The smell of coffee being made in a bookstore café puts your mind at ease. This smell paired with the light jazz playing overhead, that sounds as if it’s being played from a speaker in between your ears in a surprisingly pleasing way. Starting an adventure here is easy for those who want to explore. Sitting in these shops that are always the most comfortable temperature, as you prepare yourself for an unknown adventure. The bookstore you frequent is somehow always empty, aside from the owner, of course. This is comforting to you as you find solace in the loneliness of this little bookstore. “Literary Café” is a silly name, but something about it is charming to you. Without fail, once a week, you shop here. Not always purchasing something, sometimes you sit on the floor and read a random book; the owner doesn’t mind you reading them without buying them. It seems as if you are his only customer anyway; he knows you’ll buy something eventually.  

You walk through the towering shelves, looking for something intriguing. You are unsure what you are looking for, waiting for something to jump out at you. Something about the bookstore feels magical today. You don’t know what it is, but you feel as if there is nowhere else you are meant to be today other than here. Suddenly, objects, moving so fast that you cannot make out what they are, begin charging toward you, but you are comfortable with this situation. You are unsure of why you are okay with this, but you are. You feel safe somehow. Right before these objects collide with your head, they drop at your feet. You stand completely still, without the slightest flinch, as if this is what you expect to happen. You didn’t expect this to happen, but you are fine with it. There is now a circle of books on the floor, and you feel like your body is being pulled to the ground by the anticipation of reading these books. 

Sitting in the middle of the circle, you grab each book eagerly, reading the description on the back of each. The covers vary in art, some spines are cracked, and each feels different. A few of the books look old and worn like they have been read and adored by many. The others are new-looking and feel excited to be read. Of course, the books do not verbalize this, but you can tell by looking at them, what each book feels. As you thumb through books, old and new, you grasp at the few words you catch in your gaze, waiting for one of them to get your attention. You first pick up one of the old-looking books, “The Life and Death of Horace Cleaves.” As you flip through the worn pages, you feel a sense of adventure and bravery; you feel as if you can conquer anything. You put it down, feeling inspired. This next book looks brand new, “A New World.” As you start looking through the book, you notice that it is only halfway written. The first half of the book is filled with words, and the ones that you could grasp while flipping were ones that filled you with great sadness and loss. This book seemed to have ended very abruptly; it is strange that the bookstore owner would even keep an unfinished book on the shelves. You put it back down. You then grab a book that looks old, but the pages are in perfect condition. “Lost Motherhood,” the author shares the same last name as you, and you think about what a strange coincidence that is. You put this book down as quickly as you picked it up. You didn’t even bother opening to the first page because you felt nothing. In the back of your mind, a memory of your family appears. Your siblings are all around you, of course, your family consists of your siblings only, you don’t have parents. You push this thought away as you pick up a new book. 

As you pick up a book that seems as if it has never been touched by human hands before your own, you focus on the author’s name, and you recognize it as your own. You immediately open this book to find it blank, unwritten. As you discover this, the bookstore owner is now behind you, as if he just appeared. He looks unreal, like a silhouette of a man who is pretending to exist. He is pretending well, because after catching a glimpse of him, your mind does not question it, you turn your head back around. “I see, it appears to be your time.” Confused by all that is happening, you do not respond. You are now meticulously flipping pages, looking at each one for any trace of words in this book written by you. “Silence will not fill those pages, dear.” The bookstore owner now sitting on the floor in front of you. The bookstore owner is someone you know, by extension. You have never spoken to him; you’ve only ever exchanged friendly glances as you walk through his bookstore. He has always felt kind, but you come to this bookstore weekly to mentally escape the realm of human intimacy, not to speak with the owner. 

You ask why this book has your name on it, and more importantly, why it is empty. The bookstore owner replies with three words, “Your story begins.” You now notice that his voice is gruff, but kind. Although his voice is kind, the words coming out of it mean nothing to you. Not understanding him, you ask him what he means. He doesn’t explain, instead, he walks towards one of the towering shelves and brings back a book. The book he returned with looked as if it had never been read. He places it in front of you and points at the author’s name with his index and middle finger, as if he were shushing the book. You read the name aloud, “Sebastian Grog.” Once again, you are confused as to what he means. He then, without a word, points to the nametag on his bookstore vest ‘Sebastian G.’ He opens this book, places his hand on it, and his hand slips into the book. It looks as if his hand is going through it, but as you look below the book to confirm the logical answer to this magician’s trick he is playing, you realize that his hand has disappeared into the book.  

He removes his hand, and just says “Your turn.” He takes the blank book with your name on the cover out of your lap, opens it to the first page, and gestures to the book. You put your hand on the book the way he had placed his, and suddenly you are falling through a world of white. You land on the ground, confused. You can see Sebastian looking down from the sky, which appears to be the ceiling of the bookstore. He looks down at you and smiles. He then closes the book that you have supposedly fallen into. 

As you get your bearings, you realize the white landscape you have fallen into is soft. You are in an entirely white room, and it is nauseating. The soft walls are almost comforting, but everything else is unsettling. You are incredibly uncomfortable but eager. You do not understand how you are supposed to write the story for the book you are in, but you feel ready to begin, it is not as if you have a choice. Appearing before you, a womanly figure. “Hello, my love, I am Exposé. Welcome to the beginning.” Exposé stood out in this room; you are unaware of how you hadn’t seen her before she spoke. She had caramel brown skin and electrifyingly blue hair. She wasn’t quite alive, she seemed almost transparent, but she was real enough for you to believe she existed. You introduce yourself, stammering over your words in her presence. She seems charmed by your demeanor, and she takes your hand.