Foto De Libros Novels & Stories

Alexa climbed the stairs while holding the rail until she got to the last step and switched on the light switch. The dark and creepy room lightened up instantly once the light came up. Books of the old and some stored papers were carefully arranged alphabetically and chronologically. Her hands swiped through the books and a photo fell down from one of the book. The photo contained the same identical image of both his mother and hers too. “Who are you to my mother?” Lexa clenched her fist tightly and moved closer to the bookshelf and this time, taking her time to look at the contents of the book.

But the part that stood out to me the most was the framed photos all along the walls. There were a few with Liam and me peacefully curled up together, but there were much more pictures consisting of Rafael and Liam. Their similar aura... identical smirks... matching smiles... No one would probably believe it if they were told that the two weren't actually biologically related... Then there were even more pictures of only me. Mostly candid pictures of me reading in what appeared to be an elegant private library. Or squatting in a bunch of shrubberies, pulling out weeds from a garden. Or running in an unfamiliar field with a bright smile on my face and my sundress flowing like a river around m

Crystal muttered, smiling as she was led by Angelica to sit by the nearby desk, a few steps after passing the 3rd row of shelves. Angelica placed the book down with a thud before holding the hardbound cover of the said book and flipped it open, the contents revealing printed images with words citated beside or under the photos. The pages itself seemed to be slowly darkening due to oxidation and time. The pages were fragile as if they will be torn just by a mere mistake of flipping them in an unruly way, which explains Angelica’s delicate actions.

Amidst the icy ruins and the threat of death, Mavric remained the Dragon, hungry for her love. "Stay close to me, Liora. Never let go of my hand inside there," Mavric pleaded. "Forever, Mav," Liora answered. They ventured deeper into the heart of the fortress, arriving at a massive library filled with thousands of old books and frozen archives. In the center of the room stood a round table with three chairs. On the table lay an old, faded photograph. Liora approached and picked it up. Her breath hitched. The photo showed three people laughing.

The little old librarian with white curly hair, rimmed spectacles, and flowery dress smiles at me warmly across the tables when I pass her by and leaves me to browse. I must admit, I love the smell and aura of ancient books, the feeling of being surrounded by old, treasured pages. Back home my own library is my favourite place to spend time. Books retain some sort of presence from past readers, and it can be felt in the air all around me because I’m sensitive to energy vibrations in all things, be they living or not. A warm familiar sensation comes from books, like a gentle breeze on a hot day, or a soothing hug when you need it most, and that relaxes me. It’s because books are beloved thing

If the spine of the book was with gold, the other side of that is painted either with a mesmerising landscape or scene, or a pattern that was so beautiful it might as well be a wall paper for the houses of everyone. “Wow,'' I mumbled to myself as I made my fingers glide from one book to another. They are all so beautiful. This is how books should be treated— with grace and care and all the special treatment there is— not left somewhere in a dark corner to collect dust and rot as the paper gets shredded by rats or by the time. I was so mesmerised that I was not able to notice that another person was also with me inside the Royal Library, browsing through the contents of a shelf labelled— fina

But they shattered completely on a particular day. I was spending the afternoon in Roman's library. It was a massive room with floor-to-ceiling shelves, a rolling ladder, leather armchairs, and a heavy mahogany desk that looked like it had been there for a century. I had been looking through one of his photography books. Old black-and-white shots of Rome when he walked in. He was loosening his tie, and shrugging off his jacket. His sleeves were rolled up, and his forearms bare. He looked tired and distracted.

I wander into the library, drawn by the scent of old books and leather. The room is lined with shelves filled with volumes of every shape and size. A massive mahogany desk sits in the center, cluttered with papers, pens, and a half-empty glass of whiskey. I run my fingers along the spines of the books, trying to distract myself from the anxiety gnawing at my insides. Titles like "The Art of War,"

I found her in the back corner of the library, tucked between the history section and a window that let in too much light. Dust motes floated in the afternoon sunbeams, settling on the stacks of books around her like snow. She had the old letter's photo open on her phone, propped against a textbook, and a pen she kept clicking against the table in a rhythm that was starting to drive me crazy. Click. Click. Click. I sat down across from her without asking. She looked up, didn't look surprised—like she'd been expecting me—and went back to staring at the photo on her screen.

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