“It shows only what you are ready to lose,” the bookseller said softly. “Turn the page.”
“Open it,” the old man said.
When Clara opened her eyes, she was sitting on a bench in a sunlit plaza. In her lap lay a small, ordinary-looking book with a rosemary sprig pressed between its blank pages. Beside her, a woman with kind eyes and dust on her hands was laughing. El Libro Invisible