the great war had changed the face of london in ways he cannot begin to describe. the streets turned unfamiliar by entire buildings missing and others taking their place, unfamiliar storefronts and overwhelming poverty and desperation which accompany the great depression. he'd seen much of the same in his years in france, but somehow, before seeing it for himself, avoided imagining his hometown crippled and altered in the same way. it doesn't feel like the same london he used to know, but then again neither is he the same basil hallward who'd left it on a night train once upon a time.
still, it is entirely human to be lured by the familiar like a moth to a flame; perhaps this is why he stumbles inside the bookshop almost without a second thought, merely intrigued by the fact that at least something looks and feels the same. — he didn't use to be a regular here by any means, but on a handful of occasions he did browse the books here which proved rather unobtainable, anyway, as when ever he'd made up his mind to buy one of them, the owner was nowhere to be found, though he could swear he'd seen him before, stalking amidst the shelves.
"good evening, uh— am i interrupting? the door was unlocked." only now amidst the shelves does he realise how little daylight pours in here from the outside. it is rather late and he is rather lucky if the store is still open in more than just the literal meaning of the word. in fact, he wonders if this is the reason he's getting greeted in the first place, to be politely sent on his way — ah, that's also familiar but strange to him at the same time. a part of him prefered the french for their directness, even if one had to admit there was elegance to this, too.
the shopkeep does look familiar, too, but having hardly come properly face to face, he supposes this could as well be his son and basil would be none the wiser. in fact, it has to be his son — the blonde fellow from decades ago would have been entirely grey by now. "i am just looking, thank you." he pauses, looking between the other and the shelves. the other stares at him, almost as if expecting more. and basil finds himself giving more, fixing up the scarf neatly hiding the scar on his neck, the cuffs of his shirt, as he ponders out loud: "you must excuse me, i have been away from london for quite a while. the streets are all different... but the shop, it's —" he encompasses it in a gesture of his arm. "much the same. there's comfort in that. so much comfort in fact that i have not begun to browse the wares." he starts and ends in an apology. he can get back to his british ways quite easily, after all.
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