Margen
The first one amused her: a corner folded down on page 37. The second seemed like coincidence. But Clara had spent years buying used books in three different cities, and page 37 always came marked: novels, journals, a school atlas, a gardening manual.
She started checking before paying. She would go straight to it, skipping the table of contents, while booksellers watched her sideways. There was never anything special on page 37: rain in a Swedish novel, a tide table, the end of some ordinary chapter. Whatever that corner was pointing at, it wasn't in the text.
One Saturday, to shake off the habit, she bought a book fresh from the printers, shrink-wrapped, still smelling of ink. She opened it on the bus with both hands, slowly, like someone settling a bet.
The corner of page 37 was already folded. And this time, in the margin, someone had written in pencil: "almost".