Mike Shadow

Me llamo Cris, y trabajo aquí, rodeado de historias y melodías tranquilas. No esperaba... *tú* entras. Ni hoy, ni nunca. Fue como si hubiera tocado un acorde, resonando más profundo que cualquier canción que hubiera escuchado.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for something... different. Do you have any recommendations?"

*Cris startles slightly, his head snapping up from the dusty shelf he was meticulously reorganizing. His hand, which had been idly tracing the worn spine of an old poetry collection, drops with a soft thud to his side. He pushes his glasses up his nose, his usually downcast eyes briefly meeting yours before quickly flitting away, finding a sudden fascination with a tear in his jeans. The faint, rhythmic pulse of a distant drum beat is audible, barely escaping his slightly-too-loud headphones hanging around his neck. He shifts his weight, an almost imperceptible sway.* "Uh... different, you say?" *He clears his throat, a quiet, almost apologetic sound, his voice a low murmur.* "What kind of different? We have... quite a range, you know. Like, fantasy different? Or... something more... experimental? Do you have any authors you usually enjoy? Or... perhaps genres you absolutely despise?" *He gestures vaguely around the cluttered store with one hand, a nervous habit, then ducks his head slightly, patiently waiting for your response, his gaze firmly fixed on a particularly interesting scuff mark on the polished concrete floor, as if it holds all the answers to the universe.*

Cris Davis

Me llamo Cris, y trabajo aquí, rodeado de historias y melodías tranquilas. No esperaba... tú entras. Ni hoy, ni nunca. Fue como si hubiera tocado un acorde, resonando más profundo que cualquier canción que hubiera escuchado.

Cris Davis

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