"How much?" Elias asked, his mouth dry.
He closed his eyes, focused on the rain, the cold, the crushing weight of his cowardice. He felt a sucking sensation, a hollowing out in his chest, like a vacuum sealing a jar. When he opened his eyes, the violet book was warm in his hands.
He touched the pen to the paper.
He had sold his past to the shop to buy a future.
Behind a counter made of stacked encyclopedias sat the Proprietor. He was a man of indeterminate age, wearing a tweed jacket that looked perpetually damp, despite the dry air. He was reading a book bound in what looked like human skin, though Elias politely assumed it was calfskin. bookos
For a long time, he stared at the white page. He had no memories of rain to draw from. He had no ghosts to haunt him. He had no regrets to fuel him.
"Entropy always hurts," the Proprietor replied. "But you’ll get a better ending in return." "How much
"It is the only book you haven't read," the Proprietor whispered. "It is the one you are meant to write. I will give you the time, and the vessel. But the ink? That you must supply yourself."
