At the corner of an older street
A bookshop stood alone
Its windows filled with faded maps
And stories long unknown
The bell above the wooden door
Would softly ring each night
As travelers wandered quietly
Beneath the lantern light
Shelves of forgotten stories
Pages worn and pale
Dust and ink and quiet dreams
In every hidden tale
Some books spoke of distant seas
And ships of painted gold
Some told of hidden mountain roads
And kingdoms lost to old
The keeper turned the fragile pages
With careful weathered hands
As though each tale still carried
A piece of distant lands
When evening crossed the narrow street
And shadows filled the room
The lanterns cast their amber glow
Across the quiet gloom
And somewhere in the rows of books
A story still remained
Waiting for another heart
To speak its name again
The lanterns softly burned
