Prelude - Part 1
Is it a trick of the mind…some deeply hidden memory stirring from the past…that makes the village road you walk upon tonight look familiar? Does the lazy yawn of worn brick buildings, burnished a pale rose from years in the sun, bear the stamp of another scene you have frequented…and if so, what little details elude you so that you cannot for certainty name the place your feet lead you toward this evening? Even the slip of moon that darts behind the thin curl of clouds strikes a chord within and catches you up short. You hold your breath…a mental note to steady yourself as the world tilts a fraction of an inch in another direction. Leaves dance like paper skeletons under your feet before scattering a vague greeting to the encroaching dark…and you turn one last corner, knowing instinctively what you will find.
A book store…for all the world nothing more than a dusty alcove tucked between a deserted café and a bakery. It is a small building…completely unprepossessing and without anything to distinguish it or make it worth a second glance to the average eye. Your body knows one moment of hesitation before you enter, drawn by that gentle scent of paper and leather tinged with old secrets and mysteries...the all but forgotten confessions of lovers and those who kept quiet lives in the half worlds of shadows...their words a tumble of dreams and ink across the fragile pages.
Eternity blinks in a slow second, your eyes drinking in row after row of cracked leather bindings and gilt lettering…searching. One slim volume...a solitary offering on the bottom shelf of a rosewood bookcase, its cover worn by the curious touch of a thousand fingers...invites closer attention. What is the hitch of expectation that bites back your breath and makes the world spin around you?
As your fingers press into the cool leather of the book’s faded cover, a thin envelope slips from between the pages of the book…and a familiar handwriting catches your attention. You know the slope of each "L"…the arch of the "M’s" and "N’s"…and that unique curl in each "P". Checking to make sure you are the only one present, you slowly open the envelope...the faint tremble in your hand an echo of anticipation....
A book store…for all the world nothing more than a dusty alcove tucked between a deserted café and a bakery. It is a small building…completely unprepossessing and without anything to distinguish it or make it worth a second glance to the average eye. Your body knows one moment of hesitation before you enter, drawn by that gentle scent of paper and leather tinged with old secrets and mysteries...the all but forgotten confessions of lovers and those who kept quiet lives in the half worlds of shadows...their words a tumble of dreams and ink across the fragile pages.
Eternity blinks in a slow second, your eyes drinking in row after row of cracked leather bindings and gilt lettering…searching. One slim volume...a solitary offering on the bottom shelf of a rosewood bookcase, its cover worn by the curious touch of a thousand fingers...invites closer attention. What is the hitch of expectation that bites back your breath and makes the world spin around you?
As your fingers press into the cool leather of the book’s faded cover, a thin envelope slips from between the pages of the book…and a familiar handwriting catches your attention. You know the slope of each "L"…the arch of the "M’s" and "N’s"…and that unique curl in each "P". Checking to make sure you are the only one present, you slowly open the envelope...the faint tremble in your hand an echo of anticipation....