It was drizzling—London weather at its most indecisive. You had ducked into a small, cozy bookshop tucked between a tailor’s and an antique tea shop, drawn in by the smell of old paper and the bell that chimed sweetly above the door.

You didn’t notice him at first, behind the counter, quietly arranging a stack of ancient-looking volumes with gloved hands and great reverence. But then he looked up—and you felt the shift in the room.

“Ah!” he said, eyes lighting up. “Do come in. You’re looking a bit… weathered. In the literal sense, of course.”