The Still Point Book Novels & Stories

For now, she didn't even want to wonder what would happen if aunt Margareth finds out about her feelings. Selene stretched first, then slowly dragged herself off the bed, her eyes immediately fixed on the Book of Magic that was lying down on the desk, the one she had gotten from aunt Meredith yesterday. Selene took it gently in her hands and sat on the edge of the bed, setting the bulky volume on her lap, and flipped through the book several times. Afer the fourth time she stopped at a page that showed a portrait of a man with ebony, half-length hair, in a long black coat... The face itself seemed familiar at once, but when Selene saw his eyes - dark and captivating like two black holes, she

The thought has been a constant nag the whole time. I am very thankful I am leaving for Portland today, I can get my mind off of everything involving Chicago, and the mysterious events that are occurring in this city. I cannot blow off this arrangement, it means a great deal. The school said that if I will guest lecture, they will open “Eldridge Books” on their campus. This means more job growth and financial profit for everyone. This is also my opportunity to follow my heart, and find the truth I have been feeling for the last several months since I discovered that woman's scent.

“Not erased.” The Author of Silence didn’t move, Didn’t threaten. It simply waited. The closed book still extended. Her hands itched. Her chest pulsed. Her daughter still stared, still holding that one page. Mama lives. It was not a prophecy. It was a plea. Liora reached for the sealed book. Kael tensed. Ashen screamed inside her blood, And just as her fingers brushed the leather cover, The book moved. No longer in the Author’s hands, Now held by Liolai. And as she touched it, The book opened itself.

"Maybe you're right." He said, "Just try not to book the same hotel next time. It makes it tough for people not to get the wrong idea." Elaine gave a half-smile. "Quite a coincidence." Jasper said, "Mrs. Carter, we seem to be a magnet for coincidences." Elaine fell silent, at a loss for words. Maybe it was because she knew Jasper would not believe her anyway. So she did not even try. Her eyes briefly met the young girl next to Jasper, her eyes wide and innocent, then flickering with unease as she watched them.

Inside the Archive, the shelves moved with my breath. I passed by a book bound in velvet dusk. Its title: The First Time You Chose Softness Over Safety. Another: How You Loved When No One Was Looking. I reached for a third. It burned with light before revealing its name: What You Became When You Stopped Trying to Be Understood. I wept then—not from pain, but from reunion. The guide touched my shoulder. “There’s one more,” they said. They led me to a door I hadn’t noticed.

Marco’s smile was profound. The guests’ eyes moved subtly between Simon and the child. Then, they exchanged quiet and meaningful looks. “That child—” “Shh! A baby’s look can change with time.” Antonio’s pupils were a light hazel, and he had a lower nose bridge. In contrast, Simon had profoundly black pupils and a prominent nose. Simon was busy entertaining other guests, so he did not notice their odd gazes. Camillia sneaked into the far end of the garden while he was too occupied to notice her.

Seeing me there, sitting in silence, not even bothering to look back, her face went ashen, her lips quivering. Jack, for his part, was past caring about her cold shoulder. His mind was racing to get her out of there. He wanted to take her back home where he could smoothly talk to her, use my aloofness to snuff out the flicker of love that was lighting up in her heart again.

She glanced back down at the leather-bound book resting on the floorboards beside her. The empty pages seemed to stare up at her, daring her to turn them. With a trembling hand, she picked it up again, the leather warm against her palm. She knew she should get up, should finish unpacking, should do something practical, anything to distract herself from the throbbing between her legs. But she couldn't. She was hooked. The anonymous writer had become a guide, a seductress whispering secrets into her ear, and Pinky was a willing student, desperate to learn every lesson.

The house has a rhythm now. Not the frantic pulse of Paris — the black car idling in the garage, the phone buzzing with emergencies, the endless calculus of survival. Something slower. The way the light moves across the kitchen floor. The sound of Celeste's brush against canvas. The small ceremony of morning coffee, measured and poured and sipped in companionable silence. I never knew I needed this. I spent so many years convinced that stillness was the enemy. That the moment I stopped moving, the past would catch up and devour me. But the past is not a predator. It's just a story. And I'm the one who gets to tell it now.

Our book that would contain everything – the bar and the boy and the girl who wrote at 2 AM because writing was the only way she knew how to stay alive when the world said disappear. I’d start tomorrow. Tonight was the kitchen floor. Takeout containers and fluorescent light and the smell of charred garlic and his arm around me and the specific, irreplaceable quiet of two people who’d survived enough to stop being careful and start being real.