Leopold

Genevieve can't tell if her soulmate is a transcendentalist author who died one hundred and fifty years ago, or the person who is leaving his books for her to find.

city lights

There in those city lights, there was no her and there was no him. There was just everything and nothing and the spaces in between, like flickering lights against a never-ending, black sky. There in those city lights, there was no love and there was no hate. There was just listening and talking and understanding every...