Fabric With Books On It Novels & Stories

The room was also, unexpectedly and completely, full of books. Every wall that was not a window had shelves, floor to ceiling, built-in rather than assembled, the kind that suggested the apartment had been configured around the books rather than the other way around. Fiction and non-fiction shelved together without obvious system. Spines facing out. Some with markers in them. Many with the cracked spines of books that had been read multiple times and had stopped pretending to be new.

They all look ancient, worn and tattered, and they smell amazing. For a book lover like me, the whiff of old books is like opium to a drug addict. I want to stop a while and explore the bookshelf, but Lyall is pulling me over to the far end of the room. A faded tapestry hangs from a rail on the wall. On it, there’s some sort of medieval scene, showing a dark forest with thin shafts of starlight shining between the trees. Other than that, there’s nothing. No figures, no focal point, nothing in particular to draw the eye.

Heavy with time. Books lined every corner—some thin and colorful, some ancient with cracked spines and gold lettering barely clinging to the covers. To the right, a large reading area with plush armchairs surrounded a low fireplace, its mantle stacked with historical fiction and romance novels. To the left, framed photographs of pack founders lined the walls, beneath a sign that read: Black Hollow Legacy, Preserved in Ink. She could’ve spent hours just standing there, soaking it in. But she had come with a purpose.

My steps fall silent occasionally as I cross large, intricately woven rugs scattered about. I head straight for the aisle Celeste pointed out, offering her a small wave before disappearing between the labyrinth of bookshelves. Each section is marked with hand-carved plaques, their inscriptions barely legible in the dim light. They guide the way to different realms of knowledge: Alchemy, Herbology, History, and more. The books themselves are bound in various shades of leather, some adorned with golden leaves, others with intricate metal clasps. Many are so ancient that their titles have worn away, leaving only the texture of the leather to hint at the secrets within.

The walls were adorned with framed sketches and photographs, each capturing a moment of triumph in the company's illustrious history. Our first stop was the fabric department. The room was a riot of colors and textures, with rolls of fabric stacked from floor to ceiling. Each roll was a testament to the diversity of the fashion world - from delicate silks to sturdy denims, from vibrant prints to understated monochromes. The air was filled with the distinct scent of fresh textiles, a sensory reminder of the raw materials that formed the foundation of every creation.

The woman climbed a short ladder and began pulling down a few books. “These should help,” she said, setting five large, dusty tomes on a nearby table. “Sorry about the condition they’re ancient. Let me know if you need anything.” “Thank you,” Anna said as the woman walked away. Rhea and Anna sat cross-legged on the floor beside the table, surrounded by the stack of heavy books. Their covers were worn, their spines cracked, and the pages yellowed with time. Each had a unique title: 'Tales of the Mystical Creatures', 'Powers', 'Hidden Behind the Voice', and two others with faded letters too difficult to read.

Just expensive furniture and abstract art that looked chosen to impress rather than express. I passed through the living room, my attention drawn to a large bookshelf covering one wall. The collection impressed me—ancient texts on pack history, rare volumes on wolf magic, modern novels organized by genre rather than author. Many of the books looked unread, their spines uncreased. One leather-bound book caught my eye—its dark cover embossed with strange symbols that resembled no language I recognized. I reached for it, but it refused to budge. Odd. I tried again, pulling harder. The book remained firmly in place, as if glued to the shelf.

But what catches my eye is s a stack of books I’ve never seen before. They are in several different shades of blue, but all covered in the same material. It looks like a leather but more textured, maybe another animal hide? They have the most beautiful gold writing on them and I am just simply, drawn to them. I want to sit with them and hold them, I want to stroke the covers and open them but not just read them I want to devour the contents of these books. It’s a weird feeling. I feel as drawn to them as I do to Leo.

“Stop being so dramatic, Miss Morgan. There’s no need to sigh that much. Read the book.” She glowered at him before she pulled the book open. And then she saw... Nothing. The book was blank. It was like a huge, ugly notebook. Why would anyone even make something like this? It looked old, and the leather binding had seen better days. There were some faded markings that she couldn’t quite read, but the words definitely didn’t spell out Textiles.

Yam sliced it open slowly, hands trembling. Inside was their book. “The Art of Staying.” Cover: a sunflower. A crooked shelf. Two mugs—one chipped. And behind it all, the suggestion of a fan, mid-spin. Franc stared at it like it might whisper back. “Feels unreal,” Yam said. Franc flipped through pages. Some with artwork. Others with Yam’s poetry. Their story—wired beginnings and all—now bound in matte finish. “I think this book breathes,” Franc said.