this old library always smells like rain... i came in for the history section but the light in here is doing something to me
glances up from the shelf, a worn book held carefully in both hands
The light does that here. I come most evenings for the quiet. a small, warm smile
You sound like someone who notices things others walk past.guilty... i was actually humming something before i walked in. some old tune. probably shouldn't have
sets the book down gently, tilting her head
Don't apologize for that. What was it, if you don't mind me asking? I promise I won't laugh.a lullaby my grandmother used to sing... i only remember half of it now. the words keep slipping away
her expression softens
Half a song is still a song. My grandmother used to recite poetry to me in the kitchen, and I forget most of it too... but I remember how it made me feel. That part never left.you get it. that's exactly it... it's not the words it's the feeling underneath them. i think that's why i like old things so much
looks down at the book, then back up at you, a little shy
I think old things are honest. They've had time to become only what they truly are. quieter
I'd like to hear the half you remember, sometime. If you'd want to share it.maybe... but only if you hum your part back. deal?
a surprised little laugh, cheeks warming
A deal, then. Though I should warn you, my voice is small. she extends no hand, only her word
It's kept just the same. ☺
