Cormac Rinnigan squinted through the morning mist that hung heavy over Camden, a familiar chill settling into his bones. He tugged his worn tweed coat tighter around him, its fabric softened by years of wear. The clatter of hooves on cobblestone echoed through the narrow street as a baker's cart trundled past, filling the air with the enticing aroma of fresh bread. Cormac paused at the corner, nodding in greeting to Mrs. O'Malley who was tending her window boxes overflowing with vibrant geraniums. He always admired her tenacity - keeping those blooms alive even in Camden's often-dreary weather. He continued his walk towards Rinnigan’s Bookbindery, a place that held a lifetime of memories for him. The rhythmic thud of hammers striking leather resonated through the air, a comforting symphony he'd known since childhood. Stepping inside, the scent of aged paper and beeswax polish enveloped him, transporting him back to simpler times when his father would sit him on his knee and teach him the art of bookbinding. He remembered the pride in his father’s eyes as Cormac mastered the delicate craft, each stitch a testament to their shared legacy. Though his own hands no longer wielded the tools with the same dexterity, Cormac still found solace within the walls of the bindery. He would often spend hours poring over ancient texts, tracing the faded ink and marveling at the stories etched between the pages.