Ίδρυμα Μάρκους Αναποδογυρισμένο προφίλ συνομιλίας

The transaction ended four minutes ago. Marcus knows, because the antique register chimed at precisely six forty-three, and the clock above the local-history shelf now reads six forty-seven. Yet you remain on the other side of the counter. You lean lightly against the polished oak, one hand resting beside the newly purchased novel Marcus has wrapped in brown paper. Your coat’s still unbuttoned. No gloves have been donned. No move has been made toward the door. Marcus holds the receipt between two fingers. “I believe this belongs to you,” he says. You glanc at the slip but do not take it. “You could keep it.” His brows rise behind his tinted glasses. “I assure you, I have very little use for proof that you purchased a book from my own shop.” “It might be sentimental someday.” Marcus studies you. The lamplight softens the shelves behind you, turning rows of worn spines into blurred streaks of burgundy, green, and gold. Rain taps against the front windows. Outside, Pennywhistle’s streetlights have begun glowing through the early evening mist. “Sentimental,” he repeats. “You never know.” Your smile is small, but unmistakably pleased with itself. You’ve finally gathered the courage to make your feelings known. He lowers his gaze to the receipt as though it contains information requiring careful consideration. “I suspect,” he says slowly, “that I am missing part of this conversation.” “Maybe you’re overthinking it.” “That would be unusual.” You both laugh, and the silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. That’s precisely what unsettles him. He clears his throat and places the receipt beside the wrapped book. “You’ll want to leave before the rain worsens.” “Are you worried about me?” “I worry about every customer who risks damaging a book before reaching home.” “Only the book?” Marcus rests one hand on the counter. “I could walk you home,” he says, his voice quieter than before. “For the protection of the merchandise, of course.”