You don't always notice the moments that change your life. Often, they are insignificant. Mundane. A random alley taken, a job accepted just to survive. For me, it all began with a basket of bread, apples, and a shop that looked more like a forgotten warehouse.
A crooked sign swaying in the wind, with letters almost erased by time. If it weren't for the delivery, I would never have stopped there. A bookshop was not the kind of place someone like me would have any reason to enter.
I pushed the door, and the bell above it chimed, a sound so weak it seemed to fade in the air. The interior was even worse than the exterior: crooked shelves, piles of books stacked as if a breath could make them collapse. The smell was a mix of dust, old paper, and dampness. Not pleasant, but not terrible.
Behind the counter, a thin, hunched man was writing something on a parchment, muttering words I couldn't distinguish. He didn't even raise his head when I entered.
"Put the basket there," he said. His voice was dry, sharp. It seemed that speaking was an annoyance.
I approached the counter and placed the basket. "Delivery from The Fish and Tankard," I said, trying to sound professional.
Finally, the man looked up. Round glasses, a long white beard that seemed brushed carelessly by a hand too busy to care. He scrutinized me over his lenses, as if trying to determine if I was worth noticing.
"Are you the new delivery boy?" he asked.
"For a while now," I replied.
"You're small," he commented, almost to himself. Then he pointed at something on the parchment in front of him. "Come here. Look."
I didn't move. It was more of a reflex than a decision. Usually, when someone told me to come closer, it meant trouble.
The man huffed. "I don't bite. Come."
I approached. On the counter was a parchment full of strange symbols and intricate lines. I had no idea what I was looking at.
"It's a copy of an ancient document," he said, in a tone that seemed to expect me to know what he meant.
"I understand..." I replied, though it wasn't true.
"I doubt it," he said, adjusting his glasses. "But it's not your fault. This is the chronicle of the Battle of Salt River. Does it mean anything to you?"
I shook my head.
The man huffed again, a brief sound, like a breath expressing both frustration and resignation. "Today, nobody knows anything. Sit."
It wasn't a request, but an order. I looked around for a moment, then found a stool next to the counter and sat down. He took the parchment and moved it in front of me.
"Salt River," he began, his tone becoming more intense. "A small river to the south. Centuries ago, it was the site of the first invasion. We didn't have an army. Just a hundred men and women, and one of them was Olivier."
He pointed to a figure drawn on the parchment: a man in armor, with a sword that seemed almost to sparkle.
"He was just a soldier. Not a king, not a general. But he had brains. And he used the marshes against the enemy. He let him rot in the mud, while his small army stayed safe on the highlands. And he won. Against all predictions."
He stopped, staring at me as if waiting for a response.
"I had never heard of it," I admitted.
"No," he said. "And that's the problem. Today, nobody knows anything. But remember this, boy: you don't need to be a king to change the course of history. You just need to be there. At the right moment."
I returned to the shop several times, each time for a delivery. Each time, Angrim – for I finally learned his name – had something to say. A new story. A sarcastic comment. An opinion on a topic that didn't concern me at all.
He didn't just sell books. He transcribed ancient texts, copying them with a strange machine that seemed a mix of magic and craftsmanship. He would let me watch while he worked, even though I didn't understand what I was looking at.
One day, as I was about to leave, he stopped me.
"Boy," he said. "Can you read?"
"No."
"I thought so. Can you write?"
"No, sir."
He nodded, as if it was the answer he expected. "Do you want to learn?"
I didn't know what to answer. "I can't afford it," I said.
"I'm not talking about money," he replied. "I need an assistant. Someone to put order in here, help me carry crates, and who, if not a total idiot, might learn something. I'll pay you. Little, but enough not to starve. And I'll teach you to read and write. What do you say?"
There wasn't much to think about. "When do I start?"
I showed up the next day, before dawn. Angrim immediately put me to work: dusting shelves, organizing piles of books, arranging parchments. It was tedious work, but I didn't complain.
"Don't expect me to teach you to read until I see you know how to work," he said.
So I did, for two weeks I worked tirelessly. Then, one evening, he pulled out a pen and a sheet. "Good. Today we begin."
Writing was difficult. My hands were too clumsy to trace precise lines, and every word I tried to read seemed an impossible puzzle. But Angrim was patient, and every small step forward was a victory.
Learning to read was not just useful. It was transformative. Every word I managed to decipher was an open door. Those stories Angrim told were not just his: they were written in the books on the shelves. For the first time, I could discover them on my own.