She closed the book and put her cheek against it. There was still an odor of a library on it, of dust, leather, binding glue, and old paper, one book carrying the smell of hundreds.

And because when all the words of promises and memories fade, these words that are written are the only one that remain. People may change and things may happen when we least expect it to but all these written words are what will keep it all alive. Over and over again. It remains.

Perhaps you'd like to see the library," Sean commented with a wave of his hand. "Tim said you like books."

"How fabulous!" Emily exclaimed at the doorway to a book-lined room.

. . . finally, I couldn't imagine how I could live without books, and I stopped dreaming about marrying that Chinese prince. . . .

I love inscriptions on flyleaves and notes in margins, I like the comradely sense of turning pages someone else turned, and reading passages someone long gone has called my attention to.

There are few sights sadder than a ruined book.