There’s a book box in the village, if you have a book you don’t want you can put it in and if there is one in there that you want you can take it out; swaps are encouraged but no one checks.
The content is random, it changes like flotsam and jetsam on the shore; a summer storm (of tourists) can fill it or empty it.
Language is varied but Dutch, English and French dominate; the box is on the wall next to the estate agency run by someone from Holland, the village is in France and I’m, among others, English.
Three times now I’ve found a book by the same author, I’ve enjoyed them each time and each time it has been a different time; time separated by months, maybe years, certainly a pandemic and confinement and other books.
Other stories.
Now I want to read the set.
Can I wait for the uncertainties of chance, tide and time?
At least two of those wait for no man.
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