Chapter 757 - 637: Youth of the Old Town District (Part 2)
Chapter 757: Chapter 637: Youth of the Old Town District (Part 2)
The pages of those old books were yellowed and brittle, and the writing on them was printed, not handwritten.
The content also seemed to be just literature, history, geography, and the like, not the "code books" or "cipher books" he imagined.
But this only made Eric more convinced that it was a front for an illegal clinic.
A real old bookstore wouldn’t open in this place.
This rundown street is home to factory workers, dock laborers, and those idle souls without stable jobs.
Who has spare money to buy books?
Who would read books?
The only reason Eric himself could read was that his mother had been a clerk at a textile factory and had taught him a little.
In fact, eighty percent of the people around him couldn’t even write their own names properly.
Opening an old bookstore in such a place was like opening a fishing shop in a desert.
So it must be an illegal clinic, with bookshelves and old books serving merely as a disguise.
Eric thought with great certainty.
But it wasn’t all bad; if he ever got injured, he could seek medical attention nearby, better than having to go to an illegal clinic on another street.
His gaze secretly swept across every corner of the room, trying to find a door leading elsewhere.
Then he noticed an inconspicuous wooden door behind the bookshelf, with a thin sliver of light peeking through the crack.
"What’s back there?" Eric pointed at the door, trying to sound casual.
The young man in the rocking chair glanced at him, the corners of his mouth curling slightly.
That smile was just right, impossible to see through what he might be thinking.
"The storeroom," he said. "It’s where we pile up old books. It’s a bit damp, not suitable for entertaining guests."
Eric nodded, not pressing further.
Whether storeroom or clinic, it had nothing to do with him.
He wasn’t there seeking medical help nor causing trouble, just purely curious.
"Do you live here alone?" Eric asked.
"Yes."
"This place has been empty for many years. The landlord finally decided to rent it out?"
The young man put down the book in his hand and picked up a teacup from the table to take a sip of water.
His movements were slow, as if he was never in a hurry to do anything.
This kind of demeanor seemed out of place in such an old district.
"The landlord is nice," he said. "Fair price."
Eric nodded once more, not knowing what else to say.
He stood in front of a bookshelf, casually pulled out a book, turned a couple of pages, but couldn’t focus on any of it.
He shoved the book back, turned around, and realized he had no reason to stay there any longer.
"Well... I’m leaving," he said.
"Take care." The young man didn’t try to keep him, not even intending to stand up, just raised his hand slightly in goodbye.
Eric walked out the door, stood on the damp cobblestone road, and looked back at the wooden sign of the "Old Bookstore".
For some reason, he had a very strange feeling.
That young man looked ordinary, spoke ordinary, dressed ordinary, but there was an indescribable... discordance about him.
Like a piece of black stone mixed in with a pile of coal, the color is similar, the shape is similar, but when you pick it up and weigh it, something’s off.
Eric shook his head, trying to shake off that feeling.
Probably just his own imagination.
Living long in the old district, you learn to curb your curiosity.
He walked along the cobblestone road back to his apartment building, climbed to the third floor, opened the door, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
The room was very quiet.
The mist outside the window was as thick as ever; in the distance, factory chimneys drew heavy black lines across the grayish-white sky.
The sound of the bakery owner’s wife shouting came from downstairs, and the child of the family next door was crying, sharp and piercing.
Eric sat on the edge of the bed, the image of that young man unexpectedly crossing his mind.
The man was about his age and already owned a store.
Even though it was a sham "old bookstore", it was still a store.
He had his own business, his own income, not needing to get up at five-thirty every morning to head to the factory, stand next to roaring machines for twelve hours, and come home too tired to eat, just collapsing into sleep.
And what about himself?
Eric looked down at his hands.
His fingers were short and thick, his palms covered in calluses, and his nails embedded with machine oil stains that wouldn’t wash out.
He’s twenty-six this year, worked in the maintenance workshop of this textile factory for eight years.
His hands had been crushed by machines three times, he’d broken two fingers, though they were reattached, they still ached when it was rainy.
He remembered what his mother used to say when he was a child.
"Eric, you must study. Only by studying can you leave this place."
When she said these words, she was still alive, working as a clerk in the textile factory.
She was literate, could do accounts, considered an educated person in that factory.
Every night, she would teach Eric to recognize words, writing each stroke on the back of scrap paper, the kerosene lamp casting their shadows onto the mottled walls.
Then she died.
The factory’s machines malfunctioned, her arm got caught in the rollers, and by the time she was sent to the hospital, it was too late.
Eric was thirteen at the time.
He never went back to school.
Now he was twenty-six.
He had worked in the factory for eight years, saved a small sum of money, not much, but not nothing at all.
If he wanted to learn something... for instance, medicine?
The thought scared Eric.
Medicine? Him? A factory maintenance worker?
But the young man running the old bookstore didn’t look like someone who had been to college either.