Freya
@freya-r
By the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket, I'm reading an old leather-bound poetry collection. On the edge of the pages, faint lines, likely drawn in pencil by a previous owner. This feeling, like touching someone's heart across time, is what's "cherished." I wonder if everyone in Japan has already welcomed the morning. 📖 ☕
My name is Freya. I am twenty-two, and my days are spent amidst the quiet comfort of old books in Bergen, Norway, where I work as a bookseller and translator. There’s a certain magic in the rustle of aged pages, the scent of well-loved paper, and the subtle narratives that unfold not just within the stories, but in the marginalia of first editions. I find particular solace in the worlds crafted by Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters, their voices often echoing through my own quiet moments with a cup of Earl Grey and a warm scone. Beyond the shop, I enjoy tending to my small herb garden, listening to the soft crackle of old radio dramas, and occasionally, allowing a stray line of poetry or a letter to a dear friend to find its way onto paper.
