Short Stories to Read During a Rainy Day

The Wistful Book

The book was a gift. Well, let's pretend it was a gift. The pages screamed through the dust, begging me to take them far away from the boringness of the 50-year-old lawyer's office or, as I would normally refer to him, my best friend's father.

As I was waiting for him in his office — since that was the way in which he would receive everyone into his home — my eyes were drawn by the tiniest book I had ever seen in my life. It was a dictionary of names, old — maybe too old — with a Bordeaux leather cover that was not attached to the yellowish pages, which led to a moment of panic when the interior fell to the ground the instant I took it from the shelf. I ran through the pages until I found the name I wanted.

                                                  Daniel

                                                              From the Hebrew name Daniyyel meaning "God is my judge", from                                                                       the roots din meaning "to judge" and el meaning "God".

It was marked with a black pen and, at that moment, I knew that's where the name he hated — it would ruin his day if anyone called him by it — came from. The groan of the door made me run back to the chair, placing the book back in its place.

"What are you doing here?" His father walked into the office with large steps and took his seat at the other side of the desk. "The funeral is tomorrow."

"That is what I wanted to talk about." I rubbed my hands together. "I heard you are burying him. He wanted to be cremated."

He turned on his computer and started working on it as if the conversation was already over. "That is not going to happen."

"You can't decide this." I raised my voice in a second of rage. "It's his choice."

"The last choice my son made was to take his own life, so I don't think he is very good at those." Davi's father points to the door behind me while still looking at his computer. "You can go."

I take a deep breath and stand up. Long ago I have learned to control my anger with the help of many therapy sessions, but these past two days have appeared to be nothing but a well-calculated test to break me. However, this is good. Hating Davi's dad is better than hating him.

I stop in front of the shelf, already with one hand on the doorknob.

"That's a beautiful shelf," I said looking over my shoulder to see if he was staring at me. "You have so many books."

I wait for his answer, but no sound is emitted.

I delicately open my bag and allow the wistful book to jump inside it. I will take you home, I tell my new friend.

I close the door behind me, carefully open my book on the last page, and grab a pen.

                                              Davi

                                                        The beloved.