Harmony

Her sense of smell has always been acute, but it is never more so than when she is here, surrounded by books. She breathes in, and the soft undertow of parchment, recycled pulp, hardened glue, crisp paper, and old leather surrounds her. It is a musty, dusty smell, stale like the air, but mild, gentle, like a moth’s wing. The books do not impose, but in the dim yellow light they beckon. The newer ones attempt to allure with their glossy covers and stitched pages, but she prefers the older ones, the ones whose leather spines unfurl with a series of crackles, as if stretching their wrinkled hands to the industrial-tiled sky and awakening in a puff of dust.

Tomorrow: Disharmony.