guy, not a teenager asking dumb questions. Today’s the day to read about the apocalypse in peace.
But peace, of course, was a fragile concept in that place.
Just as he finished the sentence, a cold draft swept through the bookstore. Not a breeze from the window — which was closed. Not a gust of wind from the door — which he himself had locked minutes before. It was a real shiver, dense and sharp, as if someone had purposely passed by him. As if something had rushed between the shelves, leaving behind an invisible, unsettling impression.
Eiji froze for a second. He wrinkled his nose. Looked toward the entrance, then to the back of the store. Nothing. Just the insistent sound of rain outside, the gurgle of coffee brewing in the forgotten press, and Harold — always Harold — staring at him with that eternal toothless grin. Only now... something was different.
The jaw.
— Okay. That was weird. — he murmured, approaching slowly.
The skeleton’s jaw was hanging in a new way. Not that Harold had much facial mobility, but Eiji swore that, that morning, it had been more firmly attached. Now, however, the jaw seemed loose, crooked, as if it had laughed at some internal joke. Or, worse yet, as if it was about to say something.
He laughed to himself, but it was a fragile laugh, restrained, like someone trying hard not to look too impressionable in front of their own reflection.
— I’m watching too many horror movies again. — he concluded, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling.
And with that, he went on with his day. He poured the coffee into a faded mug with a pumpkin print, grabbed the newly acquired book, and curled up on the old sofa in the corner, letting the sound of rain fill the spaces between the turning pages. The lighting in the place was low, amber, made to create an aura of intellectual cave. The perfect environment to forget the world.
But what Eiji didn’t know — what none of the old books whispered, what not even Harold seemed willing to reveal — was that, at that very moment, something was moving slowly on the bookstore’s upper floor. Something that had been asleep for far too long. Something with golden eyes, hungry curiosity... and zero sense of social etiquette.
But that, of course, was a matter for later.
For now, there was bitter coffee, rain on glass, and the end of the world painted in words.
Eiji was home.
The coffee cooled like a forgotten promise, abandoned in the same spot where he had left it before starting the morning round. The cup still exhaled a shy hint of steam, as if insisting on existing despite the neglect, and Eiji, without much attention, just left it there. Part of the ritual. Part of the almost sacred choreography that was taking care of that bookstore — as silent as an abandoned temple, so full of little gods sleeping between dusty pages.
He started sweeping, as he always did. Not because there was actual dirt — the footsteps that crossed the threshold were few and careful, almost too respectful —, but because there was something in the repetition of the gesture that calmed his body. The sound of the broom’s straw scraping the floor, soft and continuous, filled the air with a discreet rhythm, like a mantra that only made sense if you were inside. And he was. Always was. Eiji liked the idea of caring for the space with his own hands, as if each movement were a way of reminding the universe that there was still life there, there was still someone watching over that sanctuary of sleeping stories.
As he swept between the shelves, where the dust accumulated in the corners as if hiding old secrets, he hummed softly. He didn’t quite know the name of the song — probably some leftover from an old playlist or a fragment of a movie soundtrack he never finished —, but the verses came anyway, clumsy and sincere, slipping from his lips as if they were part of the shop’s own soul. The broom moved with more force than necessary, not out of haste, but from a strange need to feel that the world responded to his touch. He passed by Harold.
— The dramatic pose is slipping, buddy — he commented, adjusting the head with a light gesture, almost affectionate. — Not that I’m judging. Sometimes we do fall apart.
There was something comforting about talking to Harold. Maybe because he didn’t answer. Maybe because, in that place, even a skeleton could seem more whole than certain people.
He moved on to the back of the store, where chaos still reigned. That was the territory of unclassified books, the unstable piles of worlds waiting to be organized, understood, fitted into some logic Eiji had yet to invent. It was as if those stories refused labels, as if each cover wanted to be read in full before accepting a genre. But he tried. Always tried.
He crouched in front of a half-crushed cardboard box, with smudged letters that read “To classify” in blue pen. He pulled it gently and began rummaging through the contents like an archaeologist digging through the ruins of a forgotten civilization. He sorted the books with care, running his fingers along the covers, flipping through some pages, jotting down quick notes in a softcover notebook he kept in his apron pocket.
— Romance. Another. Another. Horror with a tacky cover, of course — he kept muttering, as if talking to himself or to some invisible literary spirit that inhabited the place.
He stopped when he pulled out a particular book. The title, in large golden letters, read: How to Summon Interdimensional Beings Safely (and in Style). He blinked. Raised his eyebrows. Smiled.
— This definitely came from the wrong box.
But even so, with that almost affectionate care we give to things that don’t fit anywhere, he placed the volume in the occult pile. Not that he took that sort of thing seriously. Not really. But there was an innocent kind of fascination in stories that mixed pentagrams with aesthetic flair. He grew up watching possession movies on late-night TV and reading with the same focus others gave to a medication leaflet. The macabre, for Eiji, was just another way of understanding the world — and, sometimes, more fun than reality.
After that, he reorganized the “Classic Horror” shelf, dusting it with an old rag that stayed hidden behind the counter. He placed Dracula, Frankenstein, and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde side by side, as if they were in a small immortal gathering.
— You guys, huh? — he murmured, adjusting the spines. — You survived time better than any modern couple.
It was a phrase thrown into the air, but it carried that kind of gentle irony he nurtured on solitary mornings. The bookstore was a living place. He knew that. And that’s why he spoke to it as if it could hear him.
When the clock struck nearly noon, he walked to the glass door and flipped the sign from “Closed” to “Open”. An almost symbolic gesture, because he knew — with the same certainty he knew the exact hour the sun passed through the display window — that the crowd would only start showing up now. But it was part of the rite. Like lighting candles before a prayer. Like preparing the altar before a silent and literary service. The only difference was that the altar was wooden, smelled of old paper, and the offerings were books handled with care.
He gave one last look at the space. The antique furniture, the scent of coffee mixed with the woody perfume of aged pages. It was like living inside an indie movie, the kind no one watches to the end, but that always has a pretty scene of someone alone in a bookstore. He was that someone. And, for some reason, that was enough.
The old record player, which creaked before working, now played an alternative rock album with vocals slightly distorted by the grooves. The perfect soundtrack for a morning that dragged on in silence, beautiful in its melancholy. The coffee was still there, now completely cold. He picked it up, took a sip anyway, made a slight grimace, and set it aside.
He sat behind the counter, pulled the new book from under his arm — the kind of read that mixed apocalypse with poetry — and settled in like someone preparing to witness the end of the world.
It was just another ordinary day.
Still.
But he knew, deep down, that ordinary days always hide the seed of something extraordinary.
And that was part of the magic.