An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Excerpt:
It looked like his bookshop.
Or at least, it wanted to.
The soft light, the looming bookcases, the floor beneath his feet. It all resembled the shop on the corner of Soho he had curated over the decades. But it wasn’t. There were no piles of unsorted novels tucked under side tables, no familiar clutter of cherubic statues, no porcelain tea cups waiting patiently for use. The smell was almost right—ink, binding glue, old paper. But clean, too clean. Sterile in a way his shop never had been.









