The library smelled of ink and old paper, a comforting sort of stillness hanging in the air. Mara ran her fingers along the spines of books, not really searching, just enjoying the quiet. She stopped when she saw a boy—maybe ten—struggling to reach a book on the top shelf. He stretched on his toes, fingers barely grazing the edge.
She hesitated, then pulled it down for him. “Here.”
He took it without looking at her, flipping it open right away. “Thanks.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “I like this one.”
Mara glanced at the title—one she’d loved as a child. “Me too.”
The boy sat cross-legged on the floor, already lost in the story. Mara watched him for a moment, then wandered away, something warm settling in her chest. She hadn’t read that book in years. Maybe it was time to remember why she’d loved it.
Outside, the afternoon light seemed softer. The world felt a little quieter, a little fuller.
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