—Daniel, bien venido al Cementerio de los Libros Olvidados. Salpicando los pasillos y plataformas de la biblioteca se perfilaban una docena de figuras. Algunas de ellas se volvieron a saludar desde lejos, y reconocí los rostros de diversos colegas de mi padre en el gremio de libreros de viejo. A mis ojos de diez años, aquellos individuos aparecían como una cofradía secreta de alquimistas conspirando a espaldas del mundo. Mi padre se arrodilló junto a mí y, sosteniéndome la mirada, me habló con esa voz leve de las promesas y las confidencias.

—Este lugar es un misterio, Daniel, un santuario. Cada libro, cada tomo que ves, tiene alma. El alma de quien lo escribió, y el alma de quienes lo leyeron y vivieron y soñaron con él. Cada vez que un libro cambia de manos, cada vez que alguien desliza la mirada por sus páginas, su espíritu crece y se hace fuerte. Hace ya muchos años, cuando mi padre me trajo por primera vez aquí, este lugar ya era viejo. Quizá tan viejo como la misma ciudad. Nadie sabe a ciencia cierta desde cuándo existe, o quiénes lo crearon. Te diré lo que mi padre me dijo a mí. Cuando una biblioteca desaparece, cuando una librería cierra sus puertas, cuan un libro se pierde en el olvido, los que conocemos este lugar, los guardianes, nos aseguramos de que llegue aquí. En este lugar, los libros que ya nadie recuerda, los libros que se han perdido en el tiempo, viven para siempre, esperando llegar algún día a las manos de un nuevo lector, de un nuevo espíritu. En la tienda nosotros los vendemos y los compramos, pero en realidad los libros no tienen dueño. Cada libro que ves aquí ha sido el mejor amigo de alguien. Ahora sólo nos tienen a nosotros, Daniel. ¿Crees que vas a poder guardar este secreto?

-Daniel, welcome to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. Dotting the aisles and platforms of the library were a dozen figures. Some of them turned to wave from afar, and I recognized the faces of several of my father's colleagues in the antiquarian booksellers' guild. To my ten-year-old eyes, these individuals appeared like a secret brotherhood of alchemists conspiring behind the world's back. My father knelt down beside me and, holding my gaze, spoke to me in that light voice of promises and confidences. 

-This place is a mystery, Daniel, a sanctuary. Every book, every volume you see, has a soul. The soul of the one who wrote it, and the soul of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone glances through its pages, its spirit grows stronger and stronger. Many years ago, when my father first brought me here, this place was already old. Perhaps as old as the city itself. No one knows for sure how long it has existed, or who created it. I'll tell you what my father told me. When a library disappears, when a bookstore closes its doors, when a book is lost into oblivion, those of us who know this place, the guardians, make sure it gets here. In this place, the books that no one remembers anymore, the books that have been lost in time, live forever, waiting to one day reach the hands of a new reader, a new spirit. In the store we sell them and we buy them, but in reality the books have no owner. Every book you see here has been someone's best friend. Now they only have us, Daniel. Do you think you will be able to keep this secret?

-Daniel, welcome to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. Dotting the aisles and platforms of the library were a dozen figures. Some of them turned to wave from afar, and I recognized the faces of several of my father's colleagues in the antiquarian booksellers' guild. To my ten-year-old eyes, those individuals appeared as a secret brotherhood of alchemists conspiring behind the world's back. My father knelt down next to me and, holding my gaze, spoke to me in that light voice of promises and confidences.

-This place is a mystery, Daniel, a sanctuary. Every book, every volume you see, has soul. The soul of those who wrote it, and the soul of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone glances through its pages, its spirit grows stronger and stronger. Many years ago, when my father first brought me here, this place was already old. Perhaps as old as the city itself. No one knows for sure how long it has existed, or who created it. I'll tell you what my father told me. When a library disappears, when a bookstore closes its doors, when a book is lost into oblivion, those of us who know this place, the guardians, make sure it gets here. In this place, the books that no one remembers anymore, the books that have been lost in time, live forever, waiting to reach the hands of a new reader, of a new spirit. In the store we sell them and we buy them, but in reality the books have no owner. Every book you see here has been someone's best friend. Now they only have us, Daniel. Do you think you will be able to keep this secret?