He picked up the book in a secondhand shop in the back alleys of the town. He loved browsing these stores. All independent, run by people who knew their stuff. As soon as he opened the door his nostrils were greeted with the odour of old books.
He loved that smell.
In bookshops he would often take a book from the shelf and open the yellowing pages then, glancing around to check he wasn't being observed, he would stick his nose into it and take a big sniff.
This bookshop was called The Station of The Dead, an intriguing name for a bookshop.
"It's named after my favourite book," the owner said, when asked. He pointed to a shelf behind him. There were several copies of the book, all of them old, all of them well thumbed, well loved.
"I'll take one," he said. He almost changed his mind when the owner told him the price. But the old geezer had already wrapped it in paper and handed it too him. It seemed cheap to refuse it now.
"Enjoy it," the man said.
...
