They converse, their glances shielded behind old sunglasses, occasionally nodding at a counterpart’s remark, yet their minds are elsewhere, drawn instead by the candour of the volumes they hold. They read fragments, lingering over the poetry of certain images, then close a publication and reach for another, their attention drifting from one to the next, eager to uncover the mysteries crafted from paper that lie along the shelves. They turn, scanning the room for familiar faces, then fall into brief silences before selecting a book from the table, handling it with the reverence reserved for precious artefacts. They move slowly through the space, trailing the faint scent of cigarettes, carrying the quietness of adolescents on the edge of rebellion, while the volumes before them pulse with the same untamed spirit.

I watch this peculiar comédie humaine, their clothes speaking an austerity that mirrors the dishevelled abandon with which they drift through the room. A closer glance, a phrase caught from a half-finished conversation, and it becomes clear that, like me, they are searching in those pages for pieces of themselves. They seek a word, an image, something that might resonate with a feeling, an aspiration not yet realised but waiting to be drawn into life. So I join in the collective ritual. I wander too: some titles are familiar, others a revelation. A single word on a cover calls to me, a discovery guided instinctively, led by intuition. I open the hardcover; the soft crackle of the spine reveals the years that have worn the glue binding the pages together.