She stepped in from the rain closing her umbrella and shaking it from the tiny droplets of rain that hang on to it. She places it in the umbrella bin near the corner of the library. She makes her way inside inhaling slowly. The smell of rain still lingering somewhere in her lungs, the smell of books enveloping her, a mixture of both scents tickling her insides.
She makes her way into the fiction aisle smiling at the librarian in the front desk. She passes the dark brown tables watching the people intently focused. Some are reading while others are working on the computers.
She moves to the back where the fiction books are and glides her hand over the covers, tracing the intricate designs gently.
She would stop at the ones that catch her attention, opening them, reading a page or two and putting them back if they didn't grasp her attention. She examines the beauty of each cover, the way they were placed so close together. The idea that some person belonged in these books, that a writer has shed a piece of their soul, love, pain, imagination into these tiny books. She makes eye contact with the other person scanning the books and wondered are they thinking about this too.
YOU ARE READING
A short story
Short StoryFleeting moments captured into short stories, isn't that what everyone is? A short story.
