They walk to her shop on starry nights and sometimes through rain or snow. People who like the quiet of an almost empty space with low lighting and long tables and dusty particles that drift through lamplight to settle on worn leather chairs. A place that smells like coffee and sounds like hushed memory where they can painlessly phase outside themselves to wander and explore the battlefields of history or coastal highways that take them to imaginary lovers or tales of mystery and lore that can’t possibly be true. But oh that place, that midnight bookstore filled with noisy tomes clamoring with words and ideas and invisibly drawn maps to other worlds is so very precious and worth getting out of bed for even in the dark on a humid night even in secondhand pajamas and slippers. But especially when insomnia can’t be shaken or stirred and the brain craves that soothing balm of bindings and pages and the weight of this amazing thing, this lovely portal of discovery.