Page Size Of A Book Mga Nobela at Kwento

Dusty and dark, the size of a coffin, edges bound in metal bands etched with tiny words too small to read. It rose until it sat fully above the sea of paper, long and heavy and unmistakably coffin‑shaped. Except where a coffin would have a lid, this had a cover. Like a book. A book so big it could only have been made to bury someone in. The “cover” creaked, splitting along its spine. The top half lifted a few inches, then a few more pages and paper sliding off it in small avalanches until, with a reluctant crack, it fell open.

I stepped up onto the carved wooden stool beside the shelf, reached up, and pulled the book down. It was heavier than expected. Cold. As soon as it was in my hands, I felt it—a slight pulse. Like the book had a heartbeat. I sat back down in the alcove and cracked it open. Instant confusion. Half the pages were gone. Literally ripped out. Jagged tears where parchment should've been. And it wasn’t recent. The edges were aged, browned and curled like they'd been torn long ago. My heart sank. "What the hell..." I flipped through quickly, scanning for anything. Page after page was just ruined. Gone.

There is no title written there, but I can see the crown on the book's cover. "You know how to read, right?" he asked coldly. I nodded quickly. "I'd like you to read that." He ordered. I took the book and began reading on the first page. When I saw how many words were in it, I blinked. When you first look at it, you'll realize you won't be able to read it in one sitting!