5 Books For Eveline

1

The First Book

1

There was a special feeling surrounding book shops. Not the huge, corporate ones that gave you the same experience wherever you found them in the countless towns and cities across the country, but the small ones. The intimate ones, where books were more than a product, an item that the big shops did their best to push from the shelves as soon as possible.

A little book shop had an ambience, a feel to it, that bordered on the magical. The books were still there to become sold, but they were also a decoration. A tantalising tease towards greater things. A gateway to the past, or an incredible future, impossible worlds and familiar places. Books upon these shelves were a promise of curled up legs, thick, warm socks and a light bright enough to see the words, but subtle enough to not intrude upon the wonders revealed upon each page.

Here, in the town of Bishop's Fall, there were a multitude of book shops. A paradise for the written word. Each shop with a history all of its own. Its own personality. Its own smells. The town had a reputation for books that culminated, every Spring, with a festival for the written word, where readers and authors, publishers and the merely interested could congregate and share their love. Their passion.

The festival had passed, weeks ago, and Purdy had missed it. She had chosen to miss it. After the accident, she had chosen to miss many things. Chosen to pull away and edge along the outskirts of life, like a sneak thief but, instead of taking things that were not hers, she avoided the things that may once have had great importance to her. She had no connection to any of it. Not anymore.

She still lived in the town, had no intention of leaving, even though it no longer held any memories for her. That connection had become torn from her, yet she still searched for it. She searched for it within the pages of books. The town had a rich history and a fair number of people that enjoyed recounting it, word after word, page after page, book after book. She clung, in desperation, to the hope that, one day, one of these books would create that spark that would revive her connection.

The internet had proven worthless to her. Dry, regurgitated, lifeless words that scoured her eyes, with pictures that felt flat and impersonal. Many facts. Few feelings. Books were different. Books had a weight to their words. The pages gave a feel to history. The pictures had depth to them. She felt far more comfortable with a book in hand, than a soulless tablet.

Wincing, she realised that she had stood in one place, one position, for far too long. The walking stick helped, though her hip would become painful whether she supported all her weight on the walking stick or not. With a little hop, she moved her weight on to her other foot. She had stared at the Local History section for so long, she had lost track of time.

Most of these books she already had at home, filling the shelves of her little library that she had made from the spare room. Some, she did not have, but covered areas that she already knew, using similar photographs as others. It was rare, these days, for her to find anything truly new. Something with unrevealed details, rare photographs. Nothing eye catching.

Except for one.

Her finger ran down the spine of the thin book. It had no lettering on the spine at all. She could have missed it with such ease, were it not for the pain in her hip that had caused her to look down at the lower shelf, the one she could only bend down to look at on her best days. Her finger rose to the top of the spine and tilted the book outwards.

Leaning against the shelves, Purdy turned the book over in her hand. A black cover showed nothing of the contents. Only two words, in small, white letters in a plain font, were on the face of the book, and nothing, nothing at all, spoiled the deep black of the reverse.