Wrote it for my friend.
Shadman wandered the shelves of the bookshop, the smell of pages long unturned filled his nostrils and he relaxed, the tension releasing from his skinny shoulders. He always preferred books to people, as books didn’t talk back; so this was an ideal place for him to be working. The owner, Mr. Swafford, was a decent enough man who gave Shadman, his favorite customer the opportunity to work for him. Way past the thinning stage, the stout man would watch him like a hawk from behind his thick rimmed glasses; that ever diligent Mr. Swafford. Shadman ran his fingers along the spines, dust collecting on his fingers and occasionally rising to join the dust in the air that dancing amongst the light. Shadman smiled as he watched and walked; his heart relaxing.
At the end of the corridor he came to an alcove where all the really old, really rare books were kept. He wasn’t allowed in there, but as if anyone could stop a nineteen year old teen who was incredibly curious. Shadman was the kind of person who when placed in front of a big red button, would naturally want to know what it does. So when placed in a room full of books, he would naturally pick them up and leaf through the pages, regardless of rarity. He flicked the switch and a dim light cast its lazy gaze over the ancient tomes, the colors a duller shade of their former selves. Shadman touched each spine individually as if he’d had something special with each of them.
An epic journey, a wonderful romance, a terrible tragedy. But not all these books were fact and fiction; there was one that stood on a stone pedestal, bound not in leather, but another material all together with a silver clasp. It was a rich green; richer than forests of old, more luminous than any emerald and that made it all the more tempting to want to open it.