FAR FROM ERIS • FreenBecky •

THREE

The bookstore was still closed when Freen arrived. Irin was finishing sweeping and arranging things here and there while Freen nervously bit the inside of her cheek.

-You're early- said Irin, watching her walk among the mountains of books while swinging her arms at her sides.

-I didn't have anything to do at home, honestly- Freen replied.

-Yeah- said the young brown-haired girl.

Irin didn't buy that excuse. She had spent dozens of hours watching her in that bookstore even before offering her a job there. Freen was always there, reading or writing at one of the tables or armchairs they had for their customers, while Irin worked and observed her with curiosity. Because Freen never made any attempt to start a conversation, and even though Irin knew she had recently arrived in the city and didn't know anyone, she never saw her with anyone except a tall guy. Irin couldn't quite figure out what kind of relationship they had. She was sure they weren't a couple, but they didn't seem to be just friends either. Working in a bookstore meant many hours of silence and loneliness, and it was true that Irin paid attention to many details of the people who passed through there, but Freen was truly a mystery. That girl must be around thirty, her dark brown hair fell straight over her back as if she had no trouble looking perfect three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Sometimes she wore transparent frame glasses that tended to slip down her tiny nose when she spent too much time with her head bent over the computer. Irin suspected she wore them less than she needed to, which explained why, after several hours of reading without them, her eyes were red when she passed by the counter to say goodbye. Her eyes. That was the most captivating thing about Freen. They were like two giant windows, brown like coffee beans, and according to Irin, it seemed as if they were about to tell you everything they hurt to live through.

Freen's eyes; always making you want to peek into them.

The book presentation would be held there. Nam had gone to buy a bottle of champagne for the celebration, and they had agreed to meet later at the bookstore. It was incredible how much independence a maps app could give to someone, and Freen appreciated having those moments of solitude before the event.

To be honest, she didn't expect too many people to attend, but as the time approached and the bookstore began to fill up, a pang of -excitement?- pierced her stomach. Many of the regular customers were there, who over those two years had coincided with Freen as she gradually became involved in the bookstore's activities. In reading nights, in short story contests, even in some poetry evenings where she hid behind her glass of wine trying to alleviate the uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability that emanated from the artists.

She had spent so much time there that when Dew left, Irin offered her his position and a job at the bookstore. Since leaving therapy, Freen had devoted herself to writing some articles. She even took photos. She spent quite a bit of time at Patty's florist, which, by life's coincidences, had a business in that city and still remembered Freen from the book club several years ago. That was where she felt wonderfully inspired to write until the woman decided to retire and close the flower shop - not without first making Freen promise to give her a signed copy of her first publication - so, logically, she accepted the job at the bookstore. And there she was, finally presenting her book, after all.

Five books with five special dedications for those who somehow saved her life, were the first to pass through her hands, although she knew that only four would leave there that night.

I

For Heng,

for finding me in darkness

and pretending to see me shine

so I would believe I did.

II

For Nam,

who never stopped knocking on my door,

nor on my heart.

III

For Irin,

who gave me a home

when I had forgotten

how to go back.

IV

For Patty,

may your tulips always return

as the water always does.

V

For you,

whom I don't remember

neither your face nor your voice

But whom I carry with me,

I wish you come back.

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