The library was silent, until one book sighed. Its sigh was loud and dramatic. I inched toward it and picked it up. It was covered in dust, probably bored from being ignored for ages. Running my fingers along its spine, I blew off the remaining dust, and a fine leather surface gleamed faintly in the warm library light. It was supple and warm, like aged skin. Its color was a deep, burnished mahogany, the kind that catches light and turns it gold at the edges. Elegant filigree patterns trailed along the borders, delicate vines curling around faded gilt letters that once proclaimed its title proudly. Now, those letters seemed to whisper instead. The book felt alive, sacred even, in my hands.
I opened it right to the center, unable to hold back the thrill of discovering its contents. Written in fine cursive, in rich ink on glossy pages, the first words my eyes caught were:
“She was the kind that made even the wind pause to listen.”
Who was this woman he spoke of so delicately? I wondered, turning back to the first page to begin properly. I needed to know each character, to know this graceful woman, to read every line with care. The book in my hands looked like an antique that belonged in one of the world’s most reputable museums. It didn’t seem to fit in my school library at all.
Whoever tucked it away between dusty encyclopedias no one dared to touch deserved to be fired or at least scolded for hiding such a treasure. Because just by holding it, tracing my fingers over its fine leather cover, I knew it was a book that would carve itself into my memory, one whose story would gleam there like a gem for years to come.
I returned to my seat, pushed aside the Dickens novel I had been reading and spread this one open across the table. My eyes lingered on its pages, filled with a tender excitement I could barely contain.
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