-----Prologue-----
My mother used to say—
"Books have hearts too, Kinon. They only open themselves to those who listen."
Back then, I never understood her.
At night, when the rest of the house slept, there was always one room still awake.
Our library.
It wasn't large, but it felt endless to me. Shelves lined every wall, stacked with books of all shapes and ages. The air smelled of old paper and ink, dust drifting lazily through the warm glow of a desk lamp.
She always sat by the window.
Moonlight spilled across her desk, illuminating half-filled notebooks and loose pages scattered like fallen leaves.
Her pen scratched softly against paper, steady and tireless, until, at some point I never witnessed—she would lose the battle against sleep.
That was how I often found her.
Slumped forward, head resting against her arm, pen still caught between her fingers as if she might wake and continue at any second.
I stepped quietly into the room, careful not to wake her. I slipped my coat off and gently draped it over her shoulders.
She always did anyway.
Her fingers twitched first. Then she exhaled, slow and soft, as the pen slipped from her grasp and rolled across the desk.
"…Mm…"
Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused, heavy with sleep. She stared at the page in front of her as if trying to remember where she was, then slowly turned her head toward me.
A small, sleepy smile formed on her lips.
"Ah… Kinon," she murmured. "You're still awake?"
"You fell asleep again," I said quietly.
She chuckled under her breath and pulled the coat closer around herself.
For a moment, she simply stared at the notebook, lips moving faintly, as though listening to words that hadn't yet been written.
Then she looked at me.
"Stories live as long as someone believes in them, Kinon."
I nodded, even though I didn't really understand what she meant.
Not then.
The library wasn't only at home.
Sometimes she took me to the public one downtown—a much bigger place, filled with long tables and tall shelves and a librarian who never smiled.
Food wasn't allowed.
That rule never stopped her.
I remembered the day clearly.
She sat across from me at one of the tables, pretending to read while I flipped pages beside her.
The librarian's footsteps echoed nearby, slow and watchful.
Then, when no one was looking, she reached into her bag.
From it, she slipped out a small chocolate bar, the wrapper barely making a sound. She slid it beneath the table and nudged it gently with her foot.
My eyes widened.
She leaned closer, whispering, "Quick. Before we get caught."
I hid it in my palm, biting back a laugh as I broke it in half. We shared it piece by piece, ducking our heads like conspirators, trying not to make a sound.
Chocolate smudged my fingers.
She noticed immediately and covered her mouth to stop herself from laughing.
"Careful," she whispered.
"You'll stain the pages."
I grinned.
"Worth it."
She smiled at me then, not annoyed, not worried—just happy.
Even when the librarian later scolded her for bringing food inside, she only apologized politely and squeezed my hand beneath the table.
I never went hungry while reading.
That was her rule.
As for me, all those quiet moments we shared were some of the happiest memories I have of her.