“Tell me the story, Daddy. Tell me …when you met Mommy. Tell me when you knew.”
Arthur smiled that smile that never quite touched his eyes anymore. “When I knew what, son?”
Little Sammy squirmed atop his bedcovers. “You know, Daddy. When you knew… You know.”
Arthur almost laughed. Almost. “Okay. Okay. …Once upon a time, your dad -me- was young. I was barely an adult and was working my first job, at a bookstore…”
Arthur could still smell the scholarly breath of time and leather that greeted him each morning, could still hear the muted tinkle of the bell over the door, could still see the morning light filtering through mullioned front windows. Tomes ranging from paper romance to hardbacked alchemy built labyrinth paths between the barely-visible masonry walls. The dust of every bibliophile’s essence hung, distilled, in the motes that danced where empty spaces dared exist.
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