I climb the stairs to a first-floor bookshop in the building that once housed the now defunct Haveeru newspaper, where I used to work as a journalist. I don’t know who owns this newly opened store.
I walk through the entire shop, searching for books or novels for young adults and adults—but there are none. Not even stationery. Only children’s books: coloring books, stories, fables.
Disappointed, I decide to leave.
Just as I’m about to head down the stairs, a small pillow magically appears in my right hand. I don’t recall seeing any sofas or chairs for customers to sit and read.
Thinking I should return it if it belongs to a sofa, I lift the pillow. Underneath, a 1,000 Rufiya note appears in my hand—again, as if by magic.
I had never seen the new 1,000 Rufiya note before. As someone from a lower middle-income background, I rarely handled anything larger than a 500.
Strangely, I don’t take it to the “lost and found” at the reception. I’m not sure why. Until then, I’d never seen myself as the sort of person who’d take something that wasn’t his. And what could I even buy for a thousand Rufiya, I wonder?
I examine the note. It has an illustration of a whale shark—the pride of Maldives’ environment and tourism.
Before I could look at the other side of the note, suddenly, a man approaches. Out of fear, I crumple the note, shove it into the back pocket of my pants, and walk down the stairs onto the street.
I don’t know where I’m going.
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