A cobbled square sat in the middle of a town, much like any town. Wide and open, with all the stores lined up around it, crooked teeth that had a uniformity of Byzantine design. A flare for flamboyance that was smoothed out by the stones to a pearly white. At the corner, between the smithy and the barren wall that kept the poor from entering, was a little shop. It had but one window, that framed the wide open courtyard, elevated by a mere three steps. While the bustle of daily consumption filled the square, with the pungent fragrance of garlic, incense, smoke, sweat and flowers merging, those three stairs sat eagerly for a guest. It was quite known around town, that Hamlets bookstore was without a doubt the loneliest of stores. Rumors from shaking heads, and passerby’s just enlarged the myth with every new mention, until it was almost forgotten. Inside was a young mind, the captain of the tomes, who shepherded the dust that wisdom tends to collect in quiet.