“Fuck,” I hiss into the dark, quiet room, the thousands of pages stacked around me absorbing my words. I might not love to read—okay, fine, I hate it—but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find an odd comfort in the smell of a book. Maybe some of it is because of the familiarity of it, but nothing calms my frazzled nerves more than taking inventory back here. The weight and feel of a book in my hand, the crisp pages beneath my fingertips, the bright and colorful covers that are all so similar, yet so different. It’s almost hypnotizing. And it’s the exact place I need to be after Jasper Williams
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