Vintage  Classics (red Spine) Novels & Stories

The new sets of vintage chairs were also to be arranged on the other side of the room. The second room floor was for lamps, seats, tables, shelves and a couple of vintage paintings hanging or displayed on the shelf. A mini-library section close to the stairs was to be found beside a glass-grilled window where she put in classic books which were displayed on an antique Georgian wall shelf and a 19th Century French Napolean shelf below it. A tall bookshelf wooden antique stood beside them. A red vintage sofa with a vintage coffee table was placed before the area.

In the far corner is a sink and a crude-looking toilet. Hooks line one of the walls, all empty. The air smells like rust and dust. But then, something catches my eye. A shelf near the back, almost hidden in shadow. Not plastic packages this time. Books. Old ones. Their spines are worn, leather cracked. Some have gold filigree. Others are thick and bound in cloth. I move closer, squinting to read the faded titles. “Lineage of Power.” “The Lost Coronation.” “Treaties of the First Blood.”

She asked, picking up one of the books and dusting the cover. "I do but those aren't mine. They were left by the previous owner," I said, grabbing two bowls from one of the pantries. "What are they about?" "There's some brilliant classics in here," She exclaimed, tracing her fingers over the spines of each book. "Bronte, Austen, Wilde." She named off a few authors. "Oh," She let out, pulling out one of the books at the bottom of the stack and walking over to me. "They've even got some of Freud's philosophies. Here- listen."

“You wanted to see me?” Riven didn’t speak at first. He simply looked. The cream silk blouse hugged her body in a way her usual attire never had. It accentuated the full, heavy swell of her breasts and the narrow dip of her waist. The black pencil skirt was tighter than anything she’d worn before, clinging to the generous curve of her hips and stopping high enough on her thighs to show off smooth, toned legs wrapped in sheer black stockings. Her dark hair, normally pulled into a strict bun, now fell in soft waves past her shoulders. A touch of deep red lipstick made her mouth look fuller, more inviting.

“Motorcycles: A complete modern history.” I open the cover, and the spine cracks. It’s brand new. I wonder if Ben somehow smuggled this into the Archives. It’s not the type of book that’s highly sought out by scholars. But I laugh all the same, diving into it. The faint scent of citrus and cinnamon floats through the air, as if his scent is still attached to the cover.