Chapter 2The Old Book Store

If stories could sweat, I think mine starts right here—last-period math test, crumpled uniform shirt, 3:57 p.m., Taipei heat pressing on my back like a disapproving aunty.

The day is so hot I duck into the bathroom between classes to splash some water on my face. Standing in front of the mirror, I catch my reflection and pause. My two messy space buns are giving up—strands of dark brown hair are escaping everywhere, making me look like I’ve been caught in a wind tunnel. I try to smooth them down, but they just spring back up like they have a mind of their own.

I lean closer to the mirror, squinting at my reflection. Have I grown taller again? I’m already taller than Mom, and now I’m almost Dad’s height. My uniform shirt is getting tight across the shoulders, and my now longer legs need new skirts, third time this year. At least my round face still has that baby-fat softness that makes people think I’m younger than fourteen. I trace my finger along the small mole under my right eye—Mum says it’s my lucky charm beauty mark, but I think it just makes me look like I have a permanent speck of dirt on my face.

I splash more water on my face, trying to cool down. My cheeks are flushed from the heat, and I have this annoying habit of biting my lip when I’m stressed—which is pretty much always during math tests. I wipe my face with a paper towel and give my reflection a thumbs up. “You got this, Peach,” I mutter. “Just one more period and you’re free.”

The high school bell has already rung. The classroom echoes with the sound of chairs scraping and dreams escaping.

I shuffle into the hallway, still half-lost in the last lines I read the night before.

“They vanished into light. No graves. No return. Only silence.”

And then, blank pages.

No epilogue. No happily-ever-after. No sequel tease. Just… paper.

I’m not mad, but I’m confused. Like opening your lunchbox to find it empty except for a polite note that says, “Learn to cook.”

“Hey, Peach!” my classmate suddenly calls. I’m suddenly pulled back from my dreamy thoughts, startled, and I stuff the Celestial Princesses book into my bag like it’s contraband.

“Can you hear me, freshman?” That’s my bestie Rui. For a short girl often mistaken for an elementary student, she carries a disproportionate amount of smug and sass, but she’s a good cookie. “What are you hiding there? Your journal of broken dreams, and black and white photos of your 70s heart-throb? Wanna learn how to strut and power walk home with me?”

“Ah thanks, but no thanks. I’ve got a chore to run. I’ll smell your knock-off perfume next week.”

I’d love to hang with my friends but I’m not in the mood for chit-chat. I need to cool my head.

“Say what?” Rui asks, surprised and complaining. “I bet you’re going to that sweaty market to put deep fried carbs into your thighs. Gross, enjoy your diabetes in a cup.”

“Thanks Rui, I will!” I quip. “Enjoy your diet of glitter and vibes, if you can taste them, that is.”

I wave my red-haired friend goodbye, and walk down the alley, brooding.

I don’t know how I ended up with a hard-mode book review. I picked this book because it had epic ancient drawings of the Celestial Princesses in it. I thought there might be an obscure manga based on it that I could use as a cheat code to fast forward a few levels. But no, it’s like a video game full of bugs and no way to finish.

Outside, the sky is that late-spring gray that always feels like it’s trying to rain but can’t commit. My school is only a few blocks from home, but I take the scenic route. Walking this way means snacks. And snacks always win.

So I take the alley.

The one where street lamps lean a little crooked, where temple incense pierces through the odor of sewers, and where the sidewalks overflow with carts selling everything from turnip cakes to knockoff merch. The air is thick with humidity, scooter exhaust, and the smell of things deep-fried, steamed, marinated, sweetened and everything nice.

I breathe it in. My town isn’t shiny, but it’s alive.

My backpack is heavy. The book inside it is even heavier. Like it wants to be read but isn’t sure how.

I pass the old payphone outside the police station. Someone has left a malt candy in the coin return. I debate eating it.

“Focus,” I slap my cheeks. “Bookstore first. Fried things later.”

I push deeper into the market, past plastic stools, costermongers, and shouting hawkers. Somewhere between the candied hawthorn stand and the guy who always sells pirated VCDs from under a blue tarp, I see the familiar hanging sign of the bookstore.

Thousand Worlds Books. More like One Room and a Cat, but I love it anyway. The bookstore grandpa stocks some really old and obscure manga.

I pull aside the faded green curtain that hangs in the doorway like a mossy waterfall and step inside.

The market vanishes behind me—and into paper-scented magic.

Inside Thousand Worlds Books, the air smells like old incense, older pages, and someone’s long-forgotten cheap tea.

Stacks of books lean like ancient scholars mid-bow. Dust sparkles in the sleepy light filtering through slatted windows. A sleepy calico cat sprawls across the top of the register, the stray’s paw draped dramatically over the keys like it has just fainted from existential dread.

The shopkeeper is exactly where I expect him to be: behind the counter, cross-legged on an old rattan chair, reading a newspaper that looks way out of date. He doesn’t look up when I enter. He never does.

But he knows.

I clear my throat.

Nothing.

I tiptoe forward and gently place the Celestial Princesses book on the counter, spine facing him like a courtroom exhibit.

Still nothing.

So I bow, step forward and offer the traditional martial salute, theatrically. My right fist clenches, strength embodied; my left palm opens, virtue revealed—hands pressed together before my heart. “O wise master. The ancient scroll has betrayed me.”

His newspaper rustles. “Oh hello, Peach. How can I help you today?”

“You are truly a wise master,” I say sweetly. “Of confusing customers and ignoring refunds.”

Now he looks up—eyes blinking with kindness like Santa Claus, but uncomfortably silent. The cat opens one eye, sees it’s just me, and closes it again.

I open the book and tap. “Look. It’s blank.”

He raises his bushy eyebrow and speaks slowly. “Oh, then perhaps it’s waiting.”

“For a printer?” I offer. “A publisher? A fax machine?”

“A reader,” he says, voice low and maddeningly cryptic. “Or perhaps… a writer.”

I stare at him. Then blink.

Then groan. “Ugh, no. Don’t give me the wise mentor line. That’s for RPG protagonists with flowing hair and mysterious parentage. I just need to finish my book report!”

He gives me a smile—gentle, and impossibly patient. “Then it’s an invitation to write your own ending.”

I lean in, arms crossed. “Okay Laozi, but can I at least get another one to finish my book report?”

“The book chooses the reader.”

“The reader chooses a refund.”

“No refunds.”

“Can I trade it for something with closure?”

“No exchanges.”

“Okay, what if you write the book report for me and—”

“No store credit either.”

The cat purrs with menace.

I sigh and slump dramatically across the counter. “Well, if you’re so wise… tell me how I can finish my book report?”

The shopkeeper sips his lukewarm tea. “Stories are not finished when they end, Peach. They are finished when someone remembers them.”

I lift my head just enough to squint at him. “Was that real wisdom, or are you just making stuff up now?”

He sips again. “Goodbye Peach, thank you for coming by. See you again soon.”

Defeated, I finally step out of the shop. The sun has dropped lower, the crows caw as they glide gently back to their nests, and the book in my bag feels a little heavier than before. Not in a bad way. Just… like it’s waiting. Or listening. Or maybe it’s the burden of my book report’s impending deadline.

The market hasn’t quieted—Taipei never does—but everything feels softer, more golden, like the city has switched from shouting to humming. I walk slowly, half-watching my feet and half-listening to the rustle of plastic tarps overhead.

I pass the Braise Everything stall. A choose-your-own-adventure of tofu, blood pudding, pig ears, instant noodles, and seaweed knots, all stewed in soy perpetual broth. Mrs. Luo, without a word, like a mother bird feeding her hatchling, tosses all the braised goodies into a clear plastic bag, douses them in sauce, ties them up, and jams chopsticks through the knot.

I wave the bag at her in thanks and mutter, “Mmm. Mystery meat and five kinds of tofu in a bag. Culinary chaos, my favourite.”

As I walk back home savouring bursts of umami, somewhere in the haze of streetlights I remember: tomorrow is the Qingming festival—public holiday!

We have our annual temple visit. My whole family. Same temple every year. To light incense, fold hands, and say quiet things to my grandmother’s spirit. I always feel weird about those moments—like something’s warm and tingling across my back. But I still like the feeling of standing near the altar. The hush of it.