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The interior was dimly lit and smelled like aging paper. The sound of a radio was coming from the back. The aisles were so narrow that I could only get through by turning sideways. At last I called out to the shop owner, a timid-looking, wrinkled old man who peered out between stacks of books. The old man never flashed a smile at anyone, no matter who you were. When it came time to check out, he just stared down and murmured the price as he read it off the sheet. But this day was different. When I told him I was here to sell books, he actually lifted his head and looked me straight in the eyes. I could definitely sense something like shock in his expression. I suppose that made sense. All the books I was selling were the meaningful kind you ǡǯǤ Giving them away would be an incomprehensible act to an avid reader. DzǫdzǤ his voice sounded. DzǡǯǤdz DzǡdzǡǡDz ǫdz DzǯǡǯǤdz Ǥ Dz ǯ ǡdz Ǥ When I nodded, he crossed his arms and said nothing, thinking it over. ǤDzǯ ǡdzǡ Ǥ I went outside and looked at the faded bulletin board along the street. There were posters for the summer festival, a firefly-viewing event, stargazing, and a public reading. From over the wall behind the board came the familiar scent of incense and tatami mats, human body odor, and wood. Wind chimes rang from a distant house. When the old man was done judging the worth of the books, he handed me about two- ǡ Dzǡ ǯ Ǥdz Dzǫdz Dzǡǫdz Dzǡǯǡdzǡ deflecting the question, but it seemed to satisfy the old man. Dzǡ Ǥ ǡdz Ǥ ǡ ǡDzǫdz The unexpected sentence delayed my reaction.