Central Station

by Lavie Tidhar

He looked at the things in the box, these fragile, worn, faded, thin, cheap paper-bound books. They smelled of dust, and mould, and age. They smelled, faintly, of pee, and tobacco, and spilled coffee. They smelled like things which had lived. They smelled like history. With careful fingers he took a book out and held it, gently turning the pages. It was all but priceless.