My Quiet Book Novels & Stories

Taking note of the books for Rose, that I will take along with me when I visit home. I can already hear her laugh when she sees it, feel her small hand tugging me toward the couch back home, insisting it’s time to read. I tuck the book under my arm and grab a seat near the window. The light falls across the page just right. My brain is quieter here, in between shelves, surrounded by words. Quieter, but not silent. It keeps cataloging anyway. The scrape of a chair leg across the floor. The barista’s glance at the clock. The soft shuffle of pages turning three tables away.

‘Lunaris. Cassian picked up one ring, sliding it onto my trembling finger, his thumb lingering on my hand. “For every lifetime,” he whispered softly. I took the other ring and slipped it onto his finger, smiling through tears. “And every moon that follows.” Then Grandpa Velen slipped a hand inside his coat and pulled out a mid-sized old leather book. The moment he opened it, the surrounding chatter faded until only the soft crackle of lantern flames remained. Cassian’s hand found mine, warm and steady, grounding me. I curled my fingers around his, feeling his pulse thrum through our joined hands.

But why would you give something that belonged only to me to someone else? Three days later, at dawn, five sleek black cars lined up neatly in front of the hotel. Harry held Chloe’s hand carefully as he helped her into one of them. From the corner of the street, I stood quietly, watching her gown glitter in the sunlight. The fabric swayed slightly with each step, catching the light like flowing starlight. It was breathtaking. As the motorcade pulled away, I grabbed my suitcase and left alone. Inside the car, Harry’s wolf was still growling in his ear.

I read. He wrote. The room was, I was aware of this the way you were aware of a temperature, as a thing the body registered before the mind classified it, the room was the most specific quality of quiet I had encountered in the weeks of this house. Not the quiet of absence, the quiet that existed in rooms when no one was in them, which was a passive thing, the room simply not being occupied. This was the quiet of presence. Of two people present and occupied and proximate and, not speaking.

Apologize to Adam, Caleb, and Quinn, or I'll announce in the newspaper that I'm disowning you! As I looked at the biased old woman, all the last remnants of any warmth in my heart evaporated. I took a step back, pretending to be scared. My voice trembled as I cried out, "Grandma, why? Uncle Adam and Uncle Caleb were the ones fighting, and Quinn even hit me! Why should I be the one to kneel?" "Why?" Grandma sneered. "Because you're an ungrateful wretch! Quinn married a great husband. She's the pride of this family. And you? What are you? Who do you think you are, comparing yourself to them?"

RAVEN It was strange, really strange, how quiet everything felt. The air itself carried a kind of stillness that made me feel like even my own breathing was too loud. I stood there for a long while, listening, straining my ears for the slightest sign of movement, and finally I whispered to myself, “Why is it this quiet? It shouldn’t be this quiet.”

Out of boredom, she walked over to a small open bookshelf on one side and casually read a book to pass the time. Such a large room seemed much more empty. There was always a cold feeling when one was alone here. But Leona didn't care and just wanted to wait until the banquet downstairs was over. Leona was stunned when she opened the title page of the book. It read, "To Emma of the Quiet Years, wishing you well. The writing is. Jovanka." This book was published by... Jovanka? Leona flipped to the back, and the author was clearly written with the word Jovanka.

I joked as I motioned to the couple in the photo. Sierra giggled and nodded at me. The hush that followed was deafening. We're not talking to each other; we're just staring at nothing while experiencing each other's presence. However, the quiet is unexpectedly not uncomfortable, as I have previously shared with many people, strangers or not. This silence with Sierra is soothing and relaxing. Why does she almost feels at home? "... So, what is your favorite book genre?" I could feel her breath in my arms. I'm sitting straight next to her, my backrest on the wall, hugging her crossed legs, her back slightly bent, her head tilted towards my arms.

"This hotel belongs to your uncle?" Nodding, he pillowed his head and lay on the floor, giving a click to the remote he held. The vault switched to a transparent top. "Here is where I speak to the silence, blame the world, and shed my tears." That somehow dimmed the glow hopping on her hand. She took a seat next to him. Under the soothing lights, his sharp facial features stood out even more, and so did his bottled loneliness. She understood the familiar silence. It was whispering, yearning to be heard after years of being ignored.

There were beasts where they went to look for them. Things that were fashioned in the likeness of the night. They never showed their faces under the glow of the sun. So it was hard to tell that anything lived here. The island was so quiet, even birds were absent. No insects creaked, and no tree was brave enough to wave their branches for there was no wind to stir up their courage, and neither did they lose a leaf to the ground for nothing decayed here. Everywhere was tidy. The grass was well-trimmed.