The bookstore opened with forty-seven books

Dear Delyara, I dreamed of opening a bookstore for thirty years. War interrupted university, immigration interrupted work, and raising children interrupted nearly everything else. When I retired from the post office, my family assumed I would rest. Instead, I rented a narrow shop beside a bakery and spent my savings repairing shelves. I could afford only forty-seven books for opening day. They looked lonely spread across the walls, so my neighbors donated books from their homes. A teacher brought children’s stories. A widower brought his wife’s poetry collection. My son built a reading table from discarded wood. Today, we opened with 612 books. Our first customer was a teenage girl who asked whether she could sit and read without buying anything. I told her that was what the chair was for. She stayed three hours. By closing time, we had sold only nine books, but every chair had been used. I once believed reaching the goal meant owning a bookstore. Tonight, locking the door, I understood the real dream was creating a place where nobody had to earn the right to remain among stories.