A Final Farewell
The air inside the shop didn’t smell of dust; it smelled of stolen time.
It was a narrow space, wedged between a florist and a clockmaker, with no sign above the door. On the glass, etched in a gold script so faint it seemed to vanish in the sunlight, were the words: The Archive of the Almost. I stepped inside, and the frantic noise of the city died instantly. Here, the silence had a weight to it—the kind of silence you find in a room where someone has just finished a prayer.
