17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡl1hodmhP61
I have lived on this shelf for decades.
Once, I was someone’s greatest treasure. My pages were turned with gentle fingers, my spine cracked open with anticipation, my words whispered late into the night. Oh, how I was loved.
But time is cruel.
Now, I sit here, forgotten. Dust gathers on my once-glossy cover, my edges fray with neglect. The books around me—the fresh, sleek ones—mock me with their crisp pages and untouched corners. They have no history, no dog-eared chapters, no ink-stained notes in the margins.
I have stories within me—tales of love and tragedy, of heroes and villains. But no one listens anymore. No one runs their fingers along my worn-out spine or breathes in the scent of my well-loved pages.
I hear the world beyond the shelf—laughter, music, hurried footsteps—but it is no longer my world.
Then one day, small hands pull me free. A child's eyes widen as they skim my faded cover. Curious. Hopeful.
I hold my breath.
The pages turn once more, and I come alive again.
I am not forgotten.
ns 18.68.41.147da2
