In that dimly lit room, Leonard sat on an old wooden stool, inspecting the condition of each used book from the latest shipment.
Above him, a single LED panel lit the cramped space, overcrowded with stacks upon stacks of books.
"Looks like it's gonna be one of those days... Why do they always send them all at once? They could easily stagger the deliveries…" he muttered.
The familiar scent of yellowed and fresh pages filled the air, carrying a strangely comforting nostalgia. Among the pile in front of him, Leonard recognized a few Canadian classics—The Outlaw, Brian the Lone Hunter.
As he sorted through the copies, his hands brushed against a familiar title: The Trial, by Franz Kafka. It was in terrible shape, but still stirred memories.
"This one… reminds me of her," he whispered to himself, recalling Sophie—his mother—who had adored that book.
He tossed the novel onto the "approved" pile and moved on.
Near the last eight books, something caught his eye. A small, leather-bound volume—discreet in form, yet unlike any of the others. Its black, aged cover bore no title, no author, no mark of origin. Leonard ran his fingers across its worn surface and felt something strange. The leather resisted—ever so slightly—as though it were breathing under his touch.
A chill slithered down his spine.
"What... is this?" he murmured, not expecting an answer.
The book seemed to throb in his hands. Not literally—or maybe it did, on some level he couldn't understand. It was a gut instinct, primal and immediate—like sensing you're being watched in a dark room.
With growing unease, Leonard opened it.
The pages were ancient, yellowed and stained by time—but completely blank. He flipped one page, then another. Nothing. No ink, no faint traces of letters. Just silence bound in paper.
Until he reached the second-to-last page.
There, stained in crimson, was a mark.
His eyes widened.
The symbol etched there belonged to something that should never have been recorded.
It was a chaos of curves and impossible angles—each stroke defying logic. At the center, something that was both an eye and a spiral expanded endlessly. Around it, four jagged figures—blades, arrows, claws—pointed to the cardinal directions, as if imprisoning something... or unleashing it.
Leonard couldn't tell whether he was drawn to it or horrified.
"It's… beautiful?" The words left his mouth uncertainly.
And yet, it was true. There was a terrible beauty in the image. Its lines were precise, disturbingly elegant—a masterpiece drawn by a hand that shouldn't exist. And still… something was wrong. Like a painting that shouldn't be seen, a face from a nightmare, a note that echoed in the ear just slightly off, but for reasons one couldn't explain.
Turning the page once more, he found a single word written in faded ink: Voynich.
The name rang a distant bell, though he couldn't place it.
"I doubt anyone'll care if I buy this before it's even shelved. It's blank anyway. No one's going to want a book like this."
He placed the black book aside and returned to sorting the rest. His unease faded, as did the strange chill.
"Still sleepy… Wonder if I'll feel like this the whole day. Weird…"
By the time he finished, the towering stacks had become two neat boxes: one for books in good condition, the other for damaged ones. With some effort, Leonard carried the approved batch to the sales floor and began shelving them in the used section.
Half an hour later—after finishing the job and doing a second round to tidy the shelves—it was finally past noon. He hadn't taken his lunch break yet, so he decided to fix that.
Back in the small room, he sat on the same stool and ate in silence. But something was off.
The black book he'd set aside was gone.
"Did someone already take it? I forgot to move it out of sight... Well, whatever. Too late now."
After lunch, Leonard helped out front. He enjoyed working with customers, always curious about their literary tastes—so often a reflection of who they were.
"I swear... How can someone not like Hamlet or Don Quixote? What kind of monster says that with a straight face?!"
Through the window, the quiet afternoon unfolded. The sun peeked shyly through the clouds, and time seemed to drift by unnoticed. The day was almost over, and so far, nothing unusual had happened.
"That book... Would it be weird to ask who took it? Ugh, never mind. Not worth making a fuss. Just a random old book that caught my eye, that's all…"
The calm shattered with the soft ring of the doorbell, just over thirty minutes before closing.
Emma and Aria were busy assisting other customers, so Leonard glanced toward the entrance.
The man who entered was immaculately dressed: a gray half-frock coat with greenish undertones, a narrow belt cinched at the waist, and a modest tie. A black fedora rested on his head. He had long blond hair and piercing blue eyes.
Leonard immediately sensed a precise, deliberate presence—someone methodical, careful.
He approached the man, ready to assist.
"I'm looking for The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky. Would you happen to have a copy?"
"Yes, we do. If not new, would a used copy be all right?"
"No problem. I just hope I can find it here. The last shop I went to didn't have any."
"I see. Well, let me check and bring it to you!"
Leonard headed to the new releases section but returned a few minutes later, empty-handed.
"Unfortunately, all our new copies are gone. But I remember seeing one or two in yesterday's used shipment. Would that work for you?"
"That's perfectly fine."
"Alright, I'll go fetch it."
Leonard made his way toward the shelves and tables holding the used books, scanning the titles.