Chongqing — Tucked steps away from one of Chongqing's busiest streets, a tiny second-hand bookstore has quietly become an unlikely cultural landmark, known online for its "chaotic beauty."
The shop, barely larger than 10 square meters, is packed from floor to ceiling with books. There is no cataloging system — only towering stacks that reward those willing to take the time to find a book they really like.
At the center of it all is Wang Miyu, who has spent more than two decades building this space, rescuing discarded books and giving them new life. Now in his late 70s, Wang opened the store in 2000. Since then, more than 200,000 second-hand books have passed through his hands.
He calls it the "Abandoned Bookstore," a name that carries layered meaning. In the Chongqing dialect, the word for "abandoned" (qi) sounds similar to "go to the bookstore." A deeper interpretation comes from the Tao Te Ching, the idea of doing the opposite. Wang applies it literally: he never abandons a book in his care.
Despite its size, the store functions as more than a place to buy books. Wang sees it as a shared space for learning. "A second-hand bookstore is like a classroom in the university of society," he said, explaining that anyone who enters — whether an 80-year-old or a 3-year-old — is a classmate.
Foreign visitors are drawn to the store for its authenticity. One explained that they love books and collect them, reading both nonfiction and fiction. "I love the idea that a book is a complete story," they said. "It allows me to live another life, fully immersed in the story."
Across China, there is a growing focus on building a book-loving society, making reading part of everyday life. Public libraries, community spaces, and independent bookstores like Wang’s are central to that effort. In Chongqing, April is designated as Reading Month, bringing books closer to daily life. Physical bookstores provide a real space to read and a connection between people.
For Wang Miyu, the meaning of his bookstore is deeply personal. Decades of running the shop have brought him health, personal growth, and a sense of wealth not tied to money. Although he began with little formal education, conversations with readers over the years have broadened his understanding. The collection itself, now filling two rooms, represents what he calls his true fortune.
He is still there every day, sorting books and talking with visitors, maintaining a rhythm that has defined much of his life.
In a city constantly reinventing itself, Wang’s bookstore offers something slower and more enduring — a reminder that even forgotten pages can find their way back into the story.
(Mu Dimeng, an intern, also contributed to this article.)