He was a pale-skinned man with a jaunty step and eyes like a bird�s, narrow yet alert, set close together behind a pair of small wire-framed glasses. On the whole, at the age of sixty-five, most would say he looked quite healthy, when they saw him. Mr. Parish was a recluse. While he dressed fashionably, often in a black sports jacket and freshly polished shoes, his thick grey hair combed to one side, the only time one was likely to bump into him at all was on his way to deliver a new manuscript to the post office. Although he lived in the apartment above the store, even Anna rarely saw Mr. Parish. She knew that Wednesdays were grocery days, when he would send for his regular order, leaving twenty dollars next to the cash register. Even then, she was not to interrupt his studies, so she would climb the creaky wooden stairs and set the paper bag outside his door. From downstairs, Anna could hear his constant mumbling and pacing and typing above her. Occasionally, she would pause to hold her breath and check for the pulse of his footsteps or his keys tapping, counting the beats.

Mr. Parish went months at a time without saying so much as a word to Anna. Sometimes she liked to pretend that he was a spirit who lived in the old building, and he could only communicate to this world through writing, constantly posting notes around the store about how she could �do the job more efficiently, Anna.� They were always typed. After eight years, he had probably written thousands, maybe millions of them, and Anna was beginning to wonder if all that typing she heard was just him writing more notes. She spent a whole winter in the library searching for his writing, unable to find anything.

Mostly, Anna was thankful for the bookstore. It was the only job she ever worked. She started just one week after passing her driving exam, a rule enforced by a father. At first, it was