Man Reading A Book の小説・ストーリー

I looked up from my page. He was reading with the focused stillness of someone genuinely absorbed — one leg crossed, the book held with both hands, a slight furrow between his brows. He looked, for this specific twenty minutes, like a person rather than a force of nature. I looked back at my book. Five minutes later, without looking up from his page, he said: "What are you reading?" "North and South," I said. "Gaskell." A pause. "The industrialist and the woman who won't be impressed by him."

I close the door behind me, I am marveled at the amount of books that are here. I pick out a few books to read and walk towards the couch to take a seat. I place the books on the couch and take the first book. After ten minutes of reading, I am startled by a voice coming from the opposite direction of the room. "I see you are enjoying Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, quite an interesting book. My favorite actually" the strange man said coming out of the shadows, taking an old dusty lamp that was placed on the table. "Who are you?" I ask, glaring at him as he came closer.

I deserve this moment of peace after doing such tiresome things. “Ah, I would love to have some chamomile tea,” said the man with the most beautiful pair of lilac eyes. He snapped his fingers after pondering what to do while reading the YA book he took from his bookshelf—he remembered buying the book from a bookstore in the human realm. On cue, a soft knock resonated inside the serene and bright room. “Come in,” said the man. His voice was light that brought the servant from the other side of the double doors to be flustered just by hearing his voice.

Walls covered in centuries of art—paintings, tapestries, sculptures preserved with impossible care. At the far end. A chair. Simple wood. Old. And the man sitting in it, reading. He looked young. Mid-thirties. Dark hair. Pale skin. Eyes shifting between black and deep violet. He was reading. Didn't look up when we entered. Didn't look up as we crossed the enormous room. Didn't look up when we stopped ten feet away. Marcus waited. Kade waited. I watched. Then finally—unhurried, unconcerned—he closed the book. Set it aside.

The more he read the passages, the more he sensed the goodwill of the author towards the natives. The man who entered the book shop stopped by Lin and reached out for the thick book on the second row of the book shelf, but after a few minutes, the man put it back on the shelf. That time, Lin heard the man asking, “Do you have the book by Fielding Hall?” Lin noticed that the man was in his mid forty, wearing thick rimmed glasses, with curly hair. The man wore a short sleeve blue shirt and a pair of jean pants. The man was also carrying a thick book under one’s arm. It seemed like that the man was a bookworm.

A slender figure sat on the broad sofa. The man’s legs were crossed as he leaned against the sofa lazily. He was wearing a white shirt with the top two buttons loose and his collar left slightly open. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his arms. There was a pair of gold-rimmed glasses sitting on his straight nose. His eyes were lowered in concentration at the thick book in his hands. His attention was entirely on it. The man had handsome features that screamed perfection and a strong, domineering presence that struck fear in those around him.

* * * Tyler "Dude, are you reading?" I looked at Hunter who stood beside me against the wall with a book in his hand. I honestly thought there was nothing more surprising than this. I knew he could read, but I just thought he was more of a picture-person than words-person since he usually read Playboy. The book in his hand, however, wasn't a magazine; it was actually a real book. A thick one, I observed. I moved closely without making any noises then took the book from right under his nose. "Man, give it back! I'm not finished!" Hunter crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked at me annoyed.

"Thank you." When I walked into the room, I noticed Mr. Corleone on the couch, well-tailored, read a large, sturdy book. As he continued to turn the pages his monotone expression remained completely impassive. I could not tell what it was about, but he was determined to complete it to the very end. "Sir," I greeted him softly.

Composed. He was reading.

But inside, I was already mapping it all out. There were the couples near the window, laughing quietly and glued to their screens. Sudents, probably in college, sat hunched over their laptops. Their backpacks were slouched by their feet, and their headphones were plugged in. No threat there. They were too immersed in whatever assignment they were working on. Then there was the barista, humming under her breath, moving from the espresso machine to the counter with practiced rhythm. Nothing unusual. But then my eyes landed on him. The old man by the far corner. Sitting perfectly still. Not drinking anything. Not eating. Not even shifting in his seat. Just… reading a newspaper.