They invited me to sit with them, but I didn't want to be too chummy with them on the first day. (That would leave a bad first impression, no? Professionally, anyway? Or am I overthinking too much? I probably am.)

Ahh, but I asked if there's anything to do in the shop that I could busy myself with. And they told me the shelved needed to be resorted. Asked me to make a system out of everything.

I guess to some people that would've been a herculean task, but you know me. Organizing and being systematic is something innate. 

So I got to work immediately. Even though I've stepped into this shop once already, the utter chaos that seems to be of design somehow still takes me aback. The lights are still dimmed around the shop, but the shadows of piles and piles of books, precariously stacked on top of each other, still loomed at me. 

It was an avalanche of yellowed paperbacks waiting for gravity to do its work. I had to tackle it first.

You see, mother, I know you'd be disapproving of this kind of work. You always told me to put my mouth to good use -- ergo, being a spokesperson for a public figure, or even enter public office myself. You always pushed me to be in a profession that always had me thinking on my feet -- never considering the very real possibility that I find solace in the doing mind-numbing, routine work.

My hands are still functional, dear mother. And just by a couple of hours, and by the dim light of the yellow lightbulb overhead, I've made significant progress by the time both of my bosses came back. Then, they gave me the tasks of sorting the books by genre, by edition, and put them on the shelves as I see fit.

It's been a few days since my first day, but so far I've already finished with half of the shop. It's more presentable nowadays, and there's actually a path for people to walk through instead of precariously stepping over piles and hoping to high heaven that none of the books teeter and fall. 

My bosses are quite appreciative, and every time I go back home, I feel satisfied with the work I've done, even with arms sore and aching.

Sometimes, to me, names either a) fit people like a glove, b) are something the person grows into, or c) seem like a different personality altogether. 'Septimo' sounded like someone who had it all together and Sep is... well...decidedly the opposite.

But that's not to say he's a blumbering idiot. He definitely has his wits about him, and he knows all the ins and outs of the shop operations whenever I ask. He's a bit slow, but it's not because of him procrastinating or dawdling. He has a lot on his mind, and I often see him spacing out in the middle of a workday. I wonder if the cogs of his brain are whirring at the speed of light; and everything else simply looks slow in comparison.

He's an artist, too. Some days I go into the shop and there are sketchbooks and charcoal strewn about. He works well into the midnight, and his craft is nothing short of amazing. I've handled some books with his name stamped in small print on the copyright page under "Illustrator". Then I look up from my stoop and see him sipping on a half-forgotten cup of coffee that he had made himself three hours ago. 

It's a little hilarious, if you ask me.

The second boss, the one at the tippy-top, is Walden. I see him only a few times a day, when he comes down to the shop to check on what progress we've done so far with managing the whole thing. But mostly he keeps to himself, like a hermit of some sort, up on the second floor where his and Sep's living quarters are. By the way he looks, he's not much -- short of stature and definitely looking like he's gone through a lot even though he's quite young. But his legacy around the shop speaks for himself.

Behind the teetering books of Kafka there's a framed picture of him smiling, holding up a plaque, with a small inscription at the bottom saying that it was an award for his essays toeing the delicate line between religion and personal philosophy. Up on the ceiling there hangs small posters of the illustrated covers of books which he had a hand in either writing, editing, or translating. On a dusty shelf of knick-knacks, right beside the kitschy figurines of lesser-known saints, are trophies and awards bearing his name for directoral works.

I once asked Sep what sir Walden is preoccupied with when he stays upstairs for hours at a time. He answers with, "It's either his manuscript or his arthritis." and a laugh to go along with it.

Every time I step into the shop, mother, a hush falls over me. It's as if I could feel the creative energy of both of these men seeping through the floorboards, dripping down the walls. Maybe some part of me, deep down, wonders whether or not I could be inspired by the very same fervor that seizes them every time the shop closes and they are given their own devices.

Perhaps I can finally realize my dream of finishing a novel here.

I don't know. But for the first time in years, I am hopeful, and inspired, and definitely in a mood to write.

Perhaps you have wanted a more detailed account in my entries, dear mother. A detailed account of my sinking regret after a haphazardly-made decision.

But to tell you the truth, the more days I go into the shop, the more I truly believe I am meant to be here.

Til next time.

- Faye