Malcolm Carter was a bookworm. No, let me rephrase that. He was a bookalholic. A chain reader. No sooner had he finished one book, another was in his hand. Since his teenage years, he had read so many books, now in his forties, he claimed to know what an author had been thinking and with certainty, could predict the end of the book without reading to the end. His success rate was high.

But this ability may entertain friends but for Malcolm it meant reading had become less enjoyable. He needed a new reading experience to challenge him. And that experience was soon to come.

Malcolm lived and worked in the city. A city full of glass and steel. So, when a new building appeared seemly out of nowhere. He was intrigued. The building was a slim, two storey town house. It had probably been built sometime in the 1800s and was fashioned in brick and stone. Malcolm stood in front of it on his way home from work. It looked strange squeezed between two glass office blocks. Like a weed had sprung up overnight in a well maintained flowerbed.

The closer Malcolm observed the building, the more convinced he was that it was a bookshop! To satisfy his curiosity he walked up the stone staircase and looked through one of the window. Yes, he could not only see books on the window ledge inside the shop, but he could also see tables and shelves spilling over with them!

He was about to try the door handle, when it suddenly opened. Slowly, with trepidation, Malcolm entered the bookshop.

Dust motes performed their air ballet in the weak light that streamed through the dirty windows. Everywhere...