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.