"In the misfortune of our friends we find something that is not displeasing to us." - Francois de La Rochefoucauld, "Maxims"

The chipped ceramic mug warmed Amelia’s hands, but did little to thaw the chill that had settled in her bones. Rain lashed against the window of “The Corner Perch,” a small, independent bookstore she’d nurtured for fifteen years. Across the street, a brightly lit, aggressively modern bookstore, “Novel Heights,” was experiencing a grand opening. Streamers, a DJ pumping out upbeat synth-pop, and a throng of people clutching reusable tote bags formed a stark contrast to the quiet, dusty intimacy of Amelia’s shop.

She’d known this was coming, of course. The email from the landlord, the whispers amongst the local business owners, the steady decline in foot traffic – they'd all painted a vivid, unwelcome picture. Still, seeing it, the blatant success of her competitor while her own sales dwindled, felt…different. A complex emotion, a simmering blend of regret, bitterness, and something else she couldn’t quite place.

Old Man Hemlock, a regular who smelled perpetually of pipe tobacco and old paper, shuffled in, shaking the rain from his tweed cap. He observed the scene across the street with a knowing look. "Quite a spectacle, isn't it?" he rumbled, heading straight for the poetry section, his usual haunt.

"It is," Amelia replied, her voice flat. She busied herself straightening a display of local author novels, a futile gesture considering who wasn't walking through the door.

Hemlock eventually joined her at the counter, a slim volume of Yeats in his hand. "Remember young Edgar Pritchard?" he asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

Amelia frowned. “Edgar? The architect? The one who designed that…monstrosity of a shopping plaza on Elm Street?”

“The very same. He always fancied himself a writer, you know. Filled notebooks with dreadful poetry. Absolutely dreadful. We all politely endured his readings at the library. Then he got that big commission, became quite successful. Built that plaza, then another, then another. Now he’s practically a local celebrity.” Hemlock paused, his eyes twinkling. “Do you recall how smug he was about his poetry? How he insisted it was misunderstood?”

Amelia recalled. Vividly. Edgar Pritchard’s self-importance had been legendary. “It wasn’t good poetry, Hemlock. Let’s be honest.”

“No, no it wasn’t,” Hemlock agreed with a chuckle. “But his success, his…unearthing of fortune despite his artistic failings….it was, well, a certain satisfaction. A small, shameful little pleasure.”

Amelia felt a flicker of recognition. That was it, wasn't it? Not joy exactly, but…a quiet leveling. She’d always prided herself on curating a carefully selected collection, supporting local artists, fostering a community. “Novel Heights” offered discounts and a coffee bar. It wasn’t about literature; it was about experience, convenience, and trendiness.

“It’s a strange thing, isn’t it?” Hemlock continued, seemingly reading her thoughts. “That odd comfort we take in the misfortunes, or at least the relative failures, of others. La Rochefoucauld said it centuries ago: ‘In the misfortune of our friends we find something that is not displeasing to us.’ Harsh, isn’t it? But not entirely untrue.”

He wasn’t suggesting malice. Amelia understood that. It wasn't about actively wishing harm on "Novel Heights" or its owner. It was about the subconscious reassurance that even in the face of her own setbacks, someone else was navigating challenges, that she wasn't alone in experiencing disappointment. That validation, however subtle, could be a surprising balm.

“I don’t think I want them to fail,” Amelia admitted, feeling a little ashamed. “But…it doesn’t feel entirely terrible that they don’t understand what makes a bookstore special. That they’re just…selling books.”

Hemlock smiled. “Perhaps it's a reminder of our own vulnerabilities. Seeing someone else struggle, even succeed at something we value less ourselves, acknowledges the arbitrary nature of fortune. We tell ourselves, ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to be them, with all their flash and noise.’ It reinforces our own choices, clarifies our own values.”

He paid for his Yeats and headed for the door. Before stepping out into the rain, he turned back to Amelia. “Don't let their grand opening steal your quiet joy, dear. Some stories are meant to be discovered, not shouted from the rooftops.”

Amelia watched him go, the rain continuing its relentless rhythm. The synth-pop across the street felt less jarring now. A small, hesitant smile touched her lips. Perhaps she wouldn’t be driven out of business. Perhaps she could survive. And even if she didn’t, perhaps admitting a certain…understanding...of La Rochefoucauld’s maxim wouldn't be such a terrible thing after all. It didn't make her a bad person; it just made her human. She adjusted the display of local author novels again, then began to brew herself another cup of tea. A quiet corner, after all, still had its merits.