The scent of aged paper lingers, ink fading into the fibres of brittle pages. Books lean against each other in weary camaraderie, bound together by the passage of years.
Here, in the depths of forgotten shelves, time does not march forward - it lingers, curling around cracked leather spines, hovering between the words of long-dead authors.
A heavy tome, untouched for decades, settles like a ghost. The faded dedication within speaks of a love story now lost to history, names scrawled in careful cursive, testament to a moment now swallowed by time. There was once urgency in its pen strokes - now only quiet regret.
Outside, the world rushes past, indifferent to the quiet of a place where knowledge clings to the dim light of flickering candles. A sanctuary for thinkers, poets, and lost souls.
Here, between worn pages and murmured prose, one does not simply read - one listens.
The books seem to whisper, speaking in the language of the forgotten and the remembered, of lovers who once met between corridors lined with dust, of scholars who bent over desks long since abandoned.
The storm outside rattles against the windows, but inside, the past holds its breath...
♥