Books And Lights Novels & Stories

I needed a place to store my mixers, potions, and valuables for the craft, and the small basement the house came with was perfect. I grabbed the Western History book that sat amongst random books on karma sutra and dishes to eat off the body and pulled it. The latch clicked behind it, and the cabinet popped forward. Why that book, you ask? Well, think about it. Most people find history boring, and when surrounded by delicious, exciting things to look at, who’d choose something simple? I plugged in the two thousand fairy lights that took Ayda and me three days to hang, and the entire basement lit up like Vegas.

Eventually, however, I picked myself up, put the papers back in the envelope and took it with me, putting it in one of the suitcases that I then brought to the house. The house and property were really beautiful. Behind the house there was a forest, on the left side there was a lake. House itself was white, with red tiled roofs and two chimneys, one larger and one smaller. The main wing was slightly bigger than the second side wing, and from it was coming out an even smaller side wing, which mainly housed a kitchen and a pantry, which had the stove from which the smaller chimney opened up. Another part of the side wing was occupied by a small dining room, and then the corridor led to the mai

Ranged all around it are carefully built book cases which have tinted glass on their fronts, instead of being open to the sunlight. “What…what is this…” I breathe. “It’s where the Academy keeps its manuscripts,” Ben says, flopping into a leather chair by a desk in the middle of the room and gesturing to its twin on the other side. “Florescent lights have more UV light than daylight, so they’re kept up here where they’re safe.” “Is that…true?” I ask, wrinkling my nose a bit at the amount of sunlight streaming into the room. “Oh, who cares,” Ben says on a happy sigh. “It’s cool up here.”

He says, pushing me through the door and into the store. I lead him to the back room where Mrs. B put a bunch of comfortable couches and armchairs as well as lamps for gentle light. Bookshelves line every wall, stacked to capacity with beautiful leather bound books. There's even a bronze, gliding ladder that she doesn't use anymore, but she calls it her pride and joy.

I disabled it earlier—another small detail in a long list of details I refused to leave to chance. Cara takes two steps in. Then she stops. The bookstore is transformed. Tea light candles glow softly from every surface—along the tops of the bookshelves, the checkout counter, the window sills. Rose petals trail across the floor, scattered deliberately, leading deeper into the space. The lamps are dimmed, casting everything in warm, golden light. Shadows stretch lazily across familiar spines and wooden beams, making the place feel intimate and sacred. For a long moment, she doesn’t say anything.

Constellations I recognize—Orion, Cassiopeia, Ursa Major—twinkle against deep blue, giving the impression that we're reading beneath the stars. A massive crystal chandelier hangs from the center, casting prisms of light across leather-bound volumes and illuminating the central reading area below, where plush velvet sofas in deep burgundy form a perfect circle. More reading nooks are tucked into alcoves along the walls, and balconies on the upper floors offer intimate spaces for quiet contemplation. "How did you even find this place?" I ask, running my fingertips reverently along the spine of a nearby book. It feels smooth and cool beneath my touch, the gold lettering slightly raised.

She pushed it open gently. Bookshelves rose like towers, floor to ceiling, all dark wood and soft golden lighting. A skylight let in faint sun, illuminating the rich leather chairs, dark carpet, and an antique globe in one corner. The scent of paper, old wood, and Chase’s cologne clung to the air.

On the coffee table, my magazines are spread out in a fan. And tucked in the corner on top of a large, deep bay window, a mirror of my own, is a reading nook: different, but close enough, strung with twinkling Christmas lights glowing a dull orange and creating a cozy ambiance. Pillows, blankets, a little cushion, and my books plus even more, all of them neatly arranged, just the way I'd left them.

A vast, intricately woven rug in shades of sand and slate lay underfoot, softening the hard lines of the floor. Books, real books with cracked spines and folded pages, lined built-in shelves where sterile sculptures once stood. The air smelled faintly of lemon and clean linen, but beneath it was the rich, comforting scent of leather and old paper. Most striking of all was the light. The harsh, clinical recessed lighting was gone. In its place were floor lamps with soft, golden glows, table lamps with shades of creamy parchment, and a series of elegant sconces that cast gentle pools of light against the walls. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittered, but now it felt like a pa

While focused on staining the bookcase, she lost all track of time and had no idea what he was really up to. Chris had completely transformed the room. Candles lit in numerous holders and containers throughout the room flickered, and a roaring fire beckoned her with its warmth. The white bulbs of string lights dipped along the mantel, the glow romantic and soft. With the sofa pushed back, Chris spread several blankets across the wooden floors with a bank of pillows lined against the furniture. Several bottles of