Book Box Library Novels & Stories

Just delete the book from your library and add it back. Thank you! Sincerely yours Author Blackangel

“Your library is already full to the brim, and I don’t think I can just leave them in the boxes.” It wasn’t what I was thinking about, but it was a good distraction and a very important issue. I had nowhere to keep them, and I couldn’t just leave them in the boxes. Books were meant to be on shelves to be read and displayed, not holed up in cardboard boxes and not serving their purpose. “What about the shelf in your room?” Dante asked. “It won’t contain half of what is here, and you said more are coming tomorrow. There’s no magic I would perform that would make all of them fit into that tiny bookshelf.” I sighed, and my shoulders dropped.

I never thought I would be standing here after all these years like this. I sneak into the library. Only a line of shelf is clean. The other shelves have dust all over them, webs, and most of the books look old and some are already wearing off. I walk around, sweeping my eyes on what could get my attention. Then I see a box. It’s an old, thick leather box with a handle, sealed shut. I try to open it, but it’s stuck. like it hasn’t been touched in a really long time. Decades maybe

"I'm not sure. But I am almost sure no one saw me, can you tell me what is going on right now? Is it some sort of 'no touch book'?" "Well, kinda. You see that book is not a scrapbook. It's a journal." "Okay, whose journal?" "Everyone you saw their pictures there." "Wait, hold on." "Holding on." "You're telling me that that book is a diary? Like not historical data or educative, I don't know, background checks. You are saying it's a diary?" "Well, practically we go by journal but sure diary works too." "If it is a diary, why the hell is it kept in the library? I have never heard of a diary being kept in a library before."

Harmless. “There she is!” I say, vaulting over the counter. “My favorite donor slash bookstore angel.” Libby laughs. “I found these while packing. Thought you might want them.” “You thought correctly,” I say, taking the boxes. “You’re basically funding our entire inventory.” She glances between me and Luca. “Why do you both look like someone died?” Luca says nothing. Smart man. I grin wider. “We were having a deeply philosophical debate about shelving.”

I start to rifle through the old musty smelling box of books that had been left on my porch, when I notice a little children’s book. I see the symbol of the Golden Children’s Books printed on it, then a little sticker on the binding indicating that it belongs to the library catches my eye. Examining it closer, the pages are bent back and discolored, but the book is still in suitable condition. My nails peel at the tape as I fidget and try to figure out what to do next.

The new place lacked personality. At least for now. It still felt temporary. Like a hotel room pretending to be a home. That would change. Eventually. Hopefully. Anton carried another box into the living room. "Where does this go?" I looked at the label. Books. "Bedroom." He stared. Then looked at the box. Then back at me. "Hannah." "What?" "You own too many books." "Impossible." "You moved an entire library." "Knowledge is important." "You have three copies of the same novel."

His leg brushed mine the entire time. I picked mine and Lycer's first stop as one I knew he would like. The pack library. It was more than twice the size of the one in the pack house. I didn't often spend time here but I occasionally had to pick up a book for my lessons. Right now, my goal is to read through all the books in the pack house and then move on to tackling the library. Though, some of the academic books confuse me. . . I'll save those for last.

Those were good times. Pushing open the library door, I was enveloped by the familiar scents of paper and ink. The sleek, modern shelves, packed with books of every genre, rose majestically to the ceiling, creating a sea of literary treasures. Every book had been handpicked by me, each one a reflection of my eclectic tastes. I navigated the narrow aisles, my fingers trailing over the spines of the books until they paused in front of a shelf filled with classic novels. With a practiced motion, I pulled a row of books off a shelf, revealing a small, discreet panel. I pressed my thumb against the cool surface, and the panel slid open with a soft click releasing a whisper of secrets.