The Library

The kid sat cross-legged near the picture books, whispering the words aloud. She didn’t notice the old man at first—sitting stiff by the window, a thick book in his lap, hands slow on the pages.

Her mom was a few shelves over, fingers skimming spines, half-looking, half-tired.

The old man smelled like the bus, like the street. His coat was too heavy for the LA afternoon, but maybe it was all he had. He lingered too long on one page, squinting behind old glasses.

The kid watched him the way kids do—without shame, without looking away.

“You read slow,” she said.

He almost laughed. “Yeah. Used to be fast. Tore through these like nothing.”

She looked down at her book, pages still stiff, colors bright.

“What happened?”

He shrugged. “Takes time to see what’s really there.”

She squinted, like she was trying to see it too. Then her mom called her name, keys jangling.

She stood, brushing off her jeans. “Maybe you’ll get fast again.”

The man chuckled. “Maybe.”

She ran off, sneakers squeaking. The old man turned back to his book—but didn’t turn the page yet.