The Bookseller's Stories (Or, "The Old Man")

Next the shelves. 

Two dozen, maybe three spaced upon the underground chamber. Gregory tried to count; one, two, three. No hundreds upon thousands of books must have been held!

Stepping down the stone, laced with a carpet, itself engraved in words, stories to be told. A king he thought. And a king must please his crowd. He must claim his throne. The statues guarded his entrance but the path after was yet to come. Gliding down one row, Gregory happened upon the center of the garden. Four chairs facing outward from each other and the middle a stack. It was a tree, a Christmas tree! Oh Christmas has come early, Gregory thought. Peering along the titles boring out as if bright ornaments, he noticed another glint. Why it was in the middle of winter, for Gregory felt a coldness, shiver up his spine and threatened to let out a whine. The man holding the glimmering item rushed it away, glaring at the boy as if nervous. The man now stood behind a small wooden desk carved to its gills with books upon books. Gregory stood and when he was about to introduce himself, the man rumbled over, a cane attached to his hand, fingers running along it like a spider reaching across to its prey. The man, as Gregory quickly realized was quite old but with a sweet, caring smile. A smile of a grandfather, the eyes of a child's favorite old pal. He knelt, being every so careful to keep his balance. A worn hand had lumbered forth to the boy. Much like a leather glove, tinted with a softness, a kindness, Gregory was sure any boy would want to shake. "Hello Mister, I'm Gregory". The old man said, "Oh it is pleasant to meet you Gregory". Yet again, a very kind smile.