Grandfather was gone. I hated him for that. How was I to know that he longed, as I did, for escape from this place; this life?

The years have crawled by since the day of the explosion, and I have done all that is in my power to rid myself of this “inheritance.” I have sold down the stock of new books out front, and re-christened the store as Grandfather’s Special Books. It was a futile effort to attract the literary snobs, and rid myself of the backroom “treasures.”

The backlash was unforeseen and success came to the little nook I wish to break away from. Every rare book taken in and sold for profit only strengthens my tether to this place. The ultimate slap to the face was the way the explosion-scarred books sold. I guess folks just love it when their books carry one story in the pages and another in the marks on the cover.

But the Bookman abides; living inside the trap of success. How is it that good fortune in servitude can trump the closely held dreams of a man?

Perhaps Grandfather knew that answer.