The St. Petersburg Royal Bookstore on Nevsky Prospect was radiantly luminous, with soft lights shining on the tall stacks of books, vividly illuminating the blue, red, and gold-edged books, as well as the dusty and forgotten book titles. Despite all being books, the distinction between bestsellers and unsold ones clearly demonstrated the power and weakness of human creativity.
The bookstore was bustling, exceptionally crowded. Outside on the street, carriages came and went, with the road and carriages both thundering, causing the windows to jingle as if everything — the lights, the books, the people — was slightly vibrating, making the bookstore appear even more vibrant.
The shop clerks bustled to and fro, eagerly promoting the most powerful of all authors to the visiting patrons, confidently assuring them that as long as they took another glance at the store's treasure, they would be reluctant to shift their gaze to any other book.
