Decorating both sides of the alley are cars and trucks, some jammed against the curb, others barely within the lines. William gets lucky this time: no one's blocking his garage. He stops the car, unlocks the old wooden door, and lifts it with a creak. As he walks back to the driver’s seat to pull in, a voice echoes from somewhere nearby.
“I recommend the Sci-Fi/Fantasy novel Scripture. The owner said she mysteriously received a copy one quiet Sunday morning just as she opened the store. It’s about a magic pencil that can create doorways into other worlds. It can summon gods, fairies, gnomes, and other magical beings and even weave powerful spells.”
Inside, the bookstore’s walls and ceiling were laced with intricate patterns that resembled the roots of an ancient, enchanted tree. Soft amber light filtered through hidden lamps, casting shadows that seemed to shift and dance on their own. The air carried the scent of old paper, warm cedarwood, and something sweeter, a hint of pipe tobacco, as though the ghosts of authors past still lingered between the shelves. From somewhere deep within, a faint phonograph tune played: scratchy jazz that ebbed and flowed like a memory, mingling with the soft rustle of unseen pages turning themselves.
Welcome to the Byte Corporation: where the coffee’s stale, the managers are clueless, and the servers are literally on fire. William Butler is just your average, overqualified help desk grunt trying to survive absurd tech calls, OSHA violations, and philosophical rants from ex-cons.
