On March 10, 2014, in New York City, Addie LaRue reflects on the practiced rhythm of living alone and what truly sustains her. Because she cannot count on ordinary stability, Addie has learned to reduce life to a few essentials, comparing the process to her father’s woodcarving—paring away everything until only what matters remains.

Addie recognizes she can endure without food or warmth, but not without beauty. She admits that without art and wonder she would lose her sanity, and she names what she needs most: stories. To Addie, stories preserve the self, offer a way to be remembered, and also provide escape from an unending life.

Walking up Flatbush, Addie spots a familiar sidewalk book table and its seller, Fred, hunched behind a mystery novel. Over the last two years, Addie has learned bits of his life: he is a widower, and the books once belonged to his late wife, Candace. Selling them feels like releasing grief piece by piece, and Fred sits outside partly from fear of dying unnoticed in his apartment.

Addie suspects Fred does not truly want to sell the books, since he does not price them and often drives customers away, yet the stock continually refills. Recently, she has noticed new releases mixed in with the old paperbacks, suggesting Fred may be buying more or receiving donations.

Without stopping for conversation, Addie runs her fingers along the spines and, with effortless sleight of hand, takes a book from the end of the row. She tucks it under her arm and walks on, while Fred never looks up.