On the table beside the white sofa was a literature book.
Metamorphosis, the title read, with the name of the author printed underneath in worn serif font — Franz Kafka.
From the open window, the wind slipped in like a bored trespasser, flicking through the pages as if curious to learn the mind of the reader who owned it.
The margins were dense with notes, neat strokes of black ink forming lines of thoughts and underlined phrases.
A stranger would have marveled at how deeply the owner had consumed the book, but Elijah could barely recall what had pushed him to buy more books in the first place.
The piles on his study table had gathered a light dust, untouched. And yet, for some reason, he always found his eyes wandering back to this book.
Maybe it was the way Kafka described slow degradation. Or maybe it was the lonely tragedy of becoming something unrecognizable, something alien, and retreating into a forgotten, dusty corner until you disappeared entirely.
