Ranboo let out a sigh of relief one he had opened the door, being greeted by the warm, softly welcoming air, blowing steadily through the vents of the building. A much more friendly reception compared to the harsher air of the city, which waited readily to nip at the noses of all who walked through it, numbing the hands and tinting the cheeks an almost delightful rose shade. Of course, the blonde could never complain about a winter in the city, for he was counting down the days until snow would finally start falling. Why, that was Ranboo's favorite time of year; waiting readily by the window, pulling back the curtains and watching as it collected readily on the fire escape, small mounds that snaked around the iron, icicles hanging down from the stepladder above.
There was surely nothing finer than a Sunday morning stroll through Central Park during the winter. The pathways would be frosted with thin layers of snow that had not been swept away, frost and icicles lingering on the lampposts...snow collecting in the trees. Ranboo loved to sweep snow from the benches, sitting down despite how damp the wood was, only to sigh contently to himself as he enjoyed the morning. After all, it was not often that he was able to enjoy such mornings. The blonde would take anything he could get, even if that meant simply sitting through the chilly morning, when the sun had not yet rose into the sky...at least, not enough to do anyone any good.
Although, sometimes it seemed as if the New Yorkers were just as bitter as the cold. So many grumbling with their hands shoved deep into their pockets as they walked by, always having something to complain about. How their bonus was less than the previous year, how it was too cold, how they hated the snow, how they didn't even celebrate Christmas anyway. Of course, there were always those who seemed to make winter kinder. Carolers who mingled on sidewalk corners, small change buckets before them as they hoped to donate something to charity. Ranboo always appreciated the lights that would be strung around trees...part of him had always wanted to help decorate the sidewalks. Oh, and the tree in Rockefeller Center, obviously not to be forgotten. Of course, as much as he loved New York City...it didn't seem much like home.
Regardless, of course, Ranboo had always turned to Central Park and this small bookstore on the corner of two streets in Brooklyn for comfort. Why, there was nothing finer than purchasing a book and then riding the subway to the park, only to spend the afternoon sitting happily on a park bench. These days seemed few and far between, of course, but the blonde cherished every occurrence like a gift. After all, what a privilege it was to be outside of the apartment on an afternoon...a privilege to take the subway without being hounded with frustrated texts. Ranboo enjoyed these days most of all, roaming the sidewalks as a free pigeon; not a thing that could dampen his spirit.
This bookstore on the corner was something that the young man lived for. It was small, but welcoming. The gaps between shelves were barely wide enough to home two people as they walked down opposite ends...but, then again, hardly anyone ever seemed to be there. It was still a mystery to the blonde how a place such as this, who never seemed to have any visitors, seemed to remain open. For anyone knew well enough that Brooklyn rent was no walk in the park. Of course, Ranboo never questioned it. Why, it was hardly a thing to complain about. After all, he adored the atmosphere that the building offered.
Tightly packed shelves littered throughout the small store stretched toward the back, overflowing with books in every genre imaginable. Horrors, comedies, autobiographies, science-fiction, historical-fiction...a book could fall off the shelf at any given day due to how many there were. Ranboo could recall several occurrences where he had been skimming through selections, his finger trailing over the spines, only to be startled due to a nearby book hitting the floor. Of course, they would merely be picked up and placed back, the blonde attempting to squeeze the novel into its original position, a space already absorbed by the masses.
