“Thousands of books were destroyed yesterday when a fire broke out in the basement of a bookstore”
They were just books, untouched and unread. They were waiting there, to be picked up. With infinite worlds between their pages, yet to be explored. They still had the new book smell, but now they’ll never smell of aged paper. To think of the flames slowly devouring the books, word by word. There’s no worse nightmare. Each word that was a result of unbounded imagination, each story a chronicle of human race, a proof of our collective wisdom. All gone.
They’ll never know of gentle hands turning pages, they’ll never know of papercuts. They’ll never adorn any bookshelf or any bedside table.They’ll never be anyone’s prized possessions.They’ll never have folded corners, a sign of a story in progress. They’ll never have souvenir bookmarks, or pressed roses. There’ll be no personal messages, no dedications, no confessions of love and friendship, no signed notes. There’ll be no tear stains or scribbled comments. Just ashes.
Maybe the angels are building a library.