“Where they burn books, they will, in the end, also burn people.” – Heinrich Heine
The book was waiting for her in the shelf, as it always was. Waiting to be opened, to be read, to come back to life. To exist.
Written by hand centuries ago it had survived wars and famine. The essence of it’s author was still alive in the curved lines of the letters, in the beautiful words, in the magic spaces between them. Thought of a mind long gone, but still alive in the minds of others.
She loved her book. It was the only book she had, the book her father used when he thought her to read. It had been in her family for generations, before that, no one knew more than the name of its author.
Sitting in her favourite chair by the window, she heard noises outside. She put down…
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