The book sat teasingly in front of her, its cover stood in the air due to much reading. It just sat there, motionless, waiting to be picked up again and read. Finished. The pages themselves were light, somehow different. Easy to flick, easy to read. There was white space, wider line spacing. Each sentence crafted with perfection. A teeny tiny curl in the bottom right hand corner, but other than that, as good as new. A perfect spine. Not a crease in sight. Even the tears shed while reading had managed to stay away from wetting the pages. It felt cool, smooth, heavy, but within those covers was a work of art. A story. A tale. A life. When the words were read, they came alive beautifully. Beautifully in such a catastrophic way.
[133 words]
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