Prologue

A man is smiling on TV.

He speaks with ease, illustrating his divorce as if the pain were a distant memory. His expression is calm, almost detached.

Soon, however, his smile fades into a frown, and tears begin to fall like morning dew—round and glistening, much like his bald head. However, as innocent as he may seem, this man is responsible for killing every bookstore in the country by manipulating the power of the Internet. That's right. There is no such thing as bookstores these days.

Except there was.

A few streets from my apartment, I saw a small bookstore—about 2000 square feet—with a glass door and wooden shelves. Intrigued by its classical yet uninviting appearance, I walked in slowly, my hands tucked in my pockets.

"Welcome in!"

The bookseller greeted me as a bell resonated through the air. He was an androgynous man, probably in his early thirties, with brown hair and a black turtleneck sweater. His appearance didn't elicit the discomfort that some might feel toward the unfamiliar, but instead, it radiated a sense of mystery, which I found oddly attractive.

"Two million soldiers died in six weeks... Did this really happen? I can't believe it!" I yelled trying to catch the attention of the seller. In my hand was Military History: Behind Legends and Myths, a book that was in the Recommended section of the store. 

"The number of casualties may have been inflated over time, but the event itself was real," the bookseller said, walking toward me with a cup of tea and cookies. "I know this because I was there as a soldier when it happened."

I stared at him in disbelief. "Huh? You mean you lived a thousand years ago?" I asked, mocking him.

But he only smiled and continued his story. "And after a few years, I crossed the desert and moved to Egypt. There, I was appointed as the Pharaoh's scribe..."

This guy is crazy, I thought. Still, because he was a kind person who brought out delicious snacks, the store kept me coming back. The stories he told, the things he claimed to have experienced throughout centuries, all became small tales that portrayed humans as warm, sad, and sometimes cruel things that rise and fade away as the great clock ticked.

For 15 years, I visited that bookstore until one day, I finally noticed something.

"Hey, you... You really don't age," I said, scanning his face. No matter how much I searched, I was right—he hadn't gained a single wrinkle in all those years.

The next day, I returned to the bookstore, but the door was locked. The place was empty. "There's no such thing as bookstores these days," I told myself as I turned away. However, with each step home, my heart was tainted with sorrow. Regret. And a feeling that I was betrayed. Abandoned. 

That evening, I found out that I was pregnant. Even though the logical decision seemed to be abortion, my family thought otherwise. They traded me for their god, the one who had ordered them to follow rules written thousands of years ago. Yes. Thousands of years ago. No. Someone else lived thousands of years ago, but I couldn't remember who.

I forgot the things you said to me. Forgot the things I should have remembered. Your voice. Your face. I forgot the things I threw away; the things I'm glad I forgot.

I raised my daughter alone. On her ninth birthday, I saw her wearing her favorite pair of shoes.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"To a bookstore," she replied.

"There's no such thing as bookstores these days," I muttered.

But she smiled. "This guy in the store is super funny! He says he's immortal. There's no way that's true, right?" She asked innocently.

I wanted to say something, but the words wouldn't leave my lips.

"Okay," I sighed. "Have a nice trip... And don't eat too many cookies."

After she left the house, I sat down and tried to remember someone I didn't know. All I could sketch was his brown hair and the way he smiled—a man who sighed, filled with emotions I could not comprehend, as if he'd been doing so for thousands of years. 

Too many years he lived. Too many stories he told me.

I live an eternal life

which I myself had never wanted.

But still, I live every day.