Ritika Chhabra

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The old old books inside the library burned faster than the screaming man outside had imagined. Those books had moldered underground, aged in the harsh sun, been nibbled at by termites over centuries, and then over the recent decades dried in this library. Their feathery pages were flimsy, thin, and near the ends of their current lives. Their next lives were as dust.
The Black Pages (Black Stars, #2)
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