She looked down the list, taking in one title at a time. She had read some of these already, including To Kill a Mockingbird, when she was a teenager. She didn’t remember the story, she was terrible with details, but she remembered the way it made her feel. It had this kind of warm, magical quality about it. The title brought memories of eating breakfast outside on a wooden bench—and it was so long ago she couldn’t recall whether the memory was her own or a scene from the book itself.
