Across the street, Thomas presided over an old bookstore, a labyrinth of dust-laden shelves and forgotten narratives.
It was a sanctuary, yet it felt more like a prison. Surrounded by the stories of others, he remained an invisible observer, yearning for someone to see beyond the covers. His life had become a testament to unfulfilled potential, each page he read a reminder of the adventures he never dared to undertake.
As he sat alone behind the counter, he often questioned existence itself: Are we merely the sum of our stories, or do we exist beyond the narratives we tell ourselves? The weight of this question bore down on him, leaving him feeling adrift in a sea of despair.