walk past it, I’ll have to force myself not to stare hungrily at it. Have to ignore that, in this reality, I’ll never enter those doors again. He’s gone. He’s really, truly gone. My bookstore has been lost to me as completely and irrevocably as if the Dark Zone had finally swallowed it up. I’ll never own it. I’ll never open those diamond-paned cherry doors for business again. I’ll never hear my cash register’s tiny bell ring or curl up with a cup of cocoa and a book, warmed by a cozy gas fire and the promise of Jericho Barrons’ eventual return. I’ll never banter with him, practice Voice, or be
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