If I Wait Thirty Years | Chapter 15 | A Sanctuary of Ink | Novela.app

Chapter 15 - A Sanctuary of Ink The sheer intensity of the crowd’s longing, their unadulterated passion for the written word, was something Qiu Yun found staggering. In the world she had left behind—the year 2018—books had become mere commodities, as easily obtained as a cup of instant coffee and often just as quickly forgotten. In that future, bookstores were either dying relics or had transformed into "Internet celebrity" landmarks, where people went not to read, but to pose for photographs against a backdrop of aesthetic shelves, their lattes costing more than the paperbacks they ignored. She remembered a friend who had worked in a prestigious publishing house. Three years ago, as the industry withered under the shadow of digital media, he had jumped ship to sell real estate. He once joked, with a bitterness that lingered in her mind, that his "annual salary had become his monthly salary" after the switch. It was a sentiment that made her envious at the time, yet it spoke volumes about the decline of literary reverence. Who still read in 2018? Most people were tethered to the blue light of their smartphones, devouring endless streams of "immortal cultivation" web novels, "time-travel" tropes, and "overbearing CEO" romances. The quiet, visceral charm of black ink on a physical page, the weight of a bound volume in one’s hands—these were sensations that had largely evaporated. The idea of people fighting tooth and nail, jostling through a sweltering crowd just to secure a single book, seemed like a fever dream. Yet here, in the late 1980s, under a sky that felt wider and hearts that seemed more earnest, this was the reality. The air inside the bookstore was thick with the scent of old paper, dust motes dancing in the shafts of sunlight, and the palpable, hungry energy of a generation starved for knowledge. As Qiu Yun stood lost in these reflections, she was jolted back to the present by the physical press of the crowd. People bumped into her shoulders and elbows as they navigated the narrow aisles, their faces alight with a frantic sort of joy. Recalling Wang Chen’s earlier advice about the rush, she spotted the sign for the checkout and began to make her way toward the queue. The checkout station was a fortress of sorts. Perhaps the staff feared being physically overwhelmed by the enthusiastic patrons; the counter was shielded by a partition of ornate, hollowed-out iron bars. Behind this barricade sat a middle-aged woman, her face set in a mask of professional stoicism as she processed the endless stream of books. The line was a veritable dragon, snaking through the store and tailing out the front door. Qiu Yun looked around and realized she was the only one with empty hands. Everyone else clutched at least one or two volumes, some cradling stacks as if they were sacred relics. The collective fervor was infectious; she felt a sudden, sharp desire to find something for herself, to participate in this ritual of discovery. Directly in front of her stood a young girl, looking even smaller and more delicate than Qiu Yun herself. Curious, Qiu Yun leaned in slightly to see what the girl had chosen. To her surprise, the titles were all in English. She felt a small pang of intimidation and pursed her lips, quietly withdrawing her plan to browse. If even the children here were tackling foreign languages with such vigor, she felt woefully unprepared. She sighed and turned her head, intending to simply wait out the line. But as she lifted her gaze, her breath hitched. Across the sea of heads, she unexpectedly locked eyes with a familiar pair of deep, cool, and profoundly observant eyes.