Michael A Singer: Books Novels & Stories

Looking around he didn't spot Michael and started to make his way towards the smell of his scent and found him in the section of ancient tribal folklore section. Michael was sitting on the study table near the huge window with a cup full of tea which has turned cold. Standing a bit far Leonidas noticed as Michael flipped through the thick pages of the old book before closing it and pulling the other from the bundle of the books beside him. " What are you looking for?" Echoed Leonidas's voice through the library as he made his way towards Michael and sat in front of him. " Your Highness" greeted Michael looking at Leonidas who sat in front of him as he pulled the book that Michael just closed

“Please please we are friends, call me Michael. And yes I can relate to what you’re saying about the Library.. It seems we share a common interest. But enough about me, why are you alone in the library today?" “Grace was busy today so I had to find away to entertain myself. And books are one of my favorite things in the world.” “Woah, so is this what you call fate?... Books are one of my favorite hobbies too and we just happened to come here at the same exact time..... I think it’s a sign from the Godess.” Michael said with a crooked grin. “Really?” Curiosity sparked in Sera's eyes as she glanced down at the books he held. "What are you reading today Michael? Maybe you could recommend someth

But I hummed what I knew from the streets—songs sung by the broken, melodies stitched together with pain and resilience. Michael's eyes closed first. But he didn't sleep. He was too much like me—always listening. Always pretending to sleep. Mex, nonetheless, clung to peace like a boy should. He nestled in closer and sighed, "You smell of smoke." "Because I am smoke," I whispered back, kissing his hair. "But I'll save you from fire." "You always do."

"But what does this have to do with Michael? Why did you disappear? Why didn’t you come to us sooner?" Michael’s face twisted with shame. "Because I thought I could fix it. I thought I could stop it by writing the book. But I was wrong. The more I wrote, the deeper I got, the closer I came to uncovering the truth. And then... then I started seeing things. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think. I could feel it—the presence. It was like it was watching me, waiting. It’s been trying to take me for years, but I didn’t realize how close I was to the edge until it was too late."

None of them had. And yet—Henry had risen, brushed the snow from his sleeves, and gathered his books without a word. Michael’s stomach twisted. That was exile: falling where no hand reaches down to help. Now, he would speak for all the hands that never reached. He sat again, pressing his pen to his paper.

“You didn't have to call me just to tell me to use your first name, y'know.” “True. Thing is, I'm being haunted by a blonde singer.” “Beg pardon?” Julia laughed, a musical, happy sound. Michael felt better about himself than he had all week. “I needed to hear your voice, Michael. Just talk to me. What have you been doing today?”