The wind howled and whistled past, batting nature’s rumblings against the glass. On this reckless, dismal day, Ellie had hoped to restlessly meander through the garden or tuck herself away beneath the careless Oak–mangled and tense, perfectly fitted for dreamers.
A soft sigh slid off her lips, enveloping the room in melancholy thoughts. Ellie pirouetted, clumsily, from the countertop making sure to land with snow-tipped footfalls. Mother didn’t like rambunctious little girls, unnecessary rumblings to intrude upon fanciful longings of brooding English gentlemen, devilishly dressed in stories. Mentally, Ms. Meadows strolled, arm-in-arm, through endless rose-lined fields with her Beaux. Truthfully, she never left the living room.
Ellie’s right ear tipped up slightly, as she carefully counted to 10. She wouldn’t dare move until the Lady of the Living Room proved undisturbed, safely intoxicated by romantic pursuits. When not a peep had emanated from next door, Ellie made haste for the perfect space–her refuge of lost thoughts, mental movie reels, pieces of Heaven stowed secretly for days like this.
Her library is not merely a place of repose, a spot to stave off real life pursuits. Ellie’s books were passports to other Worlds. She clung to each one and carefully contemplated their meanings. Books were meant to be explored, not devoured. They must be revisited periodically, so one does not lose what bound them to another place and time. Memories are fleeting moments, but words are solid purveyors of knowledge. If you allow them, words can guide you through treacherous journeys and unexplored terrain.