"It was just a book." Leather clothed it, protecting its two hundred some pages from the effects of the cold and of age. There was nothing visibly different about it from any other book in the shop. It sat on shelf 7 L-R. It was so common and plain to look at, in fact, that it had never felt anything but the cool wood of the bookcase on its cover ever since it had been placed there.
"It was just a book." The pages were faintly crinkled from the stale air that filled the room from the time that the sun woke up and appeared out from behind the trees, to the time that it said goodnight and sunk into the covers of its bed behind the rolling hill to the west. No one would ever think to choose such a book. Why would they, when there were mysteries, romances, fairy tales, and other such stories that everyone seemed to want to hear? There was really nothing special about the book. It had no letters embossed in gold on its cover. It did not contain the beloved scent of a new book. In fact, a tinge of mold could be detected in the smell that it allowed to pervade the air.
"It was just a book." Or so they told me. That was before I had heard of Chrion. That was before I had beheld the glorious sight of a hero, covered in blood, weary and ready to give up, stand against the might of an unimaginable foe. Before I had known the meaning of real love. Love of the variety that turns a beggar into a hero, lets a king give up his crown, and the dark become as bright as day.
"It was just a book," they said.
They were wrong.
(This is the beginning of a possible story series that I might write. Comment to let me know what you think. Also remember to like this blog and share it on your social media. Thanks!)
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