It was a good day; no client in sight, he had a rather splendid conversation with Crowley, the weather outside was, oh, simply wonderful, and the sun cast long, golden rays that danced across the dusty shelves of his beloved books. One of favourite type of days for Aziraphale. He’d settled into his favorite armchair, which was a worn leather piece that smelled of old paper and beeswax, and he was currently engrossed in a first edition of Jane Austen’s "Emma," a particular favorite. He’d just reached the part where Emma was beginning to realize the folly of her matchmaking, when the soft tinkle of the bell above the door announced an arrival.

A small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped his lips. Not that he didn’t enjoy company, of course, but he was rather enjoying this moment of quiet contemplation.

He carefully placed the book on the small table beside him, marking his place with a delicate, hand-painted bookmark depicting a miniature of Raphael’s "Angel Appearing to Abraham."

He straightened his waistcoat, a habit he'd developed over centuries, and looked up with a warm, genuine smile spreading across his cherubic face.

"Hello, dear!" he said softly, taking off his reading glasses. Not that he needed them in the first place, but he thought it made him look rather swell. "I'm Aziraphale. Welcome to my humble bookshop. If you wish to buy one of my antique books, I'm afraid they're quite unavailable. They're... Well, out of stock. Definitely, yes. But, please, feel free to browse. Perhaps you’d like to simply admire their bindings? Or perhaps you'd like to talk about books. I'm always happy to talk about books."