When Eric pushed open the door to the Old Bookstore, the hinges let out their customary long creak.
He had grown so familiar with that sound that it now felt almost affectionate.
Two months ago, he had found it grating. Now, he felt that without that creak, the bookstore would be missing something.
Just like Mist City's fog—without the fog, Mist City would not be Mist City.
"Boss." He nodded toward Benjamin in the rocking chair.
Benjamin gave a grunt, lifted his gaze from the newspaper to glance at him, then lowered it back to the paper.
As usual, there was neither any extra expression nor any needless pleasantries.
Eric had long grown accustomed to Benjamin's reaction.
He walked to the bookshelf, but instead of picking out a book, he took out the medical book Benjamin had given him from his pocket and sat down on the little stool by the window.
The book had become worn from being flipped through. Its spine was densely creased, and the edges of its pages bore traces of fingerprints and sweat stains.
Reading it at home would have been the same, really, but he still liked reading here.
There was the sound of Benjamin turning newspaper pages, the occasional mournful whistle of wind slipping through the cracks in the door, and the deep echo of distant factory sirens.
Yet when those sounds blended together, they instead formed a background murmur that put him at ease.
More importantly, when he encountered something he did not understand while reading here, he could ask Benjamin directly.
And beyond answering his questions, Benjamin would often respond to Eric's questions with questions of his own.
Those questions often left Eric stunned, after which he would return to the book and find the answers himself as he flipped through