"The thing about books," she said, leaning against the counter, "is that the spine only holds so many pages. If you keep reading the same one, you’re not a reader anymore. You’re just a statue." She walked away before he could respond.
The clock on the wall of the "Café am Rande" didn’t tick; it hummed, a low vibration that Elias felt in his teeth. On the scarred wooden table sat a leather-bound notebook, its edges frayed and darkened by the oils of his palms. NГ¤chstes Kapitel
He didn't write a poem. He didn't draft a plan. Instead, he took his pen and wrote two words at the very top, in letters so bold they felt like a heartbeat: "The thing about books," she said, leaning against