The bell above the door chimed softly, a delicate, almost hesitant sound that announced my arrival. The air inside was thick with the scent of aged paper, leather, and a hint of dust – the intoxicating perfume of an old bookstore. Sunlight, filtered through grimy windowpanes, cast long, dusty beams across towering shelves that groaned under the weight of countless stories. Books, in every conceivable size and color, were stacked haphazardly, some spilling onto the worn wooden floor, forming miniature mountains of literary treasure.
