The Scream of A Thousand Libraries Chapter 2: Chapter 4: Book's Graveyard.

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POV: HELENA IVYRA. And there I was, walking down the street towards the city center, at my usual fast pace. People often said: "Helena, you walk too fast!" Honestly, I never knew if it was true or if people are just too slow these days, but I kept up my hare's pace. I've always been a fast-paced person. "I don't know if it's the pace of someone in a hurry or someone who just wants to clear their head…" I pondered. The weather was strange, neither too sunny nor too rainy. That emotionless grey, but comfortable enough for no one to find bad. João Batista was already in its typical early afternoon: hurried drivers, attendants organizing shop windows, the post office making deliveries everywhere. The standard routine, the classic yellow buses taking people across the city, and the characteristic high movement of Fiorinos leaving factories and heading to sewing studios, these two were probably the most common vehicles to see on busy days like this. It was funny how each one had their occupation, their goal, their urgency. Some willingly, others out of obligation. After living there practically my whole life, that scenery had become a constant. The classic Batistense routine! João Batista was a quiet city. Despite trying to be a metropolis, it was just a small, growing city. A little more than a village, a little less than a hub. Its streets were filled with an economy driven by the footwear trade, with its various shoe factories that, for a long time, sustained not only the city but also the pride of many people. And of course, the strong descent from the southern European cattle-raising lands that so marked the local culture. "Always busy, but always welcoming," I reflected, as I observed the city where, although I hadn't been born, I had lived long enough to be practically a native by consideration. The city looked like a younger sister. Always trying to catch up with older sisters, like Brusque and Blumenau. It compared itself to them, but also fought not to be just a shadow. That region was made up of people accustomed to long work routines, but who carried in their hearts a passion for Gaúcha and Catarinense traditions. A Catarinense city with a Gaúcha soul, or vice-versa. Sometimes, it was no longer easy to distinguish. As I passed the first corner, I noticed the city's old visual confusion. New buildings appeared here and there, with that simple, yet direct, almost impatient style. They looked like thorns pointing to the sky, as if the ground was in full adolescence, with architectural acne. Something about those buildings made me think. They were almost modern temples, built for the adoration of new gods. Even so, around them were the small old houses, forgotten like lost ruins. Some with low walls, open windows, verandas that seemed polite and invited people in, like Dona Florinda did with Professor Linguiça, I mean, Girafales. "Heh, heh." My questionable humor, it's complicated. Turning my attention back to those houses, which seemed real, they seemed like homes. Not those spy movie fortresses, surrounded by cameras and sensors. As if they were made to repel people. Though, that vibe seemed more in line with Dona Florinda, who wanted to distance herself from the "riff-raff" she claimed not to be part of. It was as if modern architects had taken inspiration from shark cages. But the sharks, ironically, walked on two legs. And they were of the same species. Strange world, isn't it? And if there was one thing João Batista had too much of, it was small businesses. Every square meter had a pharmacy, a beauty salon, a dealership. And that last one, seriously? It was almost offensive. ‘There were more cars than people in that city! Good thing Transformers aren't real, because otherwise we'd be screwed.’ I remembered the certain irony of seeing the pile of cars lined up. If it were a robot battlefield, the city would have been in ruins for years. You could even set up a union of automotive cyborgs. The city had several streets an