The place still feels familiar, even though ten years must have passed since your last visit. The air is the same as it was when you last stood here — warm, a little musky and full of dust dancing around in the sunlight falling through the tall windows to the street. There is this unique smell — a memory of yellow paper and black ink hanging around in the room.
You loved this little store, the tiny building ducked behind the other store fronts.
It always felt like a second home, a personal fortress of silence. Silence and books.
As you remember the hours you spent among these shelves, you brush your hand against the countless books, almost as if welcoming a long lost friend.
You can see the shadows of your parents walking along the narrow valley of books in front of you. You hear their voices, whispering to you from the shelves:

Go ahead, pick one you like.
Any one?
Any one you like.

And you remember how you smiled, a beautiful, cheerful smile as you stood on your toes, stretching as far as you could, trying to get to the upper shelves, eagerly waiting to see which wonders lay beyond your reach.

You stop walking. There is a book, right under your fingertips. At a first glance, it does not look any different from the novels, biographies and poems surrounding it.
A plain red cover with a thin white hexagonal pattern on it. It takes you a moment to realize why that book caught your eye:
There is no title. The cover is completely blank, no title, no author, no summary, nothing. Just thin white lines on a red pane.

Any one?
Any one you like.

There it is again — this childish excitement, the glow in your eyes. You pick up the book, not daring to look at it, afraid to spoil the great reveal, and head to the counter.
As you step out the door onto the busy street, you can feel the heavy book in your bag, gently hitting against your side with every step.
You walk away, your face still glowing with expectation.