Once, I was late to work and had to rush out of the house

café downtown when a man asked if he could sit at my table—place was packed. I nodded, not looking up from my book.

But then he said, “You read The Midnight Library?”

I looked up. He had kind eyes. Simple clothes. A nervous smile.

“I’ve read it three times,” he said. “It got me through a rough patch.”

We ended up talking for over an hour. About books. continue reading …