It was a rainy afternoon when a bookworm appeared at the door.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of books and dust.
She wandered the aisles, eyes scanning the spines of books.
Her fingers brushed against the covers, caressing the pages as she passed.
I watched her, wondering what worlds she'd discover.
I imagined her opening the books, disappearing into their pages.
I wondered if her life was full of stories, or if she was seeking them here.
Then our eyes met, and she smiled, she approached the desk, her arms full of books.
She placed the stack on the counter, with a thud that shook the room.
I raised an eyebrow and said, “Looks like you're going on quite an adventure.”
She laughed and said, “You have no idea.”
She leaned in close and whispered, “I'm a time traveler.”
I must have looked skeptical, because she said, “It's true! I've visited the past and the future.”
Her eyes sparkled as she described the wonders she'd seen, from ancient cities to flying cars.
Her words were like music, drawing me into her world of stories.
But as she spoke, I noticed something strange about her.
Her features began to fade, until she was nothing but a shadow.
I could feel her yearning to share her stories, but also her fear of being seen.
The light of the library lamps flickered, as if caught in a breeze.
And when I looked again, she was gone, leaving only the echo of her words.
© MiyoTheMuse

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