The day would usually begin with her hauling a box of stock from her neighbour’s home to the stall, and she would sit there for the rest of the day with her flask of coffee, vending an entirely haphazard range of books at various stages of disintegration. Her neighbour was getting old, and she was glad to have Sylvie take over as she spent a day indoors. After closing the stall, Sylvie would report back to her apartment and show her the ledger, running through the list of what had been sold, and handing over the takings. There was no way of predicting how much stock would go; sometimes the stall would be as good as stripped by the end of the day, and other times it would be untouched. Sylvie’s neighbour would give her a handful of coins, the weight of which would depend on the general state of the business. It never amounted to a great deal, but Sylvie had grown fond of her neighbour, and had been touched by her readiness to trust her with her livelihood. Alongside the battered old books, the stall also sold prints of famous artworks, reproductions of antique maps and vintage dirty postcards.