The writer looked out through the rain-streaked window of the bookshop. A small queue had already formed along the pavement, damp umbrellas jostled together and worn paperbacks were clutched tightly under coats. When the assistant opened the door, a wave of cold air and eager chatter spilled inside.
The first fan stepped up to the table, her cheeks flushed red from the chill. She carefully set down a battered copy of his debut novel, its spine creased and corners curled.
‘Your stories saved me during my final year at university,’ she said softly, her hands trembling slightly. ‘I must have read this book a hundred times.’
The author smiled warmly, took his favourite fountain pen and wrote a gentle inscription across the title page.
‘Anne with an E,’ she whispered, her cheeks burning with an even deeper, more intense heat.
As the next reader stepped forward with a stack of three hardbacks, the writer realised then that though writing was a solitary endeavour spent staring at blank pages, his words had built a quiet, enduring community in the world outside.
▼▲▼
Suddenly, the bustling bookshop vanished. The writer blinked, waking up to the familiar pale ceiling of his small bedroom. He sat up, rubbed his eyes and let out a soft sigh, realising it had all been a dream.
He went on to continue the day like any other over the last ten years. Strolling over to his writing desk, he switched on his small blue desk fan to keep the morning air moving. Above him, the white ceiling fan whirred steadily on its hook, stirring the quiet room. Sitting down before a fresh, blank page, he smiled to himself, grateful that he still had two loyal fans to keep him company.
