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She smiled, placing her hands on her waist. "Really? there's a library? Yes!" I clenched my right fist frantically in the air, excitement written all over me. Back at home, A Library was an abomination. I guess I forgot to mention there was a rule about books also? Well, here it goes. Eric had concluded that books lie. He had this ludicrous theory that books trap people. He said it's similar to a disease, a terrible sickness that has no cure. Makes humans rapted in an imaginary world, completely forgetting what reality brings.

And as she disappeared into the pages of the dream library, the world around her faded away, leaving her surrounded by the boundless possibilities of knowledge, growth, and inspiration that awaited her in the endless expanse of the world of books and ideas. Within the dream library, Hazel found herself surrounded by shelves that stretched infinitely into the distance, each one filled with books of every shape, size, and color. The air was tinged with the scent of antiquity and the whispers of ancient wisdom, creating a tapestry of knowledge that enveloped her in a cocoon of learning and discovery.

This' where the meeting would be held. The small library at the wall is stocked with a few interesting books to use and pass some time. I pick up a book that attracts my attention, from a glimpse of it, I detect that it's a romance fantasy. The gold and red combination of the cover with the stylish golden fonts captivates me, the front has a young girl holding on her palms what looks like a magical spindle, with a glowing light around it. The title goes, "When you're alone." A subscript writes, "A supermodel story of the girl who single handedly achieves the most difficult goals."

I can’t explain it, but I don’t have to, either, if I don’t bring it up, and I’m not one to ever start conversations. I sniff the paperback—old, musty paper, glue, and Justus—and set it on the pallet. The next book in the pile, Peter Kropotkin’s The Conquest of Bread, has a picture of two men chopping down a tree on the cover. It smells the same. All the books are dog-eared paperbacks with yellowed pages—Walden by Henry David Thoreau, Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler, Critique of Practical Reason by Immanuel Kant, several each by Ursula K. Le Guin and N. K. Jemison, and a massive hardback of Plato’s collected works. The Plato is the only one that looks like it hasn’t been read a hundre