Prologue:

Elnora listened to the sound of her boots slapping against the wet cement, watched her feet stepping along the sidewalk, as if her legs were carrying her without the consent of her better judgment. Not stopping, unable to control her walking, Ely looked up. She turned her head to the side. She was passing a window. Suddenly, she stopped. She stared. There was a woman with jet-black hair staring back at her. The woman was very thin. She looked a lot like Elnora’s mother, but with more wrinkles, more bones showing. “Who is that?” Elnora thought, squinting. The woman squinted back at her. She walked towards the window, the woman walked towards her. She pressed her face towards the window, and the woman vanished.

Suddenly, the truth slapped Ely in the face like a piece of hail carried on an angry gust of wind: that woman was her reflection. That very thin, boney woman was Ely. The doctors weren’t lying. The people, the “friends,” weren’t lying—they were friends—they weren’t lying! Even Ely’s mother told her the truth in her dying breath: “Don’t kill yourself Ely. You’re thin enough. Stop. Eat something. You’re beautiful. I love you,” she had said.

When Ely stepped back from the window, the reflection reappeared. There she was: her eyes bloodshot, dark circles like an abused wife; this was not beautiful, but this was not permanent. A big glass of water, a night of sleep, maybe even a meal, and she would be restored to her former beauty. And she was thin. A woman walked by. Ely didn’t watch the woman walking by; she watched the woman’s reflection. That woman was thin. And that woman was shorter than Ely. And that woman’s thighs were thicker than Ely’s, her face rounder. Ely’s perception was fixed. She was cured. Really.

Ely took control of her legs. She directed them to continue walking down the street. Just to test her newfound control over her limbs, she jumped in a puddle. The water splashed up her legs, cool and soggy and wet, the way water is supposed to be. Ely smiled. She always loved the sensation of water on her skin.

Across the street Ely noticed a bookshop. It looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it in her memory. She glanced to the left, to the right; the cars were far enough away for her to safely cross here in the middle of the block. She headed towards the shop at a quick pace. It was a tiny place, dimly lit and crowded with used books. A small bell rang when she pushed open the door. She let the door close behind her, and then she stood there, her wet jeans dripping over her boots, relishing the smell of old paper.

There was a balcony hanging over this first floor, a tiny balcony barely four feet across, filled with leather bound books stacked from floor to ceiling. A man appeared from behind one of the stacks of journals. He was small, with a wrinkled face and a soft gaze. “Ely!” he said, as if he’d been expecting her, “You’re back!” He hunched and down and ran his finger along the spines of the books stacked right in front of him. About half way up the precarious stack, he mumbled, “Aw, here it is.” Then, with firmness: “Come, come.” The book slid out from the stack, and the one on top drifted down and landed firmly on the one beneath. Nothing fell. Ely was astonished. She stared at him, blinking, trying to catch the trick. But there was no trick.

The man held up his right hand and gestured towards Ely. The book glided over through the air, then balanced before her. She reached out and grabbed it. When she held it in her hands, the book seemed to sigh, as if relieved to have made it back to her. She recognized the book. It was the journal from her childhood, her adolescence. Ely was excited and scared, all the while baffled. “How? How?” she sputtered, as she cracked open the cover. The first page was blank, and the second, and the third. She tore through the whole journal. Every page was blank. Rage bubbled. She wanted the guidance. She would follow the advice now. She knew better now. She knew not to take that first drink, not to look at her own reflection in the mirror, not to buy clothes one size too small—she knew now, but the advice was not there to follow. What was she supposed to do?

“Where did it go?” she yelled at the innocent man. “What did you do with my journal? Where did it go?” In the last sentence, her scream withered. Tears dripped down her cheeks. “It’s gone. It’s gone. It’s too late.” She mourned.

The creases around the man’s eyes bunched happily. “It’s never too late,” he said, wisdom on his breath. “There’s a pen on the counter.” He took out a gold pocket watch. “Whoops, you should be coming in here any minute! Quick, write out the advice! Give yourself a chance. You never know; things might turn out differently this time.”

Chapter 1

Ely and Marie were sprinting down the sidewalk, holding hands and laughing. Rain was pouring down, large drops splashing around their ankles. The rain always seemed to fall faster when Ely was with Marie; they were soaked to the skin and couldn’t be happier. The city was glimmering with water droplets when they spotted the small gold-gilt sign reading “Mr. Perry’s Bookshop.” The door swung open, jingling a small brass bell. Ely noticed that the bell seemed to stop ringing even before they touched the door, but she pushed passed it, sure she was imagining the impossible in the euphoria of the moment. Dust rushed to meet them and an awesome silence, broken only by the rustling of papers, enveloped the happy couple. They stood in the doorway, their eyes adjusting to the dim light. Ely took in piles of books, stacked precariously, a small, narrow staircase to the right leading up to an even more crowded balcony above. There was no one at the cashier’s desk to the right. For a moment Ely thought they were alone, but then a small head, lined with tufts of soft white hair around the ears, popped out from behind a tall stack of books in the loft.
His voice was soft and smooth like the leather of an aged bomber jacket: “Ely, I’ve been expecting you.” Ely instinctively reached for Marie’s hand. At that moment, the emaciated woman with the jet-black hair and the bags under her eyes clapped down the stairs. When Ely saw this woman, a wave of pain shuttered through her body.

“Ely,” the woman said. “You look so young.” She studied Ely like an archetype. “Let’s get out of here,” Marie whispered.

“No, I’ll leave,” the woman replied, acknowledging Marie for the first time.

Ely turned to watch the woman go. The bell tinkled, the woman grasped the new copper handle and pulled the door open. She stepped through the door and into the precipitation—the rain had turned to snow. The door shut behind her with a knock and the woman was gone.

Ely stared at the empty space where the woman had been. That woman was so thin, so light on her feet, so close to air, that when she stepped through that door, it was as if she had vanished.

Marie was studying the maze of books, piled high in no apparent order. She was trying to find a pattern. As if reading her mind, the small man padded down the stairs.
He gestured toward a pile to his right. With a wave of his hand, it swayed precariously: “The writings of people who devote their lives to loving someone who never loves them back,” he explained. The pile returned to its upright position. “Those contain the writings of those who flit from lover to the lover, trying to find love. Those are the writings of those who think they do not deserve love.” This pile shuttered.

“What’s that pile?” Marie was pointing at a pile so tall it went up and up, as if to the heavens.

“Of course. That is the pile for those who do that which others expect of them instead of that which their hearts and souls truly wish for them to do.” This pile seemed to heave under the weight of his mention. Marie studied it for a moment and then it shook almost undectectably as one more book added itself to the stack. The white haired man shook his head mournfully: "She had great potential. I'm sorry to see her start down that path."

"Do the books move around often?"

"No, not often," he told her. "Most people get stuck in their ways, but there are some books that move constantly." Just as he said it, a book flew out from the "listens to others" stack and careened toward the "unrequited love" stack, narrowly missing the man's head.

"What just happened?"

"I think her mother told her to give up on him, but she refused."

“What’s that pile?” Marie asked, changing the subject.

“Most don’t even notice that pile.” It was only three journals tall, compared to the dozens in the other stacks. Mr. Perry’s lips cracked into wide and wild grin. “Those are the happy people.” The stack was oblivious. His smile collapsed on itself. “That stack is too short.”

Ely recalled her attention back to the small man.

“Are you Mr. Perry?” she asked him.

“Yes, that’s me,” he said, his smile like a welcome mat, "And I've got just the book for you."

It was sitting on counter at the front of the store, bound in dark brown leather, with a stiff spine and gilt edged pages. Ely picked the book up and leafed through it.

"This book is empty," she complained.

He chuckled. "Of course it is. I sell journals."

"Then how can you say that this is just the journal for me?"

"Just trust me on this one." Marie looked on expectantly, but there was not a journal for her in this shop. "I'm sorry," he told her, noticing the tone of her gaze. Marie's face dropped until the man amended his statement: "Your job is to remind Ely that if she listens to the journal, she is listening to her heart."

Ely placed $5.50 in dollars and change on the counter. The man thanked her, and the happy couple was on its way.