On a quiet street in my hometown stood a used bookstore, a calico cat named Winston, and more stories than any one person could read in a lifetime.
When I was younger, I didn't get toys for my birthday.
I got books.
And when family members ran out of ideas, they gave me gift cards so I could buy more books.
I could disappear into an entire novel in a day or two. For years, I thought it was because I loved storytelling. Looking back, I think it was something else.
I loved being transported.
A book could take you somewhere entirely different. Another city. Another century. Another life. For a few hours, you could borrow someone else's perspective and see the world through their eyes.
By the time high school assigned reading lists, I was already reading ahead. One summer I worked through Jane Eyre, followed by Walden, then The Great Gatsby. Somewhere in between there was Anne Rice, Danielle Steel, and Christopher Pike.
The range was massive.
So was my growing understanding of how powerful a book could be.
Eventually, though, I had a problem.
Books have a way of multiplying. Stacks appeared in corners. Shelves overflowed. Piles collected dust. I had no desire to become the person whose entire house slowly disappeared beneath towers of paperbacks.
That's when I discovered a used bookstore in my hometown.
It occupied an old building and seemed to operate on its own set of rules. Books stretched from floor to ceiling. They leaned sideways, overflowed shelves, and appeared in places books probably had no business being. The organization system, if one existed at all, felt known only to the owner.
A calico cat named Winston wandered the aisles as if he owned the place. Looking back, he probably did.
Most days, he could be found atop the checkout counter, surveying his kingdom and accepting treats from unsuspecting visitors. Next to his favorite spot sat a small sign:
"Don't let him fool you. He is NOT hungry."
Judging by Winston's expression whenever someone approached the counter, he strongly disagreed.
The store bought books, sold books, and allowed me to trade one adventure for another.
It was a perfect arrangement.
I remember carrying bags of books through the front door, excited to see what treasures I might leave with. I remember the clutter. The narrow aisles. The feeling that every shelf might hold some forgotten masterpiece.
But more than anything, I remember how it smelled.
Not one scent.
A hundred scents layered together.
Paper. Dust. Wood. Time.
There was something earthy about it. Something dry and familiar. The air carried the weight of stories that had passed through countless hands before finding their way there.
It felt comforting.
Like a hug from your grandmother.
And at the same time, it felt exciting.
Every shelf held ideas waiting to be discovered. Every worn spine represented a world I had not yet visited.
Thirty years later, I can still close my eyes and find myself standing in that bookstore.
I can still remember the scent before I remember the layout.
I can still see dust floating through shafts of sunlight crossing the room.
It's strange how memory works.
We think we remember places because of what they looked like.
More often than not, we remember them because of how they felt.
And sometimes, because of how they smelled.