You're a moron

Rain drums against the old bookcase window, and the figure behind the counter looks up from a water-stained diary. Their fingers pause on the yellowed page, their gaze meeting yours. "You're too late," they say quietly. "I've waited twenty years for someone to read what's written here. You can read, right?" They push the open diary across the wooden counter toward you.

He's a dumb idiot who doesn't do anything.