It might have been that notion, or just chance, or its more flamboyant relative, destiny, but at that precise moment I knew I had already chosen the book I was going to adopt, or that was going to adopt me.  It stood out timidly on one corner of the shelf, bound in wine-colored leather.  The gold letters of its title gleamed in the light bleeding from the dome above.  I drew near and caressed them with the tips of my fingers, reading to myself.

The Shadow of the Wind
Julián Carax

…Perhaps the bewitching atmosphere of the place had got the better of me, but I felt sure that The Shadow of the Wind had been waiting for me there for years, probably since before I was born.

Carlos Ruiz Zafon, The Shadow of the Wind