Small Spaces Book Novels & Stories

Homey. There were no glinting chandeliers or polished marble floors. The space was low-lit, warm, and masculine. A dark leather couch dominated the living room, draped with a fleece throw that looked like it had been dragged off a bed. A punching bag hung in the corner beside a dartboard riddled with holes. The kitchen was neat, almost suspiciously so—counters scrubbed clean, cabinets bare except for protein powder and three unopened bottles of whiskey. But it was the small details that threw me. A stack of books slumped against the wall—wolf history texts, leadership manuals, and, bizarrely, a slim volume of poetry wedged between them like a guilty secret.

His jaw is working, I'm sure he's running through arguments in his head, trying to decide which one to use. Finally he sighs, then tells me. Title, author, it's on the second shelf from the bottom, left side. I get my keys. "You don't have to do this," he says when I'm at the door. "I know." His apartment is small and neat. Really compact, there's literally no breathing space, I wonder how he manages to not get depressed in this kind of space, with his hectic work and all, coming back to this cardboard box apartment must be hell. The bookshelf is exactly where he said. I find the book in about twenty seconds.

It’s like something pressed into my skin and has decided not to leave. “You’re overthinking,” I mutter under my breath, shifting slightly against the couch. My apartment is quiet, Smaller than the shop, but also neater. Everything is where it’s supposed to be. The couch tucked under the window, curtains drawn halfway to block out the dark and a single lamp spills warm light across the room, soft and steady, wrapping everything in something familiar. It might be small but it’s Safe and it’s home. It’s always been home and my little safe haven, It’s supposed to feel safe. I drag the blanket higher, forcing my eyes back down to the book as I push down my fear concentrating on the book on my lap

A clearing, she thought, in this world of canyons and valleys and towering stacks. “Your recent stuff?” She stuck her head in. Looked around. “Not as used or as old,” he said. “But more interesting.” He paused. “You can go in, if you like.” It called to her, the room. The compact space feeling as large as a luxury walk-in closet, the walls, were she to stretch her arms, fingertip to fingertip, spanning out of her reach. The pale leather of the books felt familiar. The low shelves safe. The gentle lighting kind.

I said, taking the bags. "You said emergency. Emergencies require sustenance." I let him in, suddenly aware of how small my apartment was. How personal. He'd never been here before. He stood in the doorway, looking around. "This is very... you," he said. "Meaning?" "Books everywhere." He gestured at the stacks on every surface. "Black furniture. Minimalist. And is that plant alive?" I glanced at the fern in the corner. Brown. Crispy. Definitely dead.

After nearly half an hour, I find Marco in what I can only describe as an almost empty room. It has a sofa in the corner, a single bookcase, and nothing but space. It isn't a big room either, probably one of the smallest ones I have found so far. It's as if they decided to put furniture in this room and then decided, why bother? We have so many other rooms we can use. He's stood with his back to me, leaning against the bookcase. His finger strokes down the book's spine, and I feel it along my own spine. Shaking slightly, I step forward.

It was a graveyard of things I'd lost. "Come stay at my place," Alex said. I looked at him, surprised. "Your place?" "Yeah. It's safe." When we got there, I paused at the threshold. The apartment was tiny, a studio with barely enough room to swing a cat. I looked through the open door toward the bathroom, then turned back to him. "Your bathroom is literally smaller than Odell's walk-in closet." Alex let out a soft, tired laugh. "Yeah, I know. Luxury living."

Without waiting for Roxanne to speak, she brushed past her and walked away, the maid behind Roxanne followed her and the two ladies left Roxanne standing in front of the door with so many questions. She took deep breaths in and out, trying to calm her anxiety, before pushing the door open. This was the last room in the corridor and by far the smallest she had seen. The smell of damp undergarments, sweat and feminine deodorant hit her immediately. As she looked around the room, she could see that it was half the size of other rooms she had peeped into, and there were four bunks present in this one! There was barely enough space for three people to stand on the floor at once. Yet, eight people

"Finally home!" Cela said to herself as soon as she stepped inside her apartment. It's still bare but already messy. Papers are everywhere and trash cans are full of empty soda bottles, instant noodle bowls, and take out containers. The evidence of working almost non-stop prior to the release of the second book are still inside the house. She couldn't even find time to take them out.

"Oh, come! Let's go inside." The office itself was about the size of a small living room and cozy like one. There was a little space between the chair behind the desk and the wall and a little more space between the guest chairs at the front of the desk and the weighty shelves behind them. Avera began to pick up some of the books from the ground as the others made their way to their chairs, Dorothy to the spot behind the desk and Benjamin to the far side of the room, across from the door.