‘Come, Daniel, get dressed. I want to show you something,’ said my father. ‘Now? At five o’clock in the morning?’
‘Some things can only be seen in the shadows,’ he said, with a mysterious smile.
We stepped out of the front door into the misty streets. The lamps along the Ramblas marked out an avenue in the early morning haze as the city awoke, like a watercolour slowly coming to life. I followed my father through the narrow streets until at last he stopped in front of a large door of carved wood. Before us rose what to my eyes seemed like an ancient palace, a place of echoes and shadows.
‘Daniel, you mustn’t tell anyone about this. Not even your friend Tomas. No one.’
A smallish man with thick grey hair opened the door.
‘Good morning, Isaac. This is my son, Daniel,’ my father announced. ‘He will be eleven soon, and one day the shop will be his. It’s time he knew this place.’
The man called Isaac nodded and invited us in. We followed him through a palatial corridor and arrived at an enormous round hall, the shadows pierced by light from a high glass dome above us. A labyrinth of passageways and bookshelves rose like a beehive, with platforms, steps and bridges that suggested an immense library of impossible geometry. I looked at my father, stunned. He smiled at me and winked.
‘Welcome to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, Daniel.’
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