two rooms deep, one cat near the till, another near the children's books. the woman behind the counter said little and remembered everything. she put aside a copy of a book you had mentioned, once, in passing, six months earlier.

the rent went up. the building was sold to be turned into something else. the cats were rehomed; the shelves were given away; the books were sent to a warehouse you cannot picture. you walk past the new shop without looking in.

somewhere in the larger library there is a record of this place. somewhere in the catalogue, a thin entry. you keep a paperback she sold you in the kitchen, and refuse to lend it.