There is a special kind of hush that settles over a secondhand bookstore, the kind that lets you hear your own curiosity. I felt it the second I stepped through a creaky door on an Arkansas side street, that faint paper-and-ink smell hitting before the bell even stopped ringing.
On a recent drive across the state, I started chasing that feeling on purpose, detouring through small towns and busy downtown blocks just to see what I’d find. No two shops felt the same.
One had teetering stacks in every corner. Another felt like someone’s den that slowly filled with books…