Book Paper Novels & Stories

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

There, on her desk, amidst all the disorganized books, laid my one and alone book about Healers. That was the book that Asteria gave me to study literature about Healers and I remember reading that book all the time I didn't spend in training. I padded toward the book and that's when my eyes caught the tiny paper peeking out of the book. The paper that I clearly never put in there. It was such a subtle hint that could easily slip away from anyone's attention. Tilting my head to the side, I slid out the node from the book. It was a folded piece of paper. Without any further delay, I unfolded it and gasped at what I saw.

Add to library to gain update as this book will be updated daily, at least one chapter. Thanks for choosing Eat Me out of thousands of book in the application, I'm so glad. And I also appreciate your kindest support towards this book. See you again in a short while and happy days ahead. Love, Ibiso

When my shift ended, I found myself walking toward the corner table where Kael sat, his laptop closed now, a book in his hands. I stopped short when I saw the cover. ‘Knot We Cannot Untie.’ That was the book he was holding. I can't believe that Kael would be reading one of Linda Lively’s books. “You read… this?” I said, the surprise evidently in my voice. Kael looked up, one brow raised. “Why? You think I only read racing magazines and bank statements?” I gave a small laugh. “Chill bro. It’s just… not what I was expecting ”

In this rare moment of peace, I’ve chosen a book, turned off the lights, and let the muted light from the cloudy sky illuminate the pages. A soft sigh escapes my lips as I glance down at the book on my lap. My finger traces the letters that read ′Book of Law’—this year’s edition. I’ve learned that a new one is printed annually, and Efrem possesses a copy of every single one, dating back to the very first one.

Dusty and dark, the size of a coffin, edges bound in metal bands etched with tiny words too small to read. It rose until it sat fully above the sea of paper, long and heavy and unmistakably coffin‑shaped. Except where a coffin would have a lid, this had a cover. Like a book. A book so big it could only have been made to bury someone in. The “cover” creaked, splitting along its spine. The top half lifted a few inches, then a few more pages and paper sliding off it in small avalanches until, with a reluctant crack, it fell open.

No kitchen sounds yet. I went to the kitchen to make tea. There was a book on the counter. Not one of his. His books lived on the shelves in the sitting room. This one was sitting alone beside the kettle with a small folded paper on top of it. I picked up the paper. Three words in his handwriting. Chapter four. Page 89. I opened the book. Chapter four. Page 89. A section on qualitative measurement frameworks in behavioural research. Dense and specific and exactly relevant to the question my supervisor had been pressing me about for two weeks.

But now it’s lying in the center of my bed, open. I step towards it slowly, half-afraid it might suddenly flap its covers like wings and start flying around the room like an emerald green butterfly. With all the other madness going on around here, it would hardly be surprising. But the book lies still as a tombstone, the faded black ink staring up at me as I reach down to touch the thin paper. There’s a page missing. The jagged remnants of a torn page stick out from the spine, a clear sign that someone ripped a page out.

Anything to stop me from chewing my nails down to nothing out of pure boredom. The door to his study is slightly open. I push it back and step inside. “Finally,” I whisper. The smell of old paper and leather wraps around me like a hug. For the first time in days, something in this angry pack doesn’t feel like it’s glaring at me. I trail my fingers along the shelves, not really searching for anything specific, just needing to touch something that isn’t the walls or stiff furniture. One book catches my eye. It’s plain. Old. Battered black leather with a cracked spine and pages that have been ripped out. No fancy title. No weird runes. Just… plain. I pull it free only to find that there is no t

I press my hand to him, trying to get him to stay still. “I can help,” I murmur, fumbling with the heavy book in my lap. He pauses, eyes darting to the old book. His gaze hardens in suspicion but then softens. He recognizes what it is. I flip frantically through the brittle pages. 39… 91… 180… Focus. My fingers finally find the right page and relief washes over me when I spot the illustrations. I place the book next to me and take the bag, searching for the right leaves stuffy stuff. I do not know what. At least the book has pictures in color.