The Book

The bookcases were anything but immaculate. The books weren’t arranged by author, title, shape, or size. An overflow of novels, biographies, poems, and dictionaries of all sorts were stacked face-up on the edges of each shelve. They were even piled onto side tables, displacing the lamps that hadn’t worked in weeks. Even the tops of the bookcases had stacks of books gathering dust. Despite the literary chaos, it was his favorite spot in the world. The chaos of the world outside was too much to bear.

The other buildings had been bombed out or sabotaged, but not this one. It was left alone. A safe haven that no bullet could touch. An unspoken truce kept the walls of this collection intact.

Milo was of ‘fighting age’ in the eyes of both friend and foe. His very presence threatened the reading room. As the fighting grew more desperate, the sanctuary of the building faded. The rules of war became non-existent as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. Milo would read night and day, taking himself away to far off places, meeting new people of all sorts. He’d be dining at a cafe in Paris on minute, while walking on the sands of Mars the next. But the real world around him was collapsing and smoldering.

The room would shake and shudder with every bomb that hit the city. Dust and debris would fall like snow onto the pages of Milo’s book. He’d brush and blow off the rubble and adjust his headlamp. A brief coughing spell now and then to clear his lungs.

The fighting grew closer. Shrapnel hit the the building, sounding like a handful of rocks thrown at the wall. Milo noticed one book in particular on a nearby shelf. It had no dust on its spine and grew more distinct with each explosion. The sound of bullets and bombs became unbearable, the air was heavy. The novel began to emit a light that Milo couldn’t ignore. A round hit the building just as Milo pulled the book down and opened its pages.

The cacophony of flying debris had stopped and was replaced by the sound of hooves and carriage wheels on cobblestone streets. Milo sat at a table with a white cloth draped over the top. He sipped his tea while turning the pages. He dared not close the book.