"This was my mother’s favorite room," he admits quietly. "She loved it. Spent her days here. After she died, I locked it up." "Oh." My voice comes out small, my chest tightening at the weight of his words. His mother is dead. I suspected but didn’t know. I try not to assume anything, and he gives me so little help to fill in the gaps. "Since you are so enamored by books," he continues, his gaze falling to the floor so as not to meet mine. "I realized you might appreciate it like she did."
