The ephemeral bookshop was tiny, narrow. Just a door holding a thousands of shelves compressed into a few tables and even less corridors to move through. So reduced to be an attraction in that normal street that was so close to a populated placed that stole all the audience from it. And, just in case, so random that you could walk in front of it without even noticing its presence.
Spanish Version: La Efímera Librería
And it smelled like the best places in the world can smell: like books.
The bookshop welcomed individual and group visitors, from adults and infants, with open and still closed minds. People from the area, foreigners passing by. Souls in any case that felt attracted to each other because of the shared passion for a small format and crunchy pages.
People arrived there because they knew what it was, because of its antique charm, that necessity of living among its neighbours. And when anybody got inside it, any possible doubt flew away and it opened wide, at least in the proportions it was allowed to. By doing so, its jewels danced around the visitor, spinning like mermaids that sing to attract the readers to one thousand and one misfortunes in the form of advntures and wordplays.
The chants were diverse, where some of them resounded more than others; some of them brought a bigger treasure and others cost it. The images that they showed were unique, from different eras, like if it was a modern composition. It seemed like clippings from a lifetime put all together inside an almost insignificant living space.
Only in size, because its contents were magnificent.
A typewriter was located in the center of the room, like an everlasting memory of the boundless limits of the word. Everybody could write using it, everybody could continue with what was put onto those shelves. A machine that showed us that we can also do the same that those artisans did to create those jewels.
The visit that anyone could pay it was expanded through time, and although it only lasted a few minutes, it felt warm like a morning under the sun, full of pleasant smells and delightful sounds.
Nevertheless, and in any case, the bookshop always turned ephemeral, minimal in our existence, although persistent in our memory. Ephemeral like the life, like the beauty, like reading books, like the murmur of leaves moved by the wind. Ephemeral, yes, but persistent in our memory for the time to come.
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