There are things that can't be explained in words, but you can smell them. The smell of books is one of them.

It's different: old library volumes smell of dust and time, new glossy editions smell of something sharp, almost chemical, but still enticing. But books from flea markets... They keep the aromas of other people's houses, coffee, random flowers tucked between the pages.

When I open a book, it seems to me that I'm inhaling not just paper, but a whole story. Here's a novel bought on a rainy day in a small shop - it still smells damp. And this collection of poems smells of lavender, because I read it in the garden.

Someone might say that it's nostalgia. But for me it's something more. The smell of books is a promise. The promise of new worlds, emotions, people I don't know yet.

Sometimes I just stand in the bookstore, close my eyes and breathe in. And it's like all these stories are whispering, "Take me, you'll like me."