The late afternoon sun's light cascaded lazily onto the wooden cases and tables from the high windows. The otherwise dark brown wooden pieces were coloured a burnt orange. It was quiet, as it ought to be; this late into the day, most people were with their families and friends, having their dinner and engaging in evening activities. Beyond the library's walls was the village's sprawling city life, no doubt; in comparison, this place seemed a crypt - seemingly completely devoid of any soul save her own. By no means was the Bibliotheca emptied, but it was enough so that Kimiko got her own little slice of it; people who came to it were countable on a single hand, and only appeared when passing, none paid her any heed; this was her own place, a solitary heaven gods deemed her fit to have to herself. Months -- no, years now, hasn't it been? -- it had been more or less like this: left to her own devices with near all the written information in the world.
Fingers ran across the polished wood with each step she took down the alley of shelves, searching for the final book with which she intended to spend her night. Not far from where she was was an unaccompanied table, two books -- one regarding local religions and mythologies, the other a fictional narrative of the events around the freezing of Mist -- laid. She stopped at one book -- a sliver, really -- bound with only some string and holes at the edge of the paper, without any proper covering like the books which surrounded it; it was some cheap, homemade notebook and somehow found its way among the other works. Its cover was solidly black and without title and author. Its contents, at a glance, were not even in the common language. A curious thing, in all; it was for that reason she brought it to the table.
The scene was splendid: the silence was symphonic; the evening sun's light onto against her back, as she took seat at her solitary table, remained unhindered by any cloud; and she found her evening's entertainment on the pages of the books she had chosen for herself. What was there not to love?
Fingers ran across the polished wood with each step she took down the alley of shelves, searching for the final book with which she intended to spend her night. Not far from where she was was an unaccompanied table, two books -- one regarding local religions and mythologies, the other a fictional narrative of the events around the freezing of Mist -- laid. She stopped at one book -- a sliver, really -- bound with only some string and holes at the edge of the paper, without any proper covering like the books which surrounded it; it was some cheap, homemade notebook and somehow found its way among the other works. Its cover was solidly black and without title and author. Its contents, at a glance, were not even in the common language. A curious thing, in all; it was for that reason she brought it to the table.
The scene was splendid: the silence was symphonic; the evening sun's light onto against her back, as she took seat at her solitary table, remained unhindered by any cloud; and she found her evening's entertainment on the pages of the books she had chosen for herself. What was there not to love?
WC: 369