the bookkeeper’s moment
sitting in the dim glow of a late friday afternoon, christopher reads. the world around him fades into shadow, but the pages reflect the light. his fingers rest on the spine of a well-worn book, a bridge between past and present. a watch glints on his wrist, measuring time he no longer counts. behind him, the quiet hum of palma de mallorca—footsteps, distant voices, the scent of old paper and ink. his store, a sanctuary of literature, waits patiently. in this moment, he is not a bookseller, not an owner. just a reader lost in a world within worlds.
the bookkeeper’s moment
sitting in the dim glow of a late friday afternoon, christopher reads. the world around him fades into shadow, but the pages reflect the light. his fingers rest on the spine of a well-worn book, a bridge between past and present. a watch glints on his wrist, measuring time he no longer counts. behind him, the quiet hum of palma de mallorca—footsteps, distant voices, the scent of old paper and ink. his store, a sanctuary of literature, waits patiently. in this moment, he is not a bookseller, not an owner. just a reader lost in a world within worlds.