Book Of The Hours Novels & Stories

Two years back, when Shirley came home from abroad, she gave a Patek Philippe watch to Matthew. Matthew was over the moon, wearing it all the time, even to bed, unless he had to take it off for something big like surgery. However, I just could not figure out who this well-off, polished man was. He caught on to my puzzled look, but instead of getting upset, he just smiled. "I'm Edwin." I froze. Edwin Gordon? How could that be? I remembered Edwin always had those super thick glasses, like the bottom of a beer bottle. He was the kid who did not have much, always eating just bread with margarine, skinny as a stick.

I nodded slowly, realizing what his answer truly meant: the Living Book wasn't here. Whether he didn’t trust me, or the danger was too great to carry it along, I didn’t know. But I stopped searching. Instead, I buried myself in the small cube Zevarion had gifted me, fingers working it restlessly as I tried to anchor my thoughts in the memory of his warmth, his arms, his voice. Each night grew colder. Each morning, darker. And then, on the eleventh day, just as the book had warned, we reached it. The horses slowed, snorting uneasily. Even the wind stilled, as though the very earth held its breath.

Something waiting. --- Determined not to be paralyzed by fear, I returned to the antique bookstore — to the stories, the secrets, the fragments of forgotten women. The elderly owner greeted me with a knowing smile. “You’re searching for answers,” he said quietly. I nodded. He handed me a leather-bound tome, its cover worn but strong — *Reflections of the Forgotten*. “Read carefully,” he advised. “Sometimes the past speaks through shadows.” --- I spent the night poring over its pages. The book told of women trapped in illusions, caught between worlds — ghosts of themselves, struggling to reclaim their true identities.

“But let me first… document what I saw. Some truths must be preserved before they are spoken.” She raised her hand and clapped once. A surge of air stirred the chamber, rattling the bookshelves until one leather-bound book tore free and floated towards her. It hovered in the air, its pages blank… then, as though stirred by an invisible hand, they began to turn rapidly. Flip…Flip…Flip. Words spilled onto each page, lines of ancient script etching themselves in dark ink, filling one page after another until the book was no longer empty. At last, the turning ceased, the final page inscribed before the book closed with a soft thud in her palms.

The evening breeze was gentle, carrying the fresh scent of early summer plants growing. In the courtyard below, children laughed and ran around. Elderly residents strolled leisurely. Life flowed on in its most ordinary and solid form. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with fresh air. The three months after Arya's death, which had been full of her family's scheming, were like a long, oppressive nightmare. Thankfully, I had woken up. Wounds would scab over, pain would fade, and the lessons I learned would stay with me, making me stronger and wiser going forward. Night fell, and the city lights came on. I went back inside and turned on the lights. Warm illumination instantly filled the ent

Piper yawned in reply, curling into a perfect circle atop the books as if she’d just completed a highly productive shift. The bell above the door jingled sharply just before noon. A woman stepped inside, tall and precise, her coat the deep green of frozen leaves pressed tight against her frame. “Do you have anything that feels like winter?” she asked, her voice crisp, deliberate. “Genre?” Aria prompted, tilting her head slightly. “Poetry. Something cold,” the woman said, scanning the shelves with sharp eyes. Aria nodded and moved gracefully toward a narrow shelf, her fingers brushing along the spines until they rested on one. She pulled it free: The Book of Hours by Rilke. She handed it to t

she whispered, but the words were swallowed by the air around her. Then she saw it—a large, old book in front of her, resting on a pedestal. It was glowing faintly, its pages turning on their own as if guided by an unseen hand. There was a strange swan-like symbol in the center of the book, surrounded by a circle of light. The brightness almost hurt her eyes, but she couldn’t look away.