Such blessed silence, I stalk the walls and walls of shelves, my fingers tickling the spines of old tales and dead voices. Rough felt, and the scent of aged leaves. Browns and soft reds like fading roses in color, and just barely gilded letters, flaked and also faded. The light is pleasant here, not harsh, not LED, not even the warm glow of fire, and I cannot see its source. It is enough to see by.
Here is the place, I think. Squinting at the faded script, I prize a name off the spine. I pull it down and feel the weight of it in my arms; I hug the silent words to my chest and cast my eyes back the way I have come. The empty walkways stare back.
How I long to read this Tome! and, impatient, I simply sit down where I’m at, cross-legged, pulling the covers apart upon my lap.
Here, in blessed silence and blessed light, I read.
Tale Told 