In the basement in the bookshop you could find: the science fiction books, the fantasy novels, the fairy tale collections, the folklore compendiums, pamphlets of poetry, artists’ manifestos, dissidents’ diaries, and the shelf full of sale items with torn covers and tattered spines. There was even a comfy old armchair, and occasionally a cat, but never, of course, anyone else at all.

Eleonora never told anyone this was where she spent every lunch hour, It was her own secret den, an oasis all to herself in the middle of an endless desert of days of despair.

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Notes:

1. Written on September 19th, 2024

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