The bookstore was warm. And not just the temperature, but the feel of it. November had brought cold winds with the promise of snow in December. But more than that, the skies were a permanent gray giving the world a muted look. But in here rustic lamps threw orange hues against the walls which fell over the wood grain shelves and landed on the warm red carpet.

It only took a moment before I started to feel claustrophobic. I'd only stepped in through the door and it was impossible to stand without my feet brushing up against a pile of books or my arm against the shelves.

"Hello?" I wondered out loud.

Only a soft quiet answered back. It was curious to know what I was doing here but, as quiet is want to do, it didn't ask. Instead I sidled my way through the corridor of books. I looked up and realized it was tunnel of books for indeed there were shelves hanging from the ceiling. The place was nearly dripping with with books.

This wasn't like any bookstore I'd ever been to. I didn't recognize most of the books and there were plenty written in languages I wasn't familiar with. Some were indeterminably old while others looked like recent paperbacks. From classically bound tomes to pocket readers, books littered the shelves without any sense of organization. Or, if there was, it was known only to the owner.

I had to walk slowly, carefully. I didn't want to imagine the deluge of books that would flood the shop if I accidentally knocked over the precarious shelves. I carefully plotted my way through an aisle of perfectly arranged classical literature, then another of thick volumes that overflowed from shelf to shelf and on and on. As I walked through the aisles, it occurred to me that I'd been walking a long time. Much longer than I'd thought possible given the nature of the small shop.

"Come on, nearly there."

As far as disembodied voices go, this one felt warm like the shop itself. "Just a bit further," she coached on. Whoever she was.

I gingerly stepped past a cacophony of books on library cart and found myself standing by a fireplace. A lit fireplace. In a bookstore. Huh.

"Don't worry, darling. That's the least of your concerns." I turned around to see a woman (who wasn't there earlier) sitting on a chair (which was where the library cart once sat) next to a window which felt suspiciously like it didn't beling in the geometry of the building.

"How can I help you, dear? Beezles? Bundles? A ribbonist?" she inquired. I didn't recognize the words. And then she followed that up with something else. Words to be sure, but not any I recognized. She stared.

"A book," I managed to stutter out. "My uncle?"

The woman's eyes narrowed as she scanned me, head to toe. The quiet in the shop returned. It stood by the fireplace, wondering how long it would be needed.

Of course! The book was in my bag. I hastily opened it and removed it. The quiet in the room nodded and slowly left.

"Ah!" she let out. "Marvin Kang. Of course." Her smile returned and her eyes un-narrowed. I breathed a sigh of relief. "Your uncle has been a member here for decades."

She went on, speaking quickly. I nodded along as my parents had taught me to when elders talked of matters we were expected to know intimately. She probably had another 10 minutes of monologuing before I interrupted her.

"What kind of book is this? I haven't been able to make head's or tails of the language or the content."

She bade me take a closer look and I did. I opened the book and... it was certainly English. I could recognize the letters and even the shape of the words, but any attempt at reading it was futile. My eyes would slide off each word until I reached the bottom of the page having read nothing.

"Try to read it, one letter at a time." I looked up, curious.

My eyes went back to the page. I held my vision and focused just on the first letter. Then the second, and so on and so forth. I slowly tied the letters together until I had part of a sentence.

"T h e  v i r i d e s c e n t  g r e e n." 

I felt myself ask the question, "What kind of book is this?" But my mind had moved on.  My mind was acclimating to this new way of reading. The book spoke of worlds in-between the spaces. Houses hidden inside houses and cities between gaps in the walls. It was like a fantasy, but real somehow. I was only vaguely aware that I was still in the shop. 

The shopkeeper's voice slowly drew me back. "It's a curious book, even amongst our collection. It was meant to be a diary. But with time, it became a reflection of the writer."

I flipped back through the book until I landed on the title page. I slowly ready down until I could make out the author.

"M e r l y n."

I stopped. Curious.

"A sense of humor is a curious thing," the wizard said. I tried to get out the words, but they were preposterous. A joke. And a ridiculous one at that.

She sighed in agreement. "The old man's favorite joke. A spell book."