A strange sense of unease made me glance at the clock.
Dawn.
I blinked in disbelief and rubbed my eyes before looking again, only to find the hand steadily approaching one o’clock. The old bookseller had told me there was no time limit, but the thought that I had committed some unimaginable breach of etiquette made me spring to my feet and brush the dust from my clothes.
For a moment, I considered slipping away quietly.
In the end, however, I carefully rang the bell on the counter. At the very least, I wanted to thank the old man for his generosity in not throwing me out despite the absurd hour.
A faint rustling came from inside.
Either he had still been reading, or the bell had roused him from a light sleep.
A moment later, the old man emerged.
Just as before, he removed his glasses and tucked them into his shirt pocket, a book resting casually in one hand. Judging by his complexion, he had not been asleep. Our eyes met briefly, but unlike the people I had encountered elsewhere in Etatina, he wore no faint smile.
“I apologize for disturbing you at this hour,” I said, bowing deeply. “But I wanted to express my gratitude before leaving.”
When I straightened, he studied me in silence.
Then he put his glasses back on and pointed toward the book in my hands.
“It seems you enjoyed it.”
“Ah… yes. Very much. It was my first time reading it, and I completely lost track of time.”
Given the hour, I decided it would be rude to keep him any longer. I reached into my pocket to pay.
Only then did I remember that ever since arriving in Etatina, nowhere below the hill had accepted card payments. The used bookstore was likely no different. Still, clinging to a shred of hope, I offered my card.
The old man slowly shook his head and locked the cash register.
Then he pulled an old cloth from a drawer and asked,
“You came from the top of the hill, didn’t you?”
“Yes. That’s right.”
People here seemed almost clairvoyant. They identified my origins at a glance.
My clothes were tidy, certainly, but there was nothing particularly remarkable about them.
“Unfortunately, the power supply below the hill is unreliable,” the old man explained. “That’s why we’re forced to rely on analog methods, whether we like it or not. Most other shops aren’t much different.”
Taking the book from my hands, he began wrapping it carefully in the worn cloth.
“But when I entered the shop,” I said, “I saw a light bulb glowing. If electricity is so unreliable, how are you getting power?”
For a brief moment, he appeared lost in thought.
Then, instead of answering, he pointed toward the clock hanging on the wall.
“You should head back today.”
Realizing I had asked something I shouldn’t have, I quickly accepted the wrapped book.
“Please visit again if you have the opportunity,” he said. “And when you come down the hill, bring plenty of cash.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll come back tomorrow and pay for the book.”
“No need to hurry.”
His voice carried a peculiar undertone.
“Gathering that much cash won’t happen overnight.”
After exchanging farewells, I followed him toward the back door rather than the entrance.
Even setting aside the matter of payment, I desperately wanted to return to this bookstore.
If possible, I wanted to rent a room and live here.
Of course, I wasn’t from Etatina. I didn’t even live below the hill. If I expressed that desire too openly, there was a real chance people would label me a weirdo and throw me out.
It was wiser to proceed cautiously.
No matter how much knowledge I possessed about Etatina, reality rarely unfolded exactly as expected.
As he inserted a key into the lock, the old man spoke in a low voice.
“You’re not entertaining any dangerous thoughts, are you?”
The sudden question caught me off guard.
“…What?”
He paused, turning away from the lock to look directly at me.
“Every book you chose was a history book.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Reading history books below the hill is a secret taboo.”
I frowned.
“If that’s true, isn’t merely possessing them dangerous?”
“It usually is.”
The answer was so matter-of-fact that I decided not to press further.
Still, if what he said was true, it explained a great deal.
Many historical records concerning Etatina’s downfall bore obvious signs of censorship. Until now, I had wondered why. Whether the reason was justified or not, I instinctively felt that this old bookseller was far from ordinary.
“Considering you came from the hill—and from a foreign country, no less—it shouldn’t cause you much trouble,” he continued.
“I’m not worried about myself,” I said. “Shouldn’t you be concerned about the person selling the books?”
I wasn’t bluffing.
If things truly went wrong, there were plenty of people willing to step in and clean up the mess. Even if my life were somehow threatened, I had no intention of dying.
More importantly, given Etatina’s current military and political situation, any danger directed at me would be manageable.
The old man, however, was different.
If something happened to him because of me, I would never forgive myself.
This bookstore—and the man who ran it—had broadened my world.
The joy I felt after discovering it was something I hadn’t experienced in years.
There were still countless things I wanted to learn.
The thought of this place disappearing before I had the chance filled me with a strange sense of loss.
It was selfish.
Entirely selfish.
The old man fell silent again.
After a moment, he cleared his throat.
“This old man will be fine. Ironically, the bookseller isn’t the problem.”
Then he pushed the key deeper into the lock and turned it.
Click.
The moisture-swollen wooden door groaned open.
“It was a pleasure,” he said. “It’s been a long time since someone openly bought a book here.”
A faint smile touched his lips.
“I won’t charge you for it. So if you become interested in Etatina’s history, come visit again.”
The steady sound of rain blended with the creak of the closing wooden door.
The sensation was oddly similar to being awakened from a beautiful dream.
Standing alone outside, I suddenly felt a sharp ache in my neck.
The price of spending hours reading without moving.
It had been a long time since pain felt so pleasant.
Opening my umbrella, I walked away from the bookstore.
Every few steps, I turned around.
The old building grew smaller and smaller in the distance.
Like a midsummer night’s dream fading with the dawn, the back entrance exuded an eerie stillness, as though none of it had ever happened.
The shops that had once displayed signs announcing they were open had all vanished into darkness.
Most looked little different from abandoned ruins.
The old bookseller had been right.
The power supply below the hill was unstable, and the flickering light at the bookstore entrance had practically been the only illumination in the entire district.
Without the emergency flashlight I had brought from home, I would have struggled to find my way back. I might even have been forced to spend the night on the streets.
According to stories I had heard at the hotel before finding a house, people living below the hill rarely ventured outside after dark.
The lack of electricity was only part of the reason.
The greater danger was disappearance.
People who walked the streets at night sometimes vanished without a trace.
No one knew who took them.
No one knew where they went.
Because residents rarely left their homes after sunset, there were no witnesses.
The families left behind had nowhere to seek justice.
In the end, they quietly wasted away beneath the weight of grief until sickness or old age claimed them as well.
If that was true, then by the same logic, someone like me—a resident of the hill—should be safe.
At least, that was the possibility I chose to believe.
After a long walk, I reached the passage connecting the lower district to the hill.
I folded my umbrella.
The flashlight remained my only source of light.
When I arrived at the final checkpoint, the guard didn’t so much as glance in my direction.
That confirmed my hypothesis.
People from the hill were left alone.
The difference in treatment between the two sides was staggering.
Yet it was also unsurprising.
Back home, the divide between the privileged and the powerless was hardly any different.
As someone who belonged to the privileged class, I hadn’t abandoned that lifestyle.
Even after coming to Etatina, I had chosen to live atop the hill.
I didn’t believe the choice was wrong.
Yet a growing intuition told me that if I wanted to understand the real Etatina, I would find more truth below the hill than above it.
Universities, political institutions, and economic centers might all be concentrated on the hill.
But the living, breathing reality I sought seemed hidden beneath it.
The history book from the bookstore was proof enough.
I needed to read it.
Then I would compare it to the history texts in the university library.
Fortunately, I had also brought several books on Etatina’s history from my homeland with my father’s permission.
That gave me three separate sources for comparison.
Thinking back, obtaining those books had been more troublesome than expected.
My father had lost his position as heir when he married into my mother’s family. The family leadership had passed to his elder brother instead.
As a result, I needed my uncle’s permission to bring any family-owned books abroad.
My uncle was lenient with me but strict regarding family traditions.
At first, he strongly opposed the idea.
Only after my father argued with him repeatedly did he finally relent and allow me to bring a limited selection.
Later, when I visited my uncle to thank him personally, we shared a private conversation.
Laughing heartily, he remarked that my obsession with learning was exactly like my mother’s when she was young.
“Blood will tell,” he had said.
As far as I knew, my father possessed a brilliant intellect worthy of being called genius.
Yet whenever academics were discussed, people rarely compared me to him.
Instead, adults often joked that my father succeeded through talent alone and barely studied, while my mother and I achieved results through relentless persistence.
It was difficult to imagine from the father I remembered.
The precious books my endlessly generous father had secured for me.
The history books I had purchased from the old bookstore.
And the volumes I would soon borrow from the university library.
Just imagining what discoveries might emerge when all three were compared filled me with excitement.
I was already looking forward to sharing the results with my parents and former colleagues once I reached a satisfying conclusion.
I had originally planned to take things easy in Etatina.
Perhaps visit the resorts atop the hill.
Drive around in my new car.
Live a leisurely life.
Yet, as always, nothing excited me more than the pursuit of knowledge.
I hadn’t intended to bury myself in study or research after coming all this way.
But if this spark in my chest continued to burn—
If this exhilaration refused to fade—
Then I had a feeling I might end up staying in Etatina for ten years or more.
