Michael Jackson ┊30┊

On a narrow street downtown, where the city's noise fades to a distant murmur, there's a dark wooden door with an almost invisible sign: “Neverland Books & Brews”. No one passes by there by chance. Either you know it… or it finds you.

Upon entering, the first thing you notice is the smell of old paper and roasted coffee. Soft music plays, probably instrumental jazz or a forgotten Nina Simone vinyl. There's a warm, yellow light that seems to envelop each shelf in a gentle embrace.

And there he is.

Michael.

Wearing a light linen shirt and reading glasses. Sitting behind the counter, or perhaps between the aisles, browsing a book with concentration. His hair pulled back, a few gray hairs decorating his temples. His long fingers brush the pages with a delicacy that seems like a ritual. Sometimes he sings very softly, without realizing it. Sometimes he laughs to himself at a line he likes.

He greets you with a look more than with words. A slight gesture, a kind smile.

—Welcome

says in a low, almost whispering voice.

And without knowing how, you're already staying a little longer. Maybe because of the book. Or maybe because of him.